Carr closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "Did Mr. Sheboygan live alone?"
"He had a roommate. I don't know his name. He moved out a couple of weeks ago." She paused for a moment. "What kind of accident was it?"
"A gun accident. I really do need to look through his apartment. As I said, you can accompany me inside to see that nothing is disturbed."
"This is Beverly Hills, officer. Apartment managers in this city don't just hand apartment keys over to police types. If something turned up missing from the apartment I'd be responsible."
Carr made his best kindness-to-animals expression. "Ma'am, I am a federal law enforcement officer. All I want to do is look around in a dead man's apartment for a few minutes. I'm not a burglar."
The woman folded her arms across her chest. "Just how do I know that?"
Carr dug an identification card bearing his photograph and signature out of his pocket. He handed it to her. She glanced at it and handed it back. "Anyone can get a card like that these days."
Carr shrugged. "You're certainly within your rights to say no. Thank you for your time."
"You're quite welcome," the woman said.
As Carr turned to leave he heard the door shut firmly behind him.
****
FOUR
CARR STOOD outside the woman's apartment for a moment. He looked around. None of the sunbathers around the pool seemed to notice him. A brass number 19 was affixed to an apartment on the second floor facing the pool. Carr left using the front entrance. To his left was a driveway, which he followed to a rear parking lot.
Using steps that were out of the line of sight from the manager's apartment, he trotted to the second-floor balcony. Staying close to the wall, he walked to apartment 19. Though he expected no answer, he rang the doorbell of the apartment and waited awhile. He tried the lock. It was secure. Having fished a credit card out of a wallet that Sally had given him for his birthday, he took another look around. He was still invisible to the tenants. Deftly, he probed the credit card between the door and jamb. The lock clicked. He opened the door and went inside. Having closed the door behind him, he flicked on a wall switch.
The living room was decorated with expensive modern furniture that Carr guessed came along with the apartment. There was an enormous oak wall unit stacked with stereo equipment, and on a driftwood coffee table were some locksmithing trade journals and a book entitled The Dos and Don'ts of Burglar Alarms. Carr picked up one of the magazines. The address label had Sheboygan's name and address.
In the bedroom, Carr saw that the king-sized bed was unmade. Shelves on the wall were filled with items reflecting a typical California life-style - tennis rackets, sports car hats, a jogging suit. The closet was bursting with clothes bearing Beverly Hills men's store labels. There were lots of pairs of shoes, mostly handmade with English labels.
In the dresser drawers, Carr found stacks of silk shirts. Under one of the stacks was a zebra-skin shoulder holster. In the corner of the same drawer was an inch-high stack of color snapshots. The photograph on top was of Leon Sheboygan, wearing nothing but a flat cap, posed on the edge of his bed with a naked brunette. The smiling pair held up champagne glasses. The small-breasted woman looked fortyish and had a tattoo of a butterfly on her shoulder. Other shots showed her engaged in various sex acts with Sheboygan. In one photograph Sheboygan used the neck of a champagne bottle as a dildo while the woman drank from a champagne goblet.
Other photos depicted a naked man who looked to be Sheboygan's age, only with gray-streaked hair, mounting a freckled, bored-looking redhead with abdominal stretch marks. At the bottom of the stack was a color photograph of a naked Amanda Kennedy sitting cross-legged on the bed littered with jewelry as Sheboygan, who wore only a T-shirt, knelt behind her. As she gave the finger to the camera, the smiling and red-eyed Sheboygan appeared to be affixing the clasp of a necklace with an expensive looking, star-shaped gold medallion around her neck.
Carr shoved the photographs in the pocket of his suit coat.
On top of the dresser, among laundry receipts and other pocket litter, was a black-and-white photograph of Sheboygan and the man with the gray-streaked hair sitting in a bar at a table covered with cocktail glasses, cigarette packages. A matchbook was visible leaning against an ashtray, though the painting on it was indecipherable. Sitting between them was a young blonde woman with extremely short hair and the brunette. He shoved the photograph in his pocket with the others.
