Help Wanted

By David Scott

Unsolved murders in Los Angeles. Cold case homicides.Peter Dale and Darcy Garciabecome involved in solving these murders as theirfeelings for one another grow.

Peter and Darcy collect clues using the Sherlock Holmes deductive reasoning processto pursue the killer to an exciting and climactic ending.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 11, 2005
• ISBN: 9781463498047

David Scott

Professor David Scott, PhD, MA, Adv DipEd, BA, PGCE, is Professor of Curriculum, Pedagogy and Assessment, Institute of Education, University of London. Previously, he served as Acting Dean of Teaching and Learning, Acting Head of the Centre for Higher Education Teaching and Learning, Director of the International Institute for Education Leadership and Professor of Educational Leadership and Learning, University of Lincoln.

Book preview

Chapter 1 – A Long Commute

Peter Dale’s biorhythms made him a night person. Living well east of Los Angeles, making an early-morning, long commute to downtown LA had been a routine of his for three years. Sometimes it felt like a ritual. Being a sports reporter with a major newspaper was his life’s dream come true. Dreams are not stagnant; they can be a moving target. Vague dissatisfaction had started to intrude into his subconscious. He was good at what he did. Who wouldn’t love having season tickets to all of the Lakers’ home games? Peter had never won a journalism award, true enough, but at thirty-six, he had time. Time was on his side, like Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones said. Mick also said he couldn’t get no satisfaction.

Peter got his bearings and was able to shut off the alarm just before its shrill clang would have flooded the still quiet of his 4:45 a.m. world. The alarm clock was made in China and worked with an unrelenting efficiency. He staggered into the bathroom and let his eyes adjust to the soft glow of the night light. It cast away enough shadows for him to see into the mirror well enough to rub shaving cream on his face. Actual shaving was more problematic, and he usually cut himself a bad bleeder about once a week. There was no way the overhead light was going on—no way.

After a long, hot shower, Peter dressed in his Friday casuals even though it was Tuesday. He hoped Darcy wouldn’t be late today. At least they had one thing in common; they were night people. The rest he wasn’t so sure about. Peter’s eyes had finally acclimated to the point he could turn on the 75-watt light in his living room without discomfort. Peter filled his coffee cup with tap water, put it in the microwave, and set if for two minutes while he searched for the instant coffee. He peered into the empty jar and remembered he had forgotten to buy more. Annoyed, he shut off the microwave with fifty-seven seconds to go. Caffeine was one of the few friends he had, and he felt bad he had to forgo his morning fellowship. He felt bad because sixty miles was a long way to drive with sleep in your eyes.

Peter had bought his small condo three years ago after his promotion to staff sports writer. Before then, he had rented an apartment on the West Side and had enjoyed a twenty-minute drive to his newspaper’s downtown office. He wanted to own though, so he did what many people in LA do. He moved east where prices were lower. Peter still had to borrow the down payment from his widowed mother, who took out a second mortgage on the house in Whittier where he grew up. His Japanese compact now had 79,000 miles on it but was still going strong after three years of pounding on the 10 freeway. He had bought it near new from a rental company.

After a final splash of cold water to his face, followed by a semi-hot soaking for follow-up relief, Peter grabbed his keys, did a final security scan of the premises, and walked out the door. Dawn was still waiting as he ambled down to the underground garage at 5:30 a.m. He soon hit the freeway. Recession or no recession, the traffic only kept getting worse day to day, week to week, month to month. If so many people were out of work, then where were all of these people going so early in the morning? To work? It was a mystery to him. He knew several acquaintances that were unemployed. All the familiar places started whirling by. Anticipating his next exit, Peter flipped on his right blinker and began the braking process, leaving a big rig that was impatiently roaring toward him.

Peter maneuvered his car toward Darcy Garcia’s apartment building. He had been doing this for over a year now. They had met when he received a voicemail on his answering machine from a female who was looking for someone to share a ride with to downtown LA. Apparently Peter’s newspaper and Darcy’s police department had shared databases, and so began a relationship of sorts. Peter couldn’t pinpoint when they crossed the line from strangers to acquaintances to friends to significant others. He knew they had moved beyond stranger by virtue of over forty dates together. Peter never considered their dates in the same way he was used to thinking of dates. Darcy had become a comfort zone away from his loneliness and a sounding board for his aspirations. She was thirty-three, unmarried, an administrative analyst with a police department within the LAPD precinct schema.

Darcy understood sports just enough to know the significance of the more important sporting events. Darcy wasn’t in possession of all the attributes that might appeal to the superficial man, but she had a pop and fresh quality that highlighted her personality. Physically, she was fitter than he was. She maintained her fitness by a regular regimen of jogging and aerobic exercise.

