while we're still speaking to each other. Have you heard from Ben? How's he doing down there?"
Starkey had helped in the search for Ben Chenier. We met on the night he disappeared.
"He's doing well. We don't talk as often as we used to."
"And the lawyer?"
The lawyer was Lucy Chenier.
"We don't talk as often as we used to."
"I guess I shouldn't have brought that up, either."
"No. I guess not."
Starkey badged our way past the receptionist, then led me along a hall toward a sign that read TECHNICAL LABORATORY. SID was divided into three parts: the Technical Laboratory, the Criminalistics Laboratory, and the Administrative Unit. Chen, like the other field criminalists, worked freely between the Tech Lab and the Criminalistics Lab, though he could and did refer to specialists when needed.
Chen scowled when he saw us. He was tall and thin, with ill-fitting glasses and the hunched posture of someone sporting chronic low self-esteem. Some of the criminalists wore lab smocks, but most of them wore street clothes. Only John Chen wore a pencil caddy. He glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby. Furtive.
"Today is my day off. I spent all morning waxing my car. I was gonna cruise Westwood for pussy."
Chen is like that. His sole motivation in all things is publicity, promotion, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.
Starkey said, "That's more than we needed to know, John. Just work the card."
"I'm just saying, that's all. You guys owe me."
He held out his hand, making a little hand-it-over gesture.
"Let me see it."
I was carrying the key card in my handkerchief. I laid it on the bench, then folded back the handkerchief. Chen lifted his glasses, and leaned close to see.
"Did this belong to the vic or the shooter?"
"I don't know. It was in the alley, so I have to follow it. It might not belong to either one of them."
Chen peered closer, looking dubious, then glanced up at me.
"This guy really your father?"
I was getting a headache. I wanted whatever I could get from the key card and I wanted to get out of there.
"He was a deluded old man who thought he was my father. That's all."
"Starkey said he was your father."
Starkey said, "I got it wrong, goddamnit. Cole doesn't look anything like him. I saw the pictures."
I said, "Are you going to look at the card or not?"
I was sorry I called them.
Chen brought the card to a workstation that looked like a Napster geek's dream: A desktop computer was wired to what appeared to be VHS, VHS-C, BETA, 3/4", 8mm, and digital tape decks, along with DVD/CD players, mini-CD players, and several different swipe-card readers that might have come from your local supermarket. A sign on the wall read NO MAGNETS, NO INFO, NO JOB. Lab rat humor.
Chen went to work on the computer, bringing up different windows on the screen.
"Most of the work we do here is with counterfeit credit and ATM cards, but we can analyze commercial key cards, too. Most hotels in the U. S. buy their systems from one of three magnetic-lock companies, and they all use the same coding. We'll try the commercial codes first. Who's the detective in charge?"
"Kelly Diaz. She's Divisional Homicide at Central."
Chen typed in her name.
"I'll have to call her for the case number. Does she put out?"
Starkey punched him in the back, told us she had to get back to work, then stalked out of the lab.
I said, "Jesus, John, show a little class."
Chen seemed disappointed with my answer, but not embarrassed that he had asked. He glanced after Starkey and lowered his voice still more.
"You owe me for this, man. Tell your girlfriend she owes me, too."
"Starkey isn't my girlfriend."
Chen rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, sure."
Chen finished filling in the boxes, then picked up the key card with a pair of plastic forceps and swiped it through a card reader. The information embedded in its magnetic strip instantly appeared on the computer.
00087662///116/carversystems//
0009227//homeawaysuites047//
0012001208//00991//
Chen
Starkey had helped in the search for Ben Chenier. We met on the night he disappeared.
"He's doing well. We don't talk as often as we used to."
"And the lawyer?"
The lawyer was Lucy Chenier.
"We don't talk as often as we used to."
"I guess I shouldn't have brought that up, either."
"No. I guess not."
Starkey badged our way past the receptionist, then led me along a hall toward a sign that read TECHNICAL LABORATORY. SID was divided into three parts: the Technical Laboratory, the Criminalistics Laboratory, and the Administrative Unit. Chen, like the other field criminalists, worked freely between the Tech Lab and the Criminalistics Lab, though he could and did refer to specialists when needed.
Chen scowled when he saw us. He was tall and thin, with ill-fitting glasses and the hunched posture of someone sporting chronic low self-esteem. Some of the criminalists wore lab smocks, but most of them wore street clothes. Only John Chen wore a pencil caddy. He glanced around, making sure no one else was nearby. Furtive.
"Today is my day off. I spent all morning waxing my car. I was gonna cruise Westwood for pussy."
Chen is like that. His sole motivation in all things is publicity, promotion, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.
Starkey said, "That's more than we needed to know, John. Just work the card."
"I'm just saying, that's all. You guys owe me."
He held out his hand, making a little hand-it-over gesture.
"Let me see it."
I was carrying the key card in my handkerchief. I laid it on the bench, then folded back the handkerchief. Chen lifted his glasses, and leaned close to see.
"Did this belong to the vic or the shooter?"
"I don't know. It was in the alley, so I have to follow it. It might not belong to either one of them."
Chen peered closer, looking dubious, then glanced up at me.
"This guy really your father?"
I was getting a headache. I wanted whatever I could get from the key card and I wanted to get out of there.
"He was a deluded old man who thought he was my father. That's all."
"Starkey said he was your father."
Starkey said, "I got it wrong, goddamnit. Cole doesn't look anything like him. I saw the pictures."
I said, "Are you going to look at the card or not?"
I was sorry I called them.
Chen brought the card to a workstation that looked like a Napster geek's dream: A desktop computer was wired to what appeared to be VHS, VHS-C, BETA, 3/4", 8mm, and digital tape decks, along with DVD/CD players, mini-CD players, and several different swipe-card readers that might have come from your local supermarket. A sign on the wall read NO MAGNETS, NO INFO, NO JOB. Lab rat humor.
Chen went to work on the computer, bringing up different windows on the screen.
"Most of the work we do here is with counterfeit credit and ATM cards, but we can analyze commercial key cards, too. Most hotels in the U. S. buy their systems from one of three magnetic-lock companies, and they all use the same coding. We'll try the commercial codes first. Who's the detective in charge?"
"Kelly Diaz. She's Divisional Homicide at Central."
Chen typed in her name.
"I'll have to call her for the case number. Does she put out?"
Starkey punched him in the back, told us she had to get back to work, then stalked out of the lab.
I said, "Jesus, John, show a little class."
Chen seemed disappointed with my answer, but not embarrassed that he had asked. He glanced after Starkey and lowered his voice still more.
"You owe me for this, man. Tell your girlfriend she owes me, too."
"Starkey isn't my girlfriend."
Chen rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, sure."
Chen finished filling in the boxes, then picked up the key card with a pair of plastic forceps and swiped it through a card reader. The information embedded in its magnetic strip instantly appeared on the computer.
00087662///116/carversystems//
0009227//homeawaysuites047//
0012001208//00991//
Chen
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