In the kitchen drawer next to a wall phone, Carr found a scrap of paper covered with scribbled phone numbers. He stuffed it in his pocket. Having returned to the front door, he peeked out of the peephole. The lady manager exited her apartment and headed up the steps and down the balcony toward him. He flicked off the lights and held his breath. The woman strode past the door and knocked on an apartment door farther down. Someone answered the door. The woman asked to borrow something. A man's falsetto voice offered her a glass of Chablis (which he pronounced "Shabliss"). She accepted and stepped into the apartment. The door closed.
A few minutes later, Carr opened the door quietly and crept out the way he came in.
Sitting at his desk, Carr leafed through a copy of Sheboygan's multipage arrest record, which he'd picked up from the Sheriff's Department Records Bureau on his way back to his office. The list of arrests, beginning when he was a teenager, reflected that Sheboygan (real name Leon Adolph Sheboygan III) had been arrested for the first time when he was sixteen years old. The yellowed and dog-eared burglary report for the arrest recounted, in police language, that he had been caught trying to pawn a set of golf clubs stolen from his next-door neighbor's house. A juvenile-court judge named Pregerson had sentenced him to a year in a county road camp.
Carr noted that with the passage of time, there was more time between arrests and fewer convictions. Also, Sheboygan's residence address, as listed on the face sheet of each arrest form, moved inexorably west from a trailer court in San Bernardino to apartments in Alhambra, Pasadena, Glendale, West Los Angeles and, finally, Beverly Hills. As the rent got higher, so did the lawyer's fees. The names in the fill-in box on the arrest report labeled Attorney Representing: were changed from names Carr recognized as the ex-public defender's, with offices near the county courthouse, to those with offices in Beverly Hills. The arrest package read like that of thousands of other crooks Carr had reviewed through the years. A biography of learning from experience.
Carr's final note was that there were no arrests in Beverly Hills. He tossed the file in a drawer and pulled the scrap of paper he'd taken from Sheboygan's apartment from his coat pocket. He picked up the phone and dialed the first number. The phone rang.
"Go," mumbled a man with a deep voice who sounded as if he might have just woken up.
"This is Charlie," Carr said. "I'm trying to get in touch with Lee Sheboygan. Do you know where I can find him?"
The man yawned. "You can probably find him at the cemetery," he said. "He got wasted by the cops."
"No shit."
"They caught him inside a house...which Charlie is this?"
"Charlie Carr. I need to get in touch with Lee's ex-roommate. Do you know where I can find him?"
"I never met any of his friends...who the fuck is this?"
"Thanks anyway," Carr said and hung up. He dialed another number.
A woman answered.
"This is Charlie. Did you hear about what happened to Lee?"
"You mean little Lee with the beard?"
"Right. He got killed in a shoot-out with the cops in Beverly Hills."
"Goddamn."
"I'm trying to find the guy he used to live with."
"Lee had some of my records and tapes. How am I going to get my records? They're in his apartment. How did you get my phone number?"
"I found it in Lee's apartment."
"Oh," she said.
"What is Lee's ex-roommate's name?"
"Have no idea," she said. "I met Lee at a party in Malibu. We dated once a
nd he never called me again. Damn. How am I going to get my records?"
"Do you know any of his friends?"
"No, I don't," she said. "Would you get my records for me?"
Carr hung up the receiver and made a note of the numbers he'd called.
At the Los Angeles Police Headquarters building, Carr took the elevator to the third floor and followed the hallway to a door marked Homicide. The room was filled with detectives scattered at desks, most of whom were talking on the telephone. Higgins sat at a desk in the corner of the room. Except for his blond crew cut, he looked pretty much like the rest of the murder dicks; neither young, underweight nor particularly well dressed. Carr strolled to Higgins's desk, where, come to think of it, he had sat since Carr met him. It had been close to twenty years ago.
"How's Jack?" Higgins said.
"Doing as well as can be expected." Carr sat down.
"I heard it was a ricochet."
Carr shrugged. "I'm not sure. I was in another room when it went down. All Bailey remembers is seeing the suspect pull a gun. He doesn't remember how Jack was hit or even how many rounds he fired from the shotgun. You know how those things go."
