San Diego to Hawaii made it easy. Back to the SSI list. Donald Arthur Murphy, sixty-nine years old.
Somewhere near L.A. Despite her problems, Erna hadn’t strayed far from home.
It was too late to access Navy or county property files, so Stahl drove to his one-room flat on Franklin, removed his clothes, folded them neatly, got on his bed, lay atop his blanket, masturbated briefly while thinking of nothing, showered, and scrubbed himself raw. Then he placed prewashed, precut salad greens on a paper plate, added a can of tuna because he needed protein, ate quickly without tasting, went to sleep.
• • •
The next morning, he used his home phone.
Donald Arthur Murphy owned no real estate in L.A. County. Same for Orange, Riverside, San Bernadino, all districts south, to the Mexican border. Stahl worked his way through the northern counties up to Oregon. Still no hits.
A renter.
He phoned the Navy office in Port Hueneme, finally obtained the address where Murphy’s pension check was sent each month.
Sun Garden Convalescent Home. Palms Avenue, in Mar Vista.
A half hour car ride. Connor hadn’t called him in a while, but he wanted to keep things orderly, so he phoned her at the station. Knowing she wouldn’t be in. He left a message— document everything. Tried her home number, got no answer.
Was she sleeping in and letting the phone ring? Or out, already, working the streets? Maybe neither and she was recreating— out on a date, she was cute enough. A girl with a social life.
Intellectually, he understood the need for pleasure.
Viscerally, it left him cold.
34
Petra got up early to work the streets. Last night’s shift had been spent with the after-dark crowd: clubbies, bouncers, parking valets, boulevard evangelists, dope-zombies, curb trawlers, assorted other miscreants. Crazies, too. Hollywood at night was an open-air asylum.
She stared into dead eyes, sniffed rancid auras, felt revulsion and pity and futility. These were Erna Murphy’s compatriots, but no one coherent enough to talk admitted knowing the big redhead.
Today would be more mundane: covering merchants she’d missed the first time around. Hopefully some good citizen would recall Erna.
• • •
It was a miscreant who came through. A pallid, twenty-two-year-old meth shooter and petty pill dealer named Strobe, with matted, oatmeal-colored hair that hung past his shoulder blades. Real name: Duncan Bradley Beemish. A country kid— a hick— from somewhere down South, Petra couldn’t remember where. He’d run away years ago, come to Hollywood, rotted like so many of them.
Petra had worked him as a small-time informant. Very small-time and only once. She’d run into Beemish while working a bar shooting and the speedfreak had provided ambiguous info that led Petra to someone who knew someone who might’ve heard something about something that might’ve gone down but hadn’t.
That fiasco had cost her seventy bucks, and she’d had enough of Strobe. But he found her as she talked to the owner of a joint on Western that advertised “Mediterranean Cuisine.” On Western, that meant kabobs and felafel and charcoal fumes that leaked to the sidewalk.
The proprietor was a Middle-Easterner with a big gold frontal incisor and a too-friendly attitude— the unctuous type that could turn quickly. The food stand had a B rating from the health department, which meant rodent droppings had topped the acceptable level. Gold Tooth denied ever seeing Erna Murphy and offered Petra a free sample. As she begged off and turned to leave, a reedy voice said, “I’ll take the sanwich, ‘Tective Connor.”
She turned, saw Strobe’s twitchy face. The kid never stood still, and his long hair vibrated like electric filament.
The falafel guy’s swarthy complexion purpled. “You!” To Petra; “Geet him offa my brawberty, he alla time take the hot bebber.”
“Fuck you, Osama,” said Strobe.
Petra said, “Work on the charm, Duncan.”
Strobe hacked and blew tobacco breath at her and slapped his knee. “ ‘Tective Connor! Whuz up— wuz that?” Twitchy fingers wiggled at the photo in Petra’s hand.
“Dead woman.”
“Cool. Lemme see.”
The falafel king ordered: “You. Police. Geet him offa my brawberty!”
Strobe bent his knees in a crouch, filthy hair strands swinging like vines as he put body English into a fulminating one-finger salute. Before he could complete the gesture, Petra ushered him off the property, away from Gold Tooth’s shouts, and over to her car.
“Fuckin’ towelhead,” said Strobe in a suddenly scary voice. “If I come back and cut him, you gonna bother to investigate?” Before Petra could answer, the freak’s meth-attenuated attention span snapped his coyote eyes back to Erna Murphy’s photo. Merriment in the eyes— mean-spirited. The kid’s cold side lurked just beneath the surface. “Hey— I know her.”
“Do you,” said Petra.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, saw her— what— lemme see— hadda be a few days ago.”
“Where, Duncan?”
“How mutchez it worth?”
“A sandwich,” said Petra.
