they weren't detectives. She was it. Guess if I were her, I'd lock my desk, too.
Dolan glared at Krantz as if he were a walking Pap smear, and glared at me even harder.
When she came over, Krantz said, "Dolan, this is Cole. Cole, this is Samantha Dolan. You're with her."
Samantha Dolan was wearing a stylish gray pants suit with a cameo brooch and dark blond hair that was cut short without being mannish. I made her for her early forties, but she might've been younger. When Krantz said the name, I recognized her at once from the stories and interviews and dozens of times that I'd seen her on TV
I said, "Pleased to meet you, Dolan. I enjoyed your series."
Six years ago, CBS had made a television series about her based on a case in which she'd almost been killed apprehending a serial rapist. The series had lasted half a season and wasn't very good, but for a short period of time it had made her the most famous Los Angeles police officer since Joe Wambaugh. An article about her in the Times had focused on her case clearance rate, which was the highest ever by a woman, and the third highest in department history. I remembered being impressed. But then it dawned on me that I hadn't heard of her since.
Samantha Dolan's frown turned into a scowl. "You liked that TV series they made about me?"
I gave her the friendly smile. "Yeah."
"It sucked."
I can always tell when they like me.
Krantz checked his watch. "We'll brief you in the conference room so this doesn't waste anybody else's time. Think about that, Cole. Right now the murderer could be getting away because one of our detectives is thinking about you instead of following up a lead."
"You're a pip, Krantz."
"Yeah. Get him down there, Dolan. I'll be along in a minute."
Dolan led me to a small conference room where Watts and Williams were waiting, along with a tall thin detective named Bruly and a Hispanic detective named Salerno. Bruly whispered something to Salerno when we walked in, and Salerno smiled. Dolan took a seat without introducing me, or saying anything to the others. Maybe she didn't like them, either.
Williams said, "This is Elvis Cole. He represents the family. He gets to keep an eye on us in case we fuck up."
"I've already told'm about you, Williams." I thought I might win them over with clever repartee.
Salerno grinned. "You catch a lot of grief with that name?"
"What, Cole?"
Salerno laughed. You see about the repartee?
Krantz steamed in with a mug of coffee and a clipboard. "You people want to keep wasting time, or you want to knock off the bullshit?"
Salerno stopped smiling.
Krantz had some of the coffee as he read over the clipboard, then said, "Here's what we have: Karen Garcia was murdered at approximately ten A.M. Saturday morning by an unknown assailant or assailants at the Lake Hollywood Reservoir. We have recovered and impounded her car, which was located in a parking lot on Barham Boulevard. We believe the perpetrator fired one shot from a small-bore pistol at close range. Her body was discovered by two hikers the following day. We have their initial interviews in hand. We are also questioning other people known to have been at the lake on Saturday, or who live nearby, as well as people associated with the victim. Detectives from Rampart, Hollywood, West L.A., and Wilshire divisions are assisting in this effort. We have no suspects at this time." Krantz sounded like Jack Webb.
"Is that it?"
Krantz flexed his jaw, pissed. "The investigation's only twenty hours old. How much do you want?"
"I wasn't criticizing."
I took out two sheets that I had typed, and slid them across the table. Krantz didn't touch them.
"This is everything that Frank Garcia told me about his daughter's activities on that Saturday, as well as everything I learned when I was trying to find her. I thought it might help. Pike and I spoke to some kids at a Jungle Juice stand who knew Karen's pattern. Their names are here, too."
"We've already talked to them, Cole.
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia