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Narrowing the time band to more recent events revealed only a couple of hikers lost in the preserve. Both had been suspected of illegal orchid poaching and when rescued, were suffering from severe malnutrition and dehydration.
A park ranger, unidentified, stated, “If they were up to no good, they got their punishment. If they weren’t, they just had bad luck.”
I searched a map of southwest Florida for nearby population centers, came up with the city of Naples, forty-four miles northwest and now known for its low crime rate. Directly west of the preserve and slightly closer was Marco Island, the most expensive beach destination in Florida and one of the state’s safest locales. Neither produced anything interesting.
After two hours, I logged off, figuring my search had been a quixotic thing to begin with, fueled by Three A.M. Syndrome.
The kind of iniquity I was looking for—the kind of crushing, inevitable oppression that led a girl to take to the road—flourished in secrecy.
When I returned to the bedroom, Robin, curled up, eyes closed, facing me, said, “Learn anything?”
I laughed.
“Did you, baby?”
“Nothing gets past you.”
She smiled. “Yeah, it’s a problem.”
CHAPTER
39
The next day, Judge Julie Beck’s clerk called to let me know Derek Ruffalo would be arriving in L.A. in a week for a “seven-day forensic evaluation.” I penciled the dates in, did some reading on rejected adoptees, learned nothing encouraging.
When I hadn’t heard from Milo by noon, I reached him at his desk and told him of last night’s futile search. It felt strangely like confession. If so, he was a compassionate priest.
“I like your thinking, kid, but with the time lapse and what you said about secrecy—not surprised. But thanks anyway.”
“Worth following up?”
“By me? What could I add?”
“You’ve got the contacts.”
“Guess I could try to find some cop who’d been working back then. Best case retired, worst case deceased.” He chuckled. “Like there’s a difference. Okay, I’ll see what I can dig up, nothing else is happening.”
Just under two hours later, he phoned back.
I said, “You found something.”
He said, “Not what we talked about. Got a call-me message from some lawyer named Porras. Before I phoned him, I looked him up. Personal injury practice in Pico Union. Didn’t recall slipping andfalling or God forbid tripping a citizen, so I didn’t call back. But he did, insisted I’d want to talk to him about my murder case. I said c’mon by, there’ll be a welcome mat. He said he strongly preferred not to meet at the station, said let’s do coffee. Someone that persistent, I get curious. Appointment’s in forty, some designer java place he suggested in Brentwood.”
“Pico Union to the Westside. Serious drive.”
“I’m figuring he’s billing by the hour.”
—
Hava Lava Java sat on a block of Wilshire west of Bundy shared by single-floor storefronts, a quarter of them vacant, fronted by homeless people claiming the sidewalk.
Despite heady aromas and a staggering assortment of choices, the coffee joint was empty but for two thin women in jogging suits and baseball caps through which ponytails had been extruded. The hats bore the name of a local prep school, the suits designer logos.
Per usual, Milo and I arrived five minutes early for the meeting with Antonio Porras, eliciting upraised eyebrows from the women. The same kind of look a nerdy kid might get from the spoon-fed student council of the school on the hats.
We ordered tall black coffees, which stimulated puzzlement from the kid behind the counter, took the table farthest from the women, who stared a bit longer, then returned to animated conversation.
I said, “I also looked Porras up. His partner does immigration law. You’re hoping he’s got a message from Irma Ruiz.”