“Ha. Hahahahahahaha. Get serious, ‘Tective Connor.”
“How can I know what it’s worth until you tell me what you know, Duncan?”
“How can I tell you what I know unless you pay me, ‘Tective Connor?”
“Duncan, Duncan,” said Petra, unclasping her purse and pulling out a twenty.
Strobe snatched the bill like a zoo animal grabbing a peanut. He pocketed the money, squinted at the photo. “Hadda be a few days ago.”
“You already told me that. When, exactly? And where?”
“When exactly was . . . three days ago. Maybe three . . . could be two . . . could be three.”
“Which is it, Duncan?”
“Oh, man,” said Strobe. “Time . . . you know. Sometimes, it . . .” He chuckled. Finishing the sentence in his head and deeming it witty.
Two versus three was a crucial distinction. Erna Murphy had been killed three days ago. Two would mean Strobe had zero credibility.
“Two or three, choose one,” said Petra.
“I’d hafta say three.”
“Where’d you see her, Duncan?”
“ ‘Roun Bronson, Ridgeway, ‘roun there, you know.”
Not far from where Erna’s body had been found. Petra squinted at Strobe, took in his scrawny frame, the double bags under his eyes, incipient wrinkles. The kid had what, five more years?
Strobe fidgeted under her scrutiny, rocked on his heels, twisted his hair. Girlish gesture, but nothing feminine about this kid. He was a victim turned to predator. On a dark, secluded street Petra wouldn’t have approached him without backup.
“What time was this?” she said.
“Like I said . . . late.” Another chuckle. “Or early, depending.”
“What time?”
“Two, three, four.”
“A.M.”
Strobe stared at her, stunned by the idiocy of the question. “Yeah,” he said.
“What were you doing there, Duncan?”
“Hanging.”
“Who were you hanging with?”
“No one.”
“Hanging all by yourself.”
“Hey,” said Strobe, “least I know I got good company.”
Hollywood near Bronson was only a short stroll from Hospital Row on Sunset. Perfect place to score pills from some corrupt doctor or nurse or pharmacist, then back to the boulevard for resale. More than theory. Petra knew last year Narcotics had busted a surgical resident playing wholesaler. Idiot studies that hard, gets that far, only to blow it.
She said, “I’m figuring you were doing a little trading.”
Strobe knew exactly what she meant and he flashed a gap-toothed grin. Green stuff grew on his gums. Lord.
Petra said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
“She’s a crazy, right?”
“Was.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what I saw, a crazy, acting crazy, walking up and down crazy, talking to herself. Like any other crazy. Then some car picked her up. A john.”
“You’re saying she was hooking?”
“What else do bitches do at night when they’re walking back and forth.” Strobe laughed. “So what, he cut her? We got a Jack Ripper or something?”
“You’re amused by all this, Duncan.”
“Hey, you get your laughs where you get ’em.”
“Do you know for a fact that she was hooking?”
“Well . . . sure. Why not?”
“There’s ‘sure’ and there’s ‘why not,’ “ said Petra.
“I gotta choose one again?”
“Cut the crap, Duncan. Tell me what you know for a fact and there’s another twenty in it for you. Keep this up, and I take back the first bill and book you on something.”
“Hey,” said Strobe, in that same scary voice. Petra figured she’d probably averted something nasty between him and the hot-tempered falafel vendor. For the time being.
Strobe’s eyes were all over the place, and his emaciated frame had tightened up. Checking out an escape route.
Or planning something aggressive?
Then he glanced at Petra’s purse.
Her gun was inside, right on top. Her cuffs were on her belt, riding the small of her back.
He wouldn’t be that nuts— would he?
She smiled, said, “Duncan, Duncan,” grabbed him, spun him, bent his arm back, fumbled with the cuffs, got one wrist, then the other.
“Aw, ‘Tective!”
A quick frisk produced a crumpled, half-empty pack of Salems, a baggie of pills and capsules, and a rusted pocketknife.
“Aw,” he repeated. Then he began bawling, like a baby.
She put him in the backseat of her car, stuffed the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, ditched the dope down a sewer drain— sorry, Pacific Ocean— pocketed the knife, got in front, unzipped her purse, placed her hand on her gun.
Tears drizzled from the kid’s eyes.
“I’m real sorry, ‘Tective Connor,” he said, sounding around twelve. “I ain’t trying to jerk you aroun’, I’m just hungry, is all, need a sandwich.”
“Not enough business?”
Strobe looked in the direction of the storm drain. “Not no more.”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t have time for games. Tell me exactly what you know about Erna Murphy and what you saw three nights ago.”
“I don’ know nothing about her, don’ even know her name,” said Strobe. “I just seen her like I told you, I know she’s one a the crazies—”
“She hang with any other crazies?”
