The Night Crew

story.’’
    ‘‘So what’s happening with McKinley?’’ the Witch asked suspiciously.
    ‘‘He’s fucking with me,’’ Anna said. ‘‘The miserable little shit. I’m gonna crucify him.’’
    ‘‘That sounds promising,’’ the Witch said. ‘‘I’ll have somebody look around.’’
    ‘‘Right now,’’ Anna said. ‘‘This is serious. I’m calling a couple more stations. The first one who gives me the address and phone number, I’ll give them the China Lake story.’’
    ‘‘You know, you can be a major pain in the ass.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, but a fairly cheap pain, considering what I deliver. So call me back.’’
    ‘‘Hold on, just hold on . . . I’m gonna put the phone down, I’ll be right back.’’
    Anna held on. Harper said, ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘Maybe something,’’ Anna said.
    The Witch was back: ‘‘You got a pencil?’’ Wyatt, nearing panic, was sealing Venice.
    Anna, with McKinley’s phone number, and Louis tracking the address, told him they were going to look for a kid they’d interviewed the night of Jason’s murder.
    ‘‘You’ve got to stay in touch,’’ Wyatt said anxiously. ‘‘We’ll call you if we need you: If you get one ring, then one ring, then one ring on your phone, you know, fifteen seconds apart, answer the third one.’’
    ‘‘Okay,’’ Anna said, and they were gone. McKinley lived in a bleak cinder-block apartment in Culver City. The parking lot was beginning to break up, with weeds growing through it in patches. Harper parked in a handicapped spot and they took an exterior walkway up; the concrete corners in the stairwell smelled of urine. The walkway had steel railings, and wheelless bike frames were chained to the railings in front of half the doors.
    ‘‘Students,’’ Anna said.
    ‘‘It was three-thirty-seven?’’ Harper asked.
    ‘‘Yeah . . .’’
    The door faced a narrow inner-courtyard, with a halfdozen concrete picnic tables scattered down its length. A half-dozen student-age men sat at one of the tables, smoking, listening to music on a boom box, talking in Spanish.
    McKinley’s room was dark, the door locked.
    ‘‘Can’t kick it,’’ Harper said quietly. ‘‘Too many people, too much noise.’’
    ‘‘Let’s see if we can find a manager,’’ Anna said. The manager had a first-floor apartment facing the parking lot. A dark-eyed woman answered the door, spoke to them in a language that Anna thought might be Farsi, then waved her hands in a gesture that said, ‘‘Wait,’’ went back into the apartment and shouted something. Returning to the door, she made a ‘‘come in’’ gesture, pointed to the back and said another word. ‘‘I think she means somebody’s in the bathroom,’’ Harper said.
    The woman smiled and pointed a finger up: ‘‘Bat-room . . . yes.’’
    Anna nodded, looked around—and spotted the key board behind the open door. The woman was walking toward the back of the apartment again, and Anna said to Harper, ‘‘Block me out—I’m gonna see if I can grab a key.’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    ‘‘There’s a key board behind the door.’’
    Harper stepped sideways, and Anna pushed the door closed a few inches. Behind it, she could see the room numbers under wire pegs, most with keys hanging from them. Then a toilet flushed in the back, and the woman called something out to them.
    Harper said, ‘‘Thank you, thank you,’’ and Anna, still eclipsed by his body, pushed the door another few inches.
    The 337 peg held two keys.
    ‘‘Can I try for it?’’ she muttered.
    ‘‘She’s looking right at us,’’ Harper said, turning to her. ‘‘Hold on . . .’’
    Harper walked toward the woman, talking. ‘‘We wanted to talk to one of your renters.’’
    The woman said something else, jabbing her finger at the back. Anna watched, and as Harper got close to her, with the woman looking up at him, he stepped cleanly between them and Anna lifted the key.
    Dropped it. Stepped on it. Stood with her hands crossed in front of her as Harper and the woman stood jabbering at each other. Then a man’s voice said, ‘‘Hello,’’ and both
Harper and the woman turned toward the back. Anna stooped and picked the key up, and put it in her jacket pocket. She stepped away from the door and the key board.
    Harper told the manager that he and Anna were friends of McKinley’s from UCLA, but weren’t sure they had the right apartment complex.
    ‘‘Yes, yes, he is here. Apartment