They commuted with each other for the two-hour drive to LA every day one way, unless one or the other was sick or otherwise indisposed, which was rare, unless Peter was on assignment somewhere. Darcy seemed to enjoy listening to him telling her about his desires to be an investigative reporter, which seemed to complement her plans to become a private investigator. She had been studying criminology off and on for several years.

Darcy was taking classes at a local community college and was still many credits away from a degree in criminology. She was starting to feel the first sense of urgency concerning her biological clock, which was exacerbated by her impending thirty-fourth birthday. The two goals of motherhood and private investigator seemed incompatible and mutually exclusive and caused her a private pain, which she hid behind a friendly smile and upbeat persona. Darcy wasn’t sure if Peter even had the slightest notion of her schizoid dilemma. She wasn’t sure if he was in love with her or if she was in love with him. Neither of them had uttered the words I love you to the other. Only now and then would a flicker of passion pass between them. Darcy knew one reason they had never consummated their relationship beyond a lingering occasional kiss was her unspoken commitment to her upbringing, requiring that she save herself for marriage.

They had never discussed their past relationships aside from a few ambiguous references Peter made to his past romances. Darcy was still a virgin and was content to let Peter believe otherwise. Her virginity was a source of pride and discomfort. She knew that people who were still virgins in their early thirties were in the minority. Darcy could only assume that Peter was not a member of this group. Still, she found Peter’s company pleasant and his inquiring mind interesting. He wasn’t bad looking either at five feet ten inches and could almost be called a hunk if he worked out and started coloring the gray hair that was starting to show around his temples.

Peter turned onto the street where Darcy lived and eased over to the curb near the front door of her building. It was 5:55 a.m.; he had made better time than usual since he wasn’t due to be outside her building until 6:00. The sky was turning orange with the advent of dawn. The front door opened, and Darcy slowly walked out, early morning being the only time she was less than enthusiastic. As she got in, they murmured muffled good mornings to each other. Darcy methodically reached for the seatbelt and buckled in. Peter checked his mirror and did a 180 turn, heading back to the freeway.

Peter turned on the radio dial that was preset to a news station and listened for traffic reports. The on-ramp came into view, and he guided his compact along the arching entrance aligning with the carpool diamonds and carefully merged into the flow of mechanized humanity heading westbound. He calibrated the speed of the car to the speed of the traffic flow and shifted himself into the bucket seat as comfortably as possible.

They cruised along at 55 MPH. Darcy seemed pensive and taciturn. Anything wrong? Peter asked her. She meekly shook her head. Oh come on, I know when something’s wrong. What’s the scoop?

Darcy shifted in her seat. Well, she said, I’m worried about this class I’m taking on Saturdays. We have this project due in two weeks, and I haven’t a clue how to start.

What kind of project?

It’s a research project on homicide cold cases. We’re supposed to take a hypothetical case and solve it, using the research techniques we’ve learned in the class. The instructor divided everyone into two-person teams, and we’re supposed to collaborate. Half the grade is showing objective evidence that we worked jointly on the problem-solving process because cold cases usually require a team effort. I was assigned to work with this guy named Bill Lasky. He’s a retired LAPD detective who lives in Big Bear, so I don’t know how or when we’ll get together. I’m feeling a little intimidated about working with a former LAPD detective. I don’t know why he even bothers to take the class. What’s the point?

Traffic in the car pool lane began to slow to 40 MPH. So you only have this coming Saturday’s class before the project is due the following Saturday, because last Saturday you were just given the project, right?

Yep, that’s about it. I have the guy’s phone number, but I feel funny calling him for some reason. Lasky left class Saturday before I had a chance to discuss our approach to the cold case with him. What does he care?

Peter contemplated the situation as traffic slowed even more. Why don’t you take the first step and call him today and arrange a meeting place? Listen, I’ve got it. You know that restaurant in San Bernardino where we ate that good steak dinner about a month ago? Invite him there. I’ll be with you as your escort, so to speak. I don’t want you meeting a strange man in a restaurant alone. Peter let out a soft chuckle, but there was more truth there than he was willing to admit.

Darcy remained silent for a minute or so. Okay, she finally said, I’ll call him during my break if he’s home. I hate leaving messages. I hope he’ll be home. I’ll ask him if he can meet us tomorrow night at eight o’clock. That’ll give us time to develop a plan before Saturday’s class. Somebody’s going to have to write the paper. I have a feeling it’ll end up being me because I’m such a nice person. This time Darcy chuckled. That was the truth.