Higgins nodded. "What were the positions?"
Carr pulled out a ballpoint pen. He drew a rough diagram of Jerome Hartmann's house on a pad of paper. He described where he, Bailey and Kelly were before the shooting. He drew an arrow to show the direction of fire.
Higgins rubbed his chin as he perused the diagram. He shook his head. "I guess anything can happen once the trigger is pulled," he said.
"I'm still trying to piece everything together. That's why I stopped by. I'd like to have you take a look at the reports and tell me what you think. You're the ballistics expert." Carr handed him the stack of reports.
Higgins looked Carr directly in the eye for a moment. "Sure," he said, "I'll check 'em out for you."
"There's something else," Carr said. He pulled out the photograph of Sheboygan and friends sitting around a cocktail table and handed it to Higgins. "There's a matchbook on the table. I need a blowup of it."
"No problem," Higgins said.
"I'd like to keep this just between you and me."
"Got it."
Carr nodded, got up and left.
It was almost 1:00 P.m. and Travis Bailey was alone in the police department's underground parking area. He strolled toward a row of vehicles with grease-penciled notes that read "Hold for Evidence" or "Impound" on their windshields. Lee Sheboygan's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the end of the row next to a Cadillac covered with fingerprint dust.
Bailey approached the passenger door of the car. With some difficulty, he tore the red evidence tape off the lock, inserted a key and opened it. To avoid soiling his sport coat, he took it off, folded it carefully and set it in the backseat.
He snatched an impound sheet off the dashboard. The section marked Comments read: "Owner was suspect/DOA after burg stakeout/Tow to police lot & hold as evidence per Det II Bailey." He set the sheet back on the dashboard. In the glove compartment he found an address book, credit card receipts, matchbooks, a bankbook and some telephone bills. Having scooped out the contents of the cubbyhole onto the floorboard, he searched thoroughly under the seats. He pulled out a sports car magazine, a pamphlet printed by a burglar alarm company and a thick wallet. In the wallet was a stack of credit cards, all bearing Sheboygan's name, a tiny address book (Bailey found his own initials and the Detective Bureau phone number scribbled on the first page), business cards of locksmiths, jewelers, antique dealers, owners of West Side art galleries, Hollywood massage parlors that Bailey knew were whorehouses and three hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.
Travis Bailey removed the cash and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Having dropped the rest of the items in the pile, he proceeded to the trunk. He unlocked it gently and lifted the lid. Inside was an open metal box and a duffel bag. The metal box was filled with pry bars, key blanks, lock-picks, ratchets of various sizes and other burglar tools. Scattered among the well-used instruments were five or six Polaroid photographs of two-story homes. He removed them and closed the toolbox. Next to the toolbox was a small zippered bag containing a jogging suit and a pair of running shoes. He examined the pockets of the suit carefully and recovered a pawnshop receipt for a diamond ring and a laundry ticket. He shoved these items, along with the photographs from the toolbox, into the duffel bag. After thoroughly searching the rest of the trunk, he removed the toolbox and the duffel bag and set them on the cement floor. He slammed the trunk lid shut.
Kneeling down, he filled the duffel bag with everything from the glove compartment, including the wallet and its contents.
Carrying the bag and the toolbox, he walked across the garage to a smelly room filled with trash receptacles. He shoved the duffel bag deep into a brimming trashcan. Using the stairs rather than the elevator, he proceeded to his office. Before he had a chance to wash his hands, Captain Cleaver stopped by his desk. Bailey noticed that he was wearing a monogrammed shirt.
"Find anything in the car?"
Travis Bailey shook his head. "Just burglar tools," he said as he opened the box and displayed its contents.
"No address books? Nothin' else?"
Bailey shook his head. "The man traveled light."
"Typical hit man."
The phone buzzed. Bailey picked up the receiver. It was for Cleaver.
