by Bill Bernico
“Are they here now?” Elliott said.
Perkins shook his head. “Like I said, they don’t come in until four-thirty.”
“Do you have an address for them?” Matt said, stepping up to Perkins. “It’s very important that we find this man right away. He could be in trouble.”
“I can’t give out employee addresses,” Perkins explained. “But I can give you their phone numbers and if they want to give you their address, that’s entirely up to them.” He jotted down both names along with each of their phone numbers.
“That would certainly help,” Matt said, taking the slip of paper from Perkins. “Thank you, sir.”
“I hope you find him,” Perkins said to Matt as he and Elliott left the store and returned to Matt’s car.
Once back in the car, Matt pulled out his cell phone and called Barbara’s number. A girl answered on the third ring. “Is this Barbara?” Matt said when the girl answered.
“Who is this?” the female voice on the other end said.
“Barbara,” Matt began, “My name is Matt Cooper. I’m a private investigator and we’re here at the grocery store. We just spoke with Mr. Perkins and he suggested that maybe you could help us find a young man who may have come into the grocery store last night. Could we come over and see you right away, please? We’ll just take a few minutes of your time.”
“I don’t know,” Barbara said. “You get all kinds of crank calls these days. A girl’s got to be careful who she sees.”
“You can leave the door locked,” Matt explained. “We’ll show you our credentials through the window and if you still don’t feel comfortable talking to us, we won’t stay. But I have to tell you that this will eventually turn into a missing persons case and then you may have the police knocking at your door with questions of their own.”
Barbara thought about it briefly and then said, “All right, you can come over, but stay on the porch until I see your identification.” She gave Matt her address and hung up.
“Let’s go,” Matt said. “She’ll talk to us.”
Barbara lived just a mile and a half from the store in the seven hundred block of Las Palmas Avenue, a block south of Melrose. At first glance, the tiny stucco house looked like a smaller version of the Alamo, only this one was painted a pastel pink with white trim around the windows. Elliott didn’t think this structure could hold off the onslaught of five thousand Mexicans, either. It looked like a decent neighborhood.
Matt parked at the curb and he and Elliott approached the front stoop and rang the door bell. From behind the closed door Matt heard a female voice say, “Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s Matt Cooper,” Matt said. “I spoke to you on the phone a few minutes ago.”
“Hold you I.D. up to the glass in the door so I can see it,” the voice said.
Matt and Elliott both produced their badges and I.D. cards and pressed them against the door glass for a few seconds. As soon as they withdrew their credentials, the front door opened and they found themselves looking at a woman, perhaps thirty or thirty-one. She had short brown hair and blue eyes that softened as the door opened. She invited the two men in and gestured toward the sofa in her living room.
“Won’t you gentlemen have a seat?” she said.
Matt and Elliott sat on the sofa and waited while the woman sat across from them in an overstuffed, floral print chair. Elliott held out his hand to the woman. “My name is Elliott Cooper and this is my son, Matt.”
She shook Elliott’s hand. “Barbara Harrison,” she said, releasing Elliott’s hand to shake Matt’s. “What’s all this about a missing boy?”
Elliott produced the photo of Alfred Hill and handed it to Barbara. “Last night this man left the apartment that he shares with his sister, telling her that he was going to the grocery store for a few things. We’re assuming it was the grocery store where you were working last night. Would you possibly remember seeing him in the store sometime around eight or eight-fifteen?”
Barbara studied the photo, trying to remember. “He doesn’t look familiar, but then we see a lot of customers between the time I start and midnight, when we close. I can’t say I’ve ever seen this man before, though.”
Elliott took the photo back from Barbara. “Mr. Perkins said you were working with another employee last night, a guy named Kenny. Was anyone besides the two of you working last night?”
Barbara shook her head. “It’s not that big a store. They only have two of us on during the night shift. No, it was just me and Kenny. Have you talked to him already?”
Matt shook his head. “No, we came here first. We don’t even know Kenny’s last name. Mr. Perkins only gave us your phone numbers. Can you help us out here with Kenny’s last name and address?”
“Sure,” Barbara said. “It’s Kenny Lewis and he lives over on Alta Vista, just this side of Sunset. Hang on, I’ll write down the address for you, but I don’t think you’ll find him there now.” She looked at her watch. “Kenny has a day job pumping gas at a service station over on La Brea, near Fountain. He took that job because it’s only a few blocks from his house. He should be there now.”
Matt and Elliott rose from the sofa, thanked Barbara and headed for the door. As an afterthought, Elliott turned back to Barbara and said, “It just dawned on me. The missing man lived on Franklin near Wilcox. Would there be any other grocery stores in your neighborhood that he might have gone to?”
“Wilcox?” Barbara said. “That’s just four blocks from our store. I don’t think he’d have gone anywhere else, especially on foot. The next nearest grocery store is nearly ten blocks south of us.”
“Thank you, Barbara,” Matt said as he left. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“No bother at all,” Barbara said. “I hope you find him.”
Matt and Elliott got back into Matt’s car and sat there for a moment. Matt looked at Kenny’s name and address on the slip of paper. “Something tells me this guy’s going to be a dead end, too,” Matt said.