At 8:20, Peter dropped Darcy off in front of the small police station where she worked. After an uninspired peck on the cheek, he waved to her as she briskly walked away, turning around to wave back to him. It took Peter an extra twenty-five minutes to drop Darcy off at work because he had to detour onto Sunset and then backtrack to Wilshire. By now, the downtown surface streets were crowded. At 8:50, he turned into the parking garage under the building housing his newspaper, and at 9:00, he was in his office drinking machine-dispensed coffee. He wasn’t able to wait for the coffee club to engage in its morning routine.

Peter was working on an article on the Lakers when his phone rang. It was Darcy. Hi, hon, she said. Peter was aware that Darcy made liberal use of the moniker hon when addressing people, but it made him feel good anyway. I called Mr. Lasky—Bill—and he’s an extremely nice gentleman it turns out. Peter could tell Darcy was her regular optimistic self again. At first he was hesitant to come because it’s a long drive for him, but midway through our conversation, he changed his mind. He knows the restaurant and is bringing his wife, and they’re going to take in a late movie afterwards, so it’s working out. Can you, you know, leave a little early tomorrow night so we can like be sure to make it by eight?

Yeah, no problem, babe.

Great. See ya later. Bye.

Peter hung up and resumed workings on his article, mentally noting how Darcy sometimes tried to use Valley-girl speak, usually unconvincingly.

Chapter 2 – Dining Out with Acquaintances

Peter left work early the following Wednesday night and saw that Darcy was already waiting for him as he wheeled into the police department parking lot. She hopped in, and he continued his eastward trek toward home. They arrived in front of Darcy’s apartment building and went inside her apartment. Darcy went to the bedroom while Peter danced to the bathroom. The plan was for Darcy to spruce herself up while Peter put on a coat and tie that had been pre-positioned in Darcy’s apartment in anticipation of the evening’s festivities. While Darcy was changing clothes, Peter was trying to remember how to tie a tie. His annoyance was turning to anger when he finally remembered how to insert the last loop around and felt a sense of overblown triumph as he tightened the knot and adjusted the back flap so it wouldn’t extend beyond the front flap.

Hey, Darcy, Peter called out, why do we have to dress up? No answer. He walked over to her bedroom, finding the door slightly ajar. Peter repeated the question.

Hon, you know that restaurant is a classy place. I think it’s nice dressing up for a change.

All right, all right, he said with resignation. Peter went back to the living room and turned on her TV. Remembering that she didn’t have cable, he realized couldn’t check out ESPN. It was almost seven. Darcy, Peter yelled, we should be leaving in ten minutes. When he was at Darcy’s place, Peter always noticed how she had photographs of her nieces and nephews prominently displayed throughout her apartment.

Darcy emerged from her bedroom looking quite chic. Hon, let’s go.

They arrived at the restaurant at 7:50 p.m. and were taken to the table Darcy has reserved for them and the Laskys. The Laskys hadn’t arrived yet. Peter suppressed a yawn. Noticing that most of the patrons were drinking wine or cocktails with their meals, Peter wondered if it would be gauche to order coffee with his meal in this environment. Darcy didn’t drink, so she would probably order soda or water. Peter always felt slightly uneasy when dining at an upscale restaurant.

A waiter dressed in a fancy tux promptly appeared out of nowhere, passing out menus and asking them if they would like appetizers and anything to drink. Darcy ordered bottled water, and Peter ordered coffee.

Peter scanned the menu prices and mentally calculated what he could buy with the same money at the more comfortable establishments they usually ate at. He double-checked that his credit card and emergency cash were in his wallet. The more he thought about coming to this restaurant to meet Bill Lasky, the more agitated he became, even more so since it had been his idea. He had taken Darcy to this fancy restaurant as a special treat once and had made a secret oath never to do it again, yet here they were again thanks to his brilliant suggestion. Peter chastised himself. This was just what he needed, he thought, a heavy meal late in the evening keeping him up past his normal bedtime and guaranteeing that he’d be very tired in the morning when the hated alarm clock rang out. Peter was so lost in negative thoughts that he had not noticed that a couple in their late sixties had walked in and were now sitting across the table from him, talking to Darcy.

Peter, Darcy said, this is Bill Lasky and his wife, Beth. Bill and Beth, this is Peter Dale. After the mandatory handshakes and salutations all around, Darcy began the small talk in earnest. As Darcy started to speak, a waiter arrived with menus for the Laskys. They both ordered drinks and shrimp cocktails for their appetizers. Darcy took a long sip from her bottled water as Peter surreptitiously moved his coffee closer to him and camouflaged it behind a tall, unopened napkin. Peter sighed. This might be a long night, he thought.