"Yes, sir," Cleaver said. "Where did it occur? Okay, sir." As Cleaver stood with the receiver an inch or so from his ear, Bailey could hear the sound of a voice coming from the receiver. "Yes, sir," he said finally, "I'll certainly do my best. I'll try to take care of it." He set the receiver down.
"Superman's brother got arrested last night at a pajama party. Superman wants it fixed. He says Screen Confidential magazine hired some private eyes to check out the party because lots of movie people were there. They stiffed a robbery-in-progress call into the complaint board to see what would happen. When the patrol officers went in the front door everybody ran out of the back. Superman's brother got pinched for possession of nose candy. He had an ounce in the pocket of his robe. The guy who plays the Black Knight on TV got away. He jumped over the back fence. The private dicks took pictures of everyone."
"They all ran because of a little cocaine in the place?"
Cleaver shook his head. "It was a pajama party for men. The host was some big-time agent. The house was full of hairdressers, hired teenage butt-boys, leather freaks ... a can of worms. I bet I'll have twenty phone calls from high-power attorneys before the day is over."
"I don't really see what else I can do on this Sheboygan thing," Bailey said, changing the subject. "His tracks were covered."
Cleaver had a preoccupied look. "Close it out," he said offhandedly. "Let the Feds do the follow-up. They've got the resources. We've got other things to worry about besides a hit man who fucked up and walked into a trap." He left quickly and headed back to his office.
Having booked the burglar tools in the evidence room, Travis Bailey washed his hands. He left the office and took lunch alone in a health food restaurant a few blocks away. After a meal of bamboo shoots, shredded carrot salad and guava juice, he strolled past shops that specialized in men's clothing with Italian brand names, gourmet cheeses and furs. Having browsed for a while in a small shop featuring electronic solitaire chessboards, he returned to the Detective Bureau and completed the rest of his reports.
The restaurant had seen its day, but Carr figured it still served some of the best downtown fare. He stepped in the front door of the place and looked around. It was furnished with marred wooden tables and cane-backed chairs. On the walls were photographs of long-forgotten football teams and the floor was covered with sawdust. Bow-tied waiters wearing aprons and long-sleeved white shirts took their time serving a luncheon horde made up mostly of courthouse employees, detectives and downtown business types.
Higgins waved from a table in the corner. Spotting him, Carr made his way over to the table an
d sat down. Sheboygan's autopsy report was under a plate of French bread slices. Higgins said hello as he slapped a butter pat onto bread. A florid-faced waiter with thick glasses came to the table. Carr and Higgins ordered without using a menu.
"What d'ya think?" Carr asked after the waiter had left.
Higgins touched the autopsy report. "Very interesting reading," Higgins said with his mouth full. He dabbed more butter on the bread.
"Something was wrong," Carr said. "I was there and something was wrong."
"In the past few years I've heard rumbles that Bailey is wrong.
"I've heard the talk too. Sometimes info like that comes from people with grudges. Double-crossing stoolies love to put out that kind of crap."
The waiter returned to the table, set down plates of coleslaw and rushed away.
"Sheboygan had a defensive wound on his right hand," Higgins said. "Shotgun pellets in the palm and out the back of the hand and into the sternum. I've seen this type of wound on victims who are shot in family fights. Daddy or mommy comes out of the bedroom with a gun. It's as if the victim is saying 'Please don't shoot me,' right before they become Swiss cheese."
"Maybe it was his gun hand," Carr said. "Sheboygan had a gun.
"Maybe, but if that's the case, why didn't he pull the trigger? That's the natural human reaction. The gun hadn't been fired. Here's an ex-con sneaking into a house to do a number on somebody. He has a gun in his hand and doesn't do anything with it?" He shrugged. "Of course anything is possible."
"Maybe Bailey just fired before Sheboygan did."
"Maybe. Then again, why did the thirty-two end up lying in front of the bar instead of frozen in a death grip in his hand? That's what usually happens. Or if the gun was blown out of his hand, why did it end up lying in front of the bar instead of being blown backward, the same direction Sheboygan's body was?"
Carr swallowed a few bites. "Unless it was a throw-down gun," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
To Die in Beverly Hills Page 5