“You gonna arrest me?”
“Not if you cooperate.”
“You gonna take these off?” Shifting his arms. “It hurts.”
His wrists were tiny, and she’d ratcheted the cuffs tight. But no way was he in pain. She’d been careful, she always was. Everyone an actor . . .
“They come off when we’re finished.”
“Ain’t this illegal?”
“Duncan.”
“Sorry, sorry— okay okay okay what I know . . . what was the question?”
“Did she hang with other crazies.”
“Not any I saw. It’s not like she was there all the time, like a part of the scene. She’d be there, then she wouldn’t. Know what I mean? I never talked to her, no one talked to her, she didn’t talk to no one. She was crazy.”
“Do you know for a fact that she was hooking?”
Strobe’s fuzzy tongue traveled along the meager, parched strip of grayish tissue that passed for his lower lip. “No. I can’t say that. I just assumed. Cause she got in the car.”
“What kind of car?”
“Just a car,” he said. “Nothing fancy— no Beemer or Porsche.”
“Color?”
“Light.”
“Big or small?”
“Small, I guess.”
Kevin Drummond drove a white Honda. Milo’s call about the car turning up near the airport firmed Kevin up further as their guy. The plan was to wait until the vehicle was processed, then she’d be bracing Kevin’s parents, again.
Strobe’s story kicked things up several notches. Time and place, a perfect fit.
Kevin decides Erna’s expendable, picks her up, drives her a few blocks away, plies her with booze, does the deed, ditches the car in Inglewood, makes the short hike to LAX and is heavenward.
Milo had called her early this morning, before she left. No sightings of Kevin at the airport, yet.
“The car,” she said. “Give me a brand, Duncan.”
“I dunno, ‘Tective Connor.”
“Nissan, Toyota, Honda, Chevy, Ford?”
“I dunno,” Strobe insisted. “That’s the truth, I don’t wanna give you some bullshit and then you find out different and you think I’m lyin’ and you come back for me— could you please take these off, I can’t stand being tied up.”
Something in the kid’s tone— a genuine plaintiveness that spoke of past indignities— tugged at her heart. Runaways came to Hollywood for a reason. For a horrible moment, Petra visualized a younger, rosy-cheeked Duncan Beemish tied up at home by some pervert.
As if sensing her unease, Strobe broke down and cried even louder.
Petra cut him off mentally. “Not a van? Definitely a car?”
“A car.”
“Not an SUV?”
“A car.”
“Color?”
“Light.”
“White, gray?”
“I dunno, I ain’t lying to you—”
“Why’d you assume she was hooking, Duncan?”
“Because she was on the street and the car pulled up and she got in.”
“How many people in the car?”
“Dunno.”
“What did the driver look like?”
“Didn’t see him.”
“How far were you from the car?”
“Um um um, maybe half a block.”
“This happened right on the boulevard?”
“No, a side street.”
“Which one?”
“Um . . . Ridgeway, yeah I think it was Ridgeway, yeah yeah Ridgeway. It’s real dark there, go there and check, all these broken streetlights.”
Ridgeway was a block from where the surgeon had been busted. The city had probably fixed the lights, only to have them vandalized by the freelance pharmacists.
Petra said, “Before she got in the car, did she talk to the driver?”
“No, she just got in.”
“No negotiating? No scoping out for a U.C. cop? That doesn’t sound like a hooker, Duncan.”
Strobe’s eyes widened. Speedfreak insight. “Yeah, you’re right!” He squirmed some more. “Can you take these off? Please?”
She pumped him a while longer, got nothing, left the car, returned to Mr. Gold Tooth and ordered a jumbo kabob combo with double hot peppers and an XL cola. Once again, he tried to freebie her, once again she insisted on paying in full, and Tooth’s dark eyes clouded.
Some ethnic insult, no doubt. “I give you extra bebbers.”
Returning to the Honda, she placed the food on the trunk, pulled Strobe out, uncuffed him, had him sit on the curb, a few feet away. He complied readily and she brought him the food and another twenty-dollar bill.
A few feet away, Gold Tooth glared.
Strobe’s claws were on the sandwich before Petra took a breath. Snarfing audibly. Making animal sounds.
With a mouth full of meat and bread and tahina dripping down his chin, he said, “Thanks, ‘Tective.”
“Bon appétit, Duncan.”
35
Milo followed the blonde. He’d been watching her building for an hour, tailed her as she and a group of coworkers left and walked a block west to the Century City Mall. Her companions were three other women, all dressed like the blonde in somber-colored suits. All were older than the blonde, who appeared t
o be twenty-five or -six.
Everett Kipper’s young squeeze, Stephanie.
A Cold Heart Page 29