As I was going to say, Darcy began again, Bill and I have an assignment—

Bill gently cut her off. Miss Garcia, eh, Darcy, let’s not talk shop just yet. To put your mind at ease, all of our troubles are solved by what’s in this small briefcase. I have to study the menu.

Dear, Beth Lasky asked her husband, what are you going to have? The prim waiter appeared as if on cue. Bill Lasky ordered lobster tail, and Beth Lasky ordered cordon bleu sautéed in wine sauce. Darcy ordered soup and a large salad, and Peter had a steak medium rare.

Peter used his reporter’s skills of observation and studied Bill Lasky. He had a severely lined face that went beyond his chronological age. His wife was nondescript. Beneath a seemingly bon home demeanor, Peter sensed that Lasky had an unpleasant story to tell.

Peter, it is Peter—right? Peter nodded. Peter, what do you do for a living?

Peter eyed the man. I’m a sports writer. I write about sports. Basketball, baseball, football, hockey, you name it. If you can bet on it, I write about it.

Lasky lifted his eyebrow. How did you get interested in writing about sports as a career? Did you ever play pro ball at one time?

No, never. I played Little League baseball growing up in Whittier, but that’s it. I was either too small or too slow in high school to play any varsity sports. I went to UCLA and majored in journalism, not to be a sports writer necessarily; I just stumbled into it.

Stumbled? Lasky said. I read your weekly column on the sports page. For someone who stumbled into a profession, you’re one of the best I’ve ever read. Peter took Lasky’s compliment in silence.

Lasky turned his attention to Darcy. This so-called professor who’s teaching our class has obviously never been in law enforcement and certainly has never been a detective. He’s way off on so many things. Theory is different from practical application.

Darcy furrowed her brow, an indication she was processing information. What do you mean? Of course theory is different from practical application. But Professor Jenkins mainly describes investigative techniques that have been used in practical application in the real world. Or am I wrong about that?

Lasky slowly grinned, the deep crinkles in his eyes stretching a couple of inches down the side of his face. I guess I’m showing my crotchety side, Lasky replied. You probably want to know why a retired dick like me is taking a class on solving cold cases. Bored. Just bored. It’s something to do.

Mr. Lasky, Darcy interjected, our assignment is to take the case Professor Jenkins gave us and use fault tree analysis to anticipate every possible contingency that might have led to the hypothetical homicide.

Peter looked up from staring at his cup of coffee. What’s fault tree analysis?

FTA, that’s short for fault tree analysis, is a deductive problem-solving technique to identify all events that might have produced the top undesired event, meaning the homicide. You work backward from the top undesired event using AND/OR gates to … Darcy stopped mid-sentence when she saw her enthusiasm was out of place. That’s our assignment, Mr. Lasky. Darcy softened her tone. I thought you and I could use the team time on Saturday to brainstorm the FTA, and I’ll prepare the paper.

Lasky took a long sip from his gin and tonic. Please call me Bill, Darcy. Or I shall have to call you Miss Garcia.

Darcy’s face visibly reddened, and her nose was twitching, a nervous tick Peter had seen before. The waiter brought them their food, and they ate and talked. The conversation was mostly Lasky regaling them with stories from his days on the force. Peter was annoyed as he watched Darcy enthralled by his exploits. Mrs. Lasky had the look of someone who had suffered through this on many such occasions. The waiter cleared away their plates.

You know, Darcy, we really didn’t need to have dinner to decide to work on the project in class on Saturday. Peter detected a mocking tone in his voice, cleverly disguised as innocent banter. It’s been great. I enjoyed meeting you Peter. Unfortunately my wife and I must be leaving. We have a movie to catch, don’t we, Beth?

Yes, dear, we do.

Peter saw that the briefcase Lasky had brought with him was propped against the back of an empty chair. Bill, Peter began, you never mentioned what’s in the briefcase.

Lasky was halfway listening as he fumbled for his wallet. Oh yes, the briefcase. You know, I really didn’t need to bring it with me. Darcy is absolutely correct. The professor did ask us to use the, uh, what do you call it, the FTA procedure to solve the case he gave us. Lasky whispered to his wife, who reached for her purse and handed him something. The briefcase, Lasky continued, is a compilation of real recent cold-case murders in LA my son-in-law compiled using a new program the LAPD has to track these things. He’s a cop in the Mid-Wilshire Division and works with detectives. Technically, as a retired cop, I shouldn’t be in possession of this information for various sundry reasons. But once a cop, always a cop. Lasky signaled the well-groomed waiter hovering nearby for his bill.

