“About what?”
“She didn’t seem to do much. She wasn’t who I’d pick as a secretary. Then again, she probably didn’t have to make much of an impression.”
“Why’s that?”
“Not much traffic at Jerry’s office. I’ve never seen anyone there but the two of them.”
“And possibly this girl?”
“Maybe,” said Koppel. “Only maybe.”
Milo said, “You don’t drop in very often at Mr. Quick’s office, but this girl was there twice.”
Koppel flushed. “I don’t . . . all I’m saying—what do I know? If I wasted your time, I’m sorry.”
Milo placed an index finger on a corner of the death shot.
Sonny Koppel said, “This must seem strange to you. First I say I don’t know her, then I call you.”
Milo smiled.
“I’m just trying to do the right thing, Lieutenant.”
“We appreciate that, sir. What else can you tell us about this girl?”
“Just that,” said Koppel, peering at the death shot for several more seconds. “It could be her.”
“A girl hanging around with Angie in Mr. Quick’s front office.”
“That was the first time. Two, three months ago. The second time was more recent—six weeks ago. I saw the two of them—her and Angie—as they left the building together. It was lunchtime, I assumed they were going out to lunch.”
“Where’d they go to eat?”
“I didn’t follow them, Lieutenant. I was there to see Jerry.”
“About the rent.”
“Yes.” Koppel scratched behind his ear. “I’m getting the feeling that by trying to do what’s right I’m complicating my life.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Like I said, it must seem funny to you.” Koppel pushed the photo toward Milo. “Anyway, that’s all I know.”
Milo passed the shot from hand to hand, like a three-card monte artist. “Hanging around with Angie.”
“Talking. Like girls do.”
“Girls just wanna have fun,” said Milo.
“They didn’t seem to be having fun,” said Koppel. “What I mean is they weren’t laughing or giggling. In fact, the time I saw them leaving together I figured it for some sort of serious discussion because when they saw me they shut up fast.”
“Serious discussion on the way to lunch.”
“Maybe they weren’t going to eat. I’m assuming because it was lunchtime.”
“Did Angie call the other girl by name?”
“No.”
“What else can you tell me about her? Physically.”
“She wasn’t tall—average. Slim. She had a good figure. But she was a bit . . . she didn’t look like someone who’d grown up with money.”
“Nouveau riche?” said Milo.
“No,” said Koppel. “More . . . her clothes were nice but maybe a little too . . . obvious? Like she wanted to be noticed? Maybe she wore a bit too much makeup, I can’t really remember—I don’t want to tell you things that aren’t accurate.”
“A little flashy.”
Koppel shook his head. “That wasn’t it. I don’t want to be cruel . . . she looked . . . a little trashy. Like her hair. No hair is that blond naturally, unless you’re five years old, right?”
“Sounds like you had a good look at her.”
“I noticed her,” said Koppel. “She was pretty. And shapely. I’m a guy, you know how it is.”
Milo smiled faintly. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it.” Koppel picked up his fork. The eggs had hardened. He speared a big clot and shoved it into his mouth. The two guys with the screenplay got up from their table, looking vexed, and left the coffee shop in silence.
Milo said, “Last time we spoke, you mentioned your ex-wife wanting to use the bottom floor of her building for group therapy.”
“She was supposed to give me a final answer before she . . . before her death.”
“She give you any details about the nature of the therapy?”
“No,” said Koppel. “Why would she?”
“No particular reason,” said Milo. “Still gathering facts.”
“Have you made any progress at all?”
Milo shrugged.
Sonny Koppel said, “Whatever the group therapy thing was, it’s not going to happen. Albin Larsen called me yesterday, said it was okay to rent out the bottom floor. Mary was the glue that held them together. With her gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if Larsen and Gull tried to break their lease.”
“They don’t like the building?”
“I’m not sure they’ll be willing to take on the financial burden. Mary got a sweetheart rent deal from me. There’s no lease, it’s month to month.”
“You’re gonna raise it?”
“Hey,” said Koppel, “business is business.”
“You have a problem with them?”
“I had very little to do with them. Like I said, Mary held things together. Whenever there was some business to discuss—a repair, whatever—Mary was the one who’d call.” Koppel smiled. “I didn’t mind. It was a chance for us to talk. Now . . .”
He threw up his hands.
Milo said, “She was the business person, but it was Larsen who got her interested in halfway houses.”
“He struck me as an idea guy,” said Koppel. “But when it came to the nuts and bolts, it was all Mary.”
“Mary and you.”
“I had nothing to do with the day-to-day operations. I just know something about real estate.”
“Like getting government funding,” said Milo.
Koppel nodded. No blink, no tremble, not a single errant muscle.
“Did your ex-wife ever ask for help getting some sort of government funding for the group therapy she planned downstairs?”
“Why would she? What would I know about therapy?”
“You’re a savvy person.”