“What makes you think that?” Elliott said.
“A small store like that with only two people working it,” Matt said. “If Alfie came in there Barbara would almost have to have seen him, don’t you think?”
“Maybe she was in the bathroom at the time,” Elliott suggested. “Or maybe she was at the other end of the store stocking shelves. Who knows? Let’s hold off on any conclusions until we’ve had a chance to talk to this Kenny.”
“All right,” Matt said, pulling away from the curb. He headed west toward La Brea and then north to the service station on the corner at Fountain Avenue. It had eight self-service pumps and a three bay garage geared toward simple auto repairs. As Matt pulled into the station, he could see at least two men working on cars in two of the bays. He pulled his car up next to the office and got out. Matt and Elliott split up at that point. Elliott walked toward the office while Matt started toward the men working in the garage. It took Matt just ten seconds to find out that neither mechanic was Kenny and he quickly joined his father in the office. Elliott was already talking with the kid behind the counter.
“Kenny?” Elliott said as he approached the counter man.
Kenny nodded. “Yes. Can I help you gentlemen?”
Elliott gave Kenny one of his business cards. He handed over the photo of Alfie, explained to Kenny what he and Matt were looking for and then waited for a reaction.
“He looks kind of familiar,” Kenny agreed. “Am I supposed to know him?”
“He could he have been in your store last night between eight and eight-fifteen?” Elliott asked. “He lives in the neighborhood. I thought you might recognize him as a frequent customer.”
Kenny examined the photo and furrowed his eyebrows. “Yeah,” Kenny said. “I’ve seen this guy in the store several times recently, but not last night.”
“So you didn’t see him last night?” Matt said, reaching for the photo.
Kenny pulled the photo out of Matt’s reach. “I didn’t say that,” he told Mat
t. “I said he wasn’t in the store, but I did see him just outside of the store, standing near the curb, talking to two other guys.”
“Do you remember what time that was?” Elliott said.
“Could have been during that fifteen time slot you mentioned,” Kenny said. “I was busy with other customers so I only caught a quick glimpse of him out the window. I rang up a few items for some woman, bagged her purchases and when I looked up, your guy was gone and so were those other two men.”
“Did you recognize either of those other two men?” Matt said.
Kenny shook his head. “Never saw them before,” he explained. “At least if your guy went with them, they couldn’t have gone far in that beater.”
“Beater?” Elliott said. “What are you talking about?”
“That car of theirs that was parked out at the curb,” Kenny said, gesturing at his current surroundings. “Working here I get to know car makes and models pretty well. You know, I see a thousand cars a day and after a while you start to notice differences.”
“Are you saying you could identify the make and model of their car?” Matt said.
“Oh sure,” Kenny said confidently. “Even if I didn’t have this job. It was a light blue sixty-six Chevy Impala sedan.”
“How can you be so sure?” Elliott said.
Kenny looked Elliott in the eye. “You ever watch that Lou Grant show on television?”
“I’ve seen every episode,” Elliott said. “Several times each. Why?”
“What kind of beater did Animal drive?” Kenny said.
“Animal?” Matt said. “I thought we were talking about people.”
“Animal was Dennis Price’s nickname on that show,” Elliott explained. “He was the photographer for the Los Angeles Tribune.”
“And what kind of car did he drive?” Kenny repeated, looking once again at Elliott.
“A light blue sixty-six Chevy Impala,” Elliott said. “Was this car in that bad of shape, too?”
“Worse,” Kenny said. “The right front fender was really crumbled and it smoked like a chimney.”
“I don’t suppose you saw which way it went, did you?” Matt said.
Kenny shook his head. “Like I said, I was bagging groceries for some woman and when I looked up all three of those guys were gone and so was that beater Chevy.”
“I know this is a long shot,” Elliott said. “But did you happen to get the license plate number off that Chevy?”
“Sorry,” Kenny said. “At the time I had no reason to look at the plate. Look, I’ve got to get back to work now. I hope you find the guy you’re looking for.”
“Thanks,” Matt and Elliott said almost in unison and left the service station office. Matt piloted his car north again, back toward the grocery store. “How about if we ask the daytime clerks at the grocery store if they’ve see either of those men or that Chevy before? Can’t hurt and we might even get lucky.”
Elliott shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
Back at the grocery store, Elliott managed to find the manager, Mr. Perkins taking inventory at the rear of the store. He explained about talking to Barbara and Kenny and about the description of the two men and the beater Chevy. “Does that Chevy ring any bells with you, Mr. Perkins?” Elliott said.
“You’re sure it was a sixty-six?” Perkins said.
Elliott nodded. “Kenny seems to know cars and he swears it was a light blue sixty-six Impala like the one Animal drove on…”
“On Lou Grant,” Perkins said, knowing exactly what Elliott was referring to. “That was my favorite show. And now that you mention it, I do know of a car like that in this neighborhood and it smokes to beat the band, too. It has to be the same one Kenny was referring to.”
“I don’t suppose you know who owns it, do you?” Matt said.
Perkins shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve just seen it in the neighborhood before. You could ask around. I’m sure someone must know.”