Peter kept looking at the briefcase when Darcy’s impetuous nature came to his rescue. Bill, would it be possible for me to review these files? I promise I’ll return them to you on Saturday at class.

Peter had counted the drinks Lasky had consumed, two gin and tonics and one Scotch neat. Perhaps the alcohol had mellowed him.

Sure, Darcy, just be sure to get them back to me. Beth, you need to drive. Nice meeting you, Peter. I’ll see you in class on Saturday, Darcy.

Peter extended his hand and exchanged parting pleasantries with Beth Lasky, and then Darcy walked them out of the restaurant. Peter put his coffee cup to his lips, realizing he had dropped his inhibitions about drinking coffee in front of Lasky two cups ago.

Peter saw the 20 percent tip Lasky had left; it would practically cover the combined cost of his and Darcy’s meal. Darcy sauntered back bubbly. I feel so much better about this class now, she said. If Peter were a psychiatrist, he might diagnose Darcy as an obsessive-compulsive with a bent toward perfectionism, hiding latent feelings of inferiority. I wonder what’s in the briefcase, Darcy thought out loud as Peter reached for his emergency cash. The pompous waiter had returned his credit card with denied on the print-out. The waiter loomed over Peter, making him feel like a felon. Peter meekly withdrew dead presidents from his wallet and mentally calculated what a 10 percent tip added up to.

Chapter 3 – Cold-Case Files

The four cups of coffee Peter had at the restaurant had kept him wired. He had gotten home at 11:30 that night after dropping Darcy off at her place but didn’t get to sleep until 1:30 that morning. Getting-up time had come around fast as his alarm spewed its vulgar sound across his bedroom. While shaving by the soft glow of the nightlight in his bathroom, he thought about Lasky and his briefcase. On the drive home, Darcy said she would take a look at the contents of the briefcase. Peter left his condo that morning in anticipation.

Darcy waved to him eagerly as he pulled up at 6:00 a.m. She was holding Lasky’s briefcase. Darcy was barely in the door when she started talking. Hon, the files Bill let me borrow are really, really interesting. There are many cold cases in the files, most of them occurring within the last four years. They’re sorted by many different categories.

Good morning to you, too. What categories? Peter was enjoying the animation in her face and how her hands moved in unison with her voice inflection. He regretted he had to watch the road and not her. His peripheral vision and occasional side glances would have to suffice. Sometimes, Peter thought, Darcy was almost sexy.

They’re sorted by mode of death, criminal history, credit and asset background, residence at the time of death, marital status, witnesses …

Okay, okay, Peter said. Slow down. There’s obviously a lot of data there. How many different cases are there exactly?

I counted twenty-eight. Some of the files are more complete than others. The ones that are more complete are more recent. I filed them in reverse chronological order from the most current to the earlier ones.

Peter mentally focused on this as he braked for slowing traffic. Why?

I guess it’s the administrative analyst in me. Logically, the most recent cases would have a better chance to be solved because any available information is more up-to-date.

What are you, a female Spock? Peter said, laughing at his Star Trek joke.

Live long and prosper, Darcy responded without missing a beat. As I was saying, Captain Kirk, I combined all the different sorts by victim and put them together. Lasky had the files all jumbled up. I think he thought we could somehow use them for the project. Well we can’t. But you know what, Peter? Darcy said, pausing. "Maybe we can use them."

We?

Yes we. Us. We, as in you and me. You and I. Whatever. Hon, if I had a nickel for every time you mentioned you wished you were an investigative reporter, I’d have a five-dollar bill. This might be your chance.

Chance for what?

Darcy turned herself in his direction in her version of feminine wiles. Chance to solve an unsolved homicide.

Peter shook his head emphatically. This is really out of character for you to suggest something like this. It wouldn’t even be ethical to use these files for any reason. Lasky said that he, as an ex-detective, wasn’t supposed to have the files. I would think civilians like you and me shouldn’t have them, much less use them. If Lasky hadn’t been smashed last night, he wouldn’t have given them to you. Peter paused in his diatribe, briefly glancing at her. It was wrong of you to have asked him to borrow them. Peter turned his attention back to the freeway.

This is funny, Darcy said. Our roles are reversed. Usually I’m the one chastising you for something. You’re right. I shouldn’t even have these files. Tell you what—when I get to work, I’ll put the briefcase in a safe place and won’t look at the files again. And I’ll give the briefcase back to Lasky in class on Saturday, and that will be that. Satisfied?

Peter checked the mirror. Yeah, that’s fine. They continued on in silence as Peter listened to a traffic report.

Darcy broke the silence. "You don’t sound convinced. I mean, yes, it’s true,