“In my limited sphere,” said Koppel. “I already told you, Mary never consulted me on professional matters.” He twirled his fork. “It’s getting to me. Mary’s death. Pretty stupid, huh? We hadn’t been together for years, how often did we talk, once a month, tops. But I find myself thinking about it. For someone you know to go like that.” He caressed his voluminous belly. “This is my second dinner. I do that—add meals—when things pile up.”
As if to illustrate, he ingested two bacon strips.
“Mary was a powerful person,” he said, between mouthfuls. “It’s a big loss.”
*
Milo waltzed around the prison rehab issue, but Koppel wasn’t biting. When Koppel called over to the counterman for a double order of rye toast and jelly and tea with honey, we left him opening marmalade packets and returned to the Seville.
Milo said, “So what’s his game?”
“Sounding you out. And letting you know he knew nothing about Mary Lou’s professional dealings.”
“Nudging us closer to the blonde.”
“Closer to Jerry Quick,” I said. “Deflecting attention from himself.”
“A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space—think they’re pulling up the tents?”
“Probably.”
“The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”
“One way to find out,” I said.
*
Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.
The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade—painted
-over graffiti.
No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.
The twin gates meant two groups of mail slots. A. Paul’s button was on the north end of the building. Apt 43. No answer. No manager’s unit listed. Back to the southern gate.
Apt 1, no name, just Mgr.
It was 11:40 P.M. Milo jabbed the button.
I said, “Let’s hope for a night owl.”
“What’s a little sleep deprivation in the service of justice?”
*
A male voice said, “Yes?”
“Police.”
“Hold on.”
I said, “He doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the tenants are interesting.”
A buzzer sounded, and we pushed through the gate.
The fifty units were arranged in two tiers that looked down on a long, rectangular courtyard that should have held a pool. Instead there was sketchy grass and lawn chairs and a collapsed umbrella. A couple of utility doors on the ground floor were marked TO PARKING LOT. Three satellite dishes rimmed the flat roof. TV sounds washed across the courtyard. Then: music, a smudge of human voice, breaking glass.
The manager’s unit was just to the right, and a man stood in the open doorway. Young, short, maybe thirty, with a head shaved clean and a little frizzle of chin beard. He wore gym shorts, a baggy white T-shirt that read WOLF TRAP 2001, and rubber flip-flops.
When we reached him, he said, “I was expecting uniforms.”
“You get a lot of uniforms?”
“You know, noise calls and such.”
Milo flashed his ID.
“Lieutenant? Is this serious or something?”
“Not yet, Mr . . .”
“Chad Ballou.” He extended his hand for a soul-shake, thought better of it, and rotated into the conventional position.
Milo said, “Lots of noise calls?”
Ballou’s eyes traced the tiers. “Not more than you’d expect with all these people. I tell the tenants to let me know first if there’s a problem, but sometimes they don’t. Which is fine, I don’t really want to deal with their stuff.”
“You manage the units full-time?” said Milo.
Chad Ballou said, “Relatively full-time. My parents own the place. I’m at CSUN, studying classical guitar. They think I should study computers. The deal is I do this instead of their just giving me money.” He smiled cheerfully. “So what’s up?”
“We’re looking for Angela Paul.”
Ballou touched his chin growth with his right hand. His nails were longish and glossed. Those on his left hand were clipped short. “Paul . . . Forty-three?”
“That’s the one.”
“The stripper.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“She put it on her lease application,” said Ballou. “Brought in pay stubs from a club to prove it. My folks wouldn’t have approved, but I said, hey, why not? Her income’s better than a lot of the losers who try to get in.” Ballou grinned. “They put me in charge, I figure it’s up to me to decide. Anyway, she’s been no problem, pays her rent. What’s the deal?”
“We want to question her about an ongoing investigation.”
“Have you tried her unit?”
“No answer.”
“Guess she’s out.”
“She out a lot?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Ballou.
“You have a pretty good view from your place,” said Milo.
“When I’m here, I’m mostly practicing or studying. Unless there’s a complaint. And she never complained about anything.”
“She have visitors?”
“I couldn’t tell you that, either. I haven’t really seen her much. Forty-three’s all the way on the north end, upstairs. She can take the corner staircase down to the parking lot door, go in and out without being noticed.”
“So you’ve never seen her with anyone else?”
“Nothing registers.”
Milo showed him the shot of the blond girl.
Ballou’s eyes widened. “She looks dead.”
“She is.”
“Wow—so this is really serious. Is she going to be in trouble—the stripper? All I need is for some big mess that freaks out my parents.”
Milo waved the photo. “Never seen her?”
“Never. What happened to her?”
“Someone made her dead.”
“Jesus . . . you’re not going to tell me if I have something to worry about?”
“If Angie Paul’s body is lying moldering in her unit, you might.”
Chad Ballou blanched. “Shit—you’re serious?”
“You mind taking a look?”
“I’ll give you the key,” said Ballou. “You look.”
“Legally,” said Milo, “that would pose a problem. You as the manager, have a right to make reasonable inspections. Say, if there’s a suspected gas leak, or a circuit goes out. Any maintenance issue.”
Ballou stared at him. “Moldering . . . sure, sure—can I just open the door, and you look?”
“Fine.”