“Thanks again for your time, Mr. Perkins,” Elliott said, leading Matt back to his car.
Back at the car again, Elliott looked at Matt. “I don’t think we have to do any door to door canvassing. A quick ride around this neighborhood should do it. No one’s going to try to protect a lump like that by keeping it in a garage. It’s probably parked right out in someone’s front yard.”
“Probably up on blocks,” Matt added. He pulled away and drove east on Franklin. He and Elliott each watched out their respective windows, looking for traces of the battered car that was older than Elliott. He stayed on Franklin as far east as Western Avenue before he turned south and doubled back on Hollywood Boulevard, zigzagging north and south on all the cross streets. By the time they had come full circle and ended up back in front of the grocery store, neither of them had spotted any car older than a rusty Ford coupe from the early eighties.
“Maybe the owner of that old car lives west of Highland,” Elliott suggested. “Try that same search pattern starting on the other side of the street.
Matt took Franklin west to La Brea and then south as far as Sunset before heading east again. They were about to give up their search when Elliott thought he saw the unmistakable rectangular taillights of the Chevy they’d been looking for.
“Go around the block,” Elliott told Matt. “Let’s go by that white house again. I want to check something out.”
Matt circled the block and came out on Hawthorne, just south of Hollywood Boulevard. “There,” Elliott said, pointing to a fenced-in parking lot with a green hedge melting into the wrought iron that had surrounded the parking area. Matt pulled into the lot and slowly cruised up and down the aisles. “Next to that pickup truck,” Elliott said, pointing. On the other side of the truck sat a light blue sixty-six Chevy Impala with a smashed up right fender. Matt stopped and the two men got out to have a closer look. Before they took another step, Elliott jotted down the car’s license plate number and tucked his note pad back into his pocket.
Elliott glanced into the front passenger window and was not surprised to find the interior of the car just as filthy as the exterior. There were cigarette ashes and butts on the floor and the dash, as well as on the cigarette-burned seat surfaces. On the floor in the back and almost covering the back seat were dozens of fast food restaurant bags and partially eaten food. A few of the French fries were beginning to grow mold on them. All this car was missing were several police band radios on the dash to pass as a double for the car Animal drove on that Lou Grant television show.
Elliott walked around to the driver’s side of the car, while Matt looked into the passenger side window Elliott had just vacated. Matt didn’t hesitate for a second and reached into the car, pressing the button on the glove box. The lid plopped down and dozens of papers spilled out onto the floor. Matt reached in and grabbed a handful of the papers, examining them up close.
“What are you doing?” Elliott said. “You just can’t help yourself to something from someone else’s car.”
“These fell on the ground,” Matt said sarcastically. “I was just picking them up for the owner, who, according to this registration slip, is one Felix Molnar. Gees, who names a person Felix anymore?”
“Put all those back where you found them,” Elliott warned. “We have what we need. Let’s get out of here before this guy comes out and starts giving us trouble.”
Matt stuffed the papers back into the glove box and slammed the lid closed again. He figured the piggy owner would never notice the few papers that remained on the floor. They’d just blend in with all the other trash there. The two men got back into Matt’s car and backed into an empty parking space before pulling out and exiting the way they’d come.
“Did you manage to get the owner’s address while you were snooping?” Elliott said.
When Matt got back on the surface street again he pulled into the first available parking space and killed his engine. He hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Right there,” he said, indicating the apartment building that fronted the park
ing lot. “I can just about imagine how that apartment looks.”
“You know we’re going to have to take a look,” Elliott said. “I’m afraid if we approach this Felix character as what we are, P.I.s, that he’s not going to cooperate with us. We’ll have to use some other excuse if we want to talk to him.”
Matt leaned over and popped open his own glove box and withdrew a short stack of business cards he had collected over the years. He shuffled through them and stopped when he found the one he thought would work best. He replaced the rest of the stack and closed the glove box again. Matt handed the card to Elliott, who read it.
“James McMahon, Pacific Gas and Electric,” Elliott said. “Is that who you’re going to be?”
“That’s who you’re going to be,” Matt said. “You’d be a more believable gas man than I would. Look at you. You have meter man written all over your face. What do you say we go pay Felix a visit?”
“And who are you going to be?” Elliott said.
“An important gas employee like yourself always travels with an assistant,” Matt said, hiking his thumb at his chest. “That would be me. Come on.”
Matt was out of the car before Elliott could voice any objection. The two of them walked back into the parking lot and found the door to the apartment building. Felix Molnar’s name was on the mailbox marked one-thirteen across the top. “At least he’s on the ground floor,” Matt said. “Makes it easier for him to maneuver his wheelbarrow full of crap into the apartment.”
They found one-thirteen at the end of the hall and knocked on the door. They didn’t hear any noise coming from inside the apartment and banged again, harder now. This time they could hear someone stirring inside. It took another forty seconds for that someone to open the door a crack and peer out at them.
“Felix Molnar?” Elliott said, holding the business card up for the apartment’s occupant to see. “Jim McMahon, Pacific Gas and Electric. We need to speak to you immediately. Would you open the door, please?”