“Should we do it now?”
“In a sec,” said Milo. “First tell me where Ms. Paul does her stripping?”
“That I can do. That I can definitely do.”
We followed Ballou into his apartment. Neat, sparse, devoid of character, with a sixty-inch digital TV in the front room along with three classical guitars on stands. The set was tuned to MTV. Heavy metal band, high volume. Ballou turned it down, saying, “I’m eclectic.”
In the kitchen, next to the fridge, stood a trio of three-drawer files. Ballou opened the center drawer and fished out a black file folder. He opened it, thumbed, said, “Here we go,” and held out a sheet of paper.
Angie Paul’s rental application. She’d claimed income of three thousand a month net, and a note in the margin said, “Verified.” Under place of employment, she’d listed “The Hungry Bull Club, W.L.A. branch (Exotic Dancer).” My eyes dropped to the bottom of the form. Personal references.
1. Rick Savarin (manager, THB)
2. Christina Marsh (coworker)
Christa or Crystal.
I said, “You ever check out her references?”
Ballou said, “She showed me pay stubs.”
“What about previous landlords?” said Milo. “Isn’t it standard to call them?”
“I think,” said Ballou, “that she said she was from out of town.”
“Where?”
“Is this going to matter? Oh, man.”
Milo said, “Where out of town?”
“I don’t remember. She made enough money to handle the rent easily and came up with first, last, and damage deposit. So she stripped, big deal. She’s been an okay tenant.”
Milo folded the application and put it in his pocket. “Let’s have a look at her place.”
*
Angie Paul’s unit was similar in dimension to Ballou’s. Also neatly kept, with a smaller TV, cheap furniture, cotton throws, a couple of rose-and-kitten prints on the walls. The smell of heavy, musky perfume reached the doorway where I stood near Chad Ballou.
Milo disappeared into the bedroom area. Ballou tapped his foot, and said, “So far, so good?”
I smiled. It didn’t comfort him.
A minute later, Milo emerged saying, “Nothing moldering. When Ms. Paul shows up, don’t tell her we were here but give me a call.” He handed Ballou a card.
“Sure . . . can I lock up?”
“Yup.”
The three of us descended the stairs, and Milo had Ballou point out Angie Paul’s parking slot. Empty.
“She still driving a ’95 Camaro?”
“Think so,” said Ballou. “Yeah, bright blue.”
*
We returned to the Seville. Half past midnight. No parking ticket.
“Lady Luck’s smiling down on us,” said Milo. “Finally.”
I said, “Christina Marsh.”
“Yeah, could be.”
I started up the engine and he slapped a manic cha-cha beat on the dashboard. Three Scotches and Lord knew how many consecutive work hours, and he was running a mental marathon.
“Good morning,” I said.
“You tired?”
“Not a bit.”
“Me neither. When’s the last time you visited a strip joint?”
“Not for a while.”
“I’ve been to a few,” he said. Big grin. “Seen women strip, too.”
CHAPTER
36
The Hungry Bull, West L.A. branch, was on Cotner off Olympic, in an industrial zone that smelled like rubber cement. Next to the club was a Rolls-Royce junkyard, husks of once-glorious chassis and auto viscera piled high behind chain-link.
Not much farther was a co-op art gallery where a gifted painter had been strangled to death in a bathroom. The last case Milo and I had worked together. If he was thinking about that, he wasn’t showing it.
The club was housed in a windowless hangar painted matte black. Double-quilted chromium doors looked tacked on. A neon sign promised strong drinks and beautiful women.
The industrial setting was perfect: no daytime neighbors with NIMBY fever, no one to complain about the hyperdisco two-four boogie beat punching through black stucco.
The strip joint billed itself as a “gentleman’s club.” The parking lot was full of dusty compacts and pickups, and the two dark-haired guys guarding the doors were elephantine and tattooed. Somehow, I doubted we’d find jowly hale-fellows savoring cognac and fine cigars amid book-lined, mahogany splendor.
Milo showed his badge to Elephant One and received a bow-and-scrape. “Yessir, what can I do for you?”
“Rick Savarin on tonight?”
The bouncer’s cantaloupe face was bisected by an old gray knife scar that ran from the middle of his brow, changed direction across the bridge of his nose, meandered across his lips, and terminated in the crook of a chin you could lean on for support.
“Yessir. He’s in his office. Someone will direct you, sir.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Elephant Two, even bigger and sunglassed, held the door. Immediately inside, yet another giant, this one lanky and long-haired and Caribbean, ushered us to the left, down a short corridor that ended at swinging doors, also quilted, in black vinyl.
The main room’s color scheme was black with crimson trim. Three steps led to a sunken pit where intent-looking men ringed a circular stage. Two women danced naked, pulling off some pretty good gymnastic moves, and making love to stainless-steel poles. Both were ultrablond, big-haired, rail-thin, with breasts inflated well past biology. Each wore a red garter on her left thigh. The girl with the sun-ray tattoo bluing her entire back had more cash stuffed in hers.
Alex 18 - Therapy Page 31
