by Teri White
“How do you know that, sweetheart?” Spaceman asked, leaning across the counter toward her.
“Because I work the switchboard,” was the snippy reply. Not easy to scare this broad.
“And you listen in on all their calls, right?”
She ignored that.
Blue was standing to one side, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back and forth patiently.
“Chris Blair’s room,” Spaceman said.
“He ain’t in.” She smiled prettily. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“I’d have to wait a long time for an answer. Blair is dead.”
She swallowed hard. “Dead?” Her voice raised, attracting the attention of the kids in the lobby. They looked up from Variety and the Hollywood Reporter. The old men didn’t bother. Death was no novelty to them.
“Blair was found murdered in Griffith Park this morning.”
“How tragic. He was a very nice boy.”
“Was he? Then I’m surprised he lasted very long around here. This place chews nice kids up and spits them out pretty fast. We want to see his room.”
“Why?” She fumbled for an explanation. “I mean, he wasn’t killed here or nothing. I don’t know why you have to see his room. A thing like that gets around, it could get us a bad name.”
“But not nearly as bad as the name I could give you,” Spaceman said cheerfully.
She thought that over for a moment, then turned and took a key from the board behind her. “Room 203.”
“Thanks so much.”
As they climbed the stairs, their progress was followed all the way by several pairs of eyes. “They don’t know whether to feel bad because somebody they knew is dead,” Spaceman muttered, “or glad because it isn’t them.”
“We all do the same thing,” Blue replied. “Remember Nam?”
Spaceman conceded the point silently.
Chris Blair hadn’t had much to call his own. The room held an iron bedstead, made up with an oft-patched quilt, a desk and chair, and a chest of drawers. A cheap black and white portable television was sitting on the dresser, the current TV Guide open next to it.
Inside the drawers were only the usual underwear and socks, the expected plastic bag with a small amount of hash, toilet articles in a paper bag, ready to be hauled to the john at the end of the corridor. In the closet were several pairs of jeans, some shirts, and a grey flannel blazer complete with dress shirt, blue slacks, and regimental tie.
There was a pile of paperbacks on the desk. A French-English dictionary, some Nick Carter thrillers, and a motley collection of stage plays.
Spaceman made a face. “Depressing as hell in here.”
“Maybe Chris liked it.”
Before Spaceman could reply, there was a soft knock on the door. They glanced at one another, then Spaceman moved to answer it.
The girl standing there was perhaps sixteen, wearing jeans and a halter top that she didn’t yet have the figure to carry off well. Her face was pretty enough, just like that of thousands of other girls. She had wide blue eyes, freckles, and not a chance in hell of making anything of herself in this town.
“Is it true?” she said in a slightly quivering voice. “About Chris being dead?”
“It’s true. You knew him, did you?” Spaceman asked.
“He was sort of a friend of mine.” She chewed on a fingernail. “Who killed him?”
“We don’t know yet. Maybe you can help us.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know nothing. Chris was just a friend, you know? Nothing else.” Surprisingly, she was still able to blush; Spaceman wondered how long she’d been here. “He didn’t make it with girls, so we was just friends.” She suddenly seemed to realize that she’d lost the edge of toughness necessary for life in the jungle. “Anyway, I don’t screw around with guys who can’t do me no good, careerwise, you know?”
They knew.
Spaceman was lighting still another cigarette. “So you can’t tell me anything about who might have wanted to hurt Chris?”
“No. It was probably just one of those creeps he used to trick with. I saw him yesterday, and he was flat. He was going out to score.” A sudden flash of knowledge older than her years sparkled in the blue eyes. “I guess he did. Score, I mean.”
“Looks like.” Spaceman could feel the taste of the cigarette searing his lungs, and he wondered how long it would be before his craving for nicotine killed him. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Brooke Kane.”
“For real?”
The smile was engaging and in a fair world she might have gone far just on the strength of that. “No. But I think it works, don’t you? See, when the producers hear it, they’ll think about Brooke Shields. When they can’t get her, I get a break.”
He could have pressed her for a real name, even hauled her in, but it would have been pointless. He couldn’t run in every kid on the lam. It wasn’t his job. So he just waved her out.
She turned to go, then paused. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask.”
The smile flashed again. “What’s gonna happen to his TV?” she said brightly.
Chapter 21
All that got done for the rest of the day was a lot of wheel-spinning. Spaceman was used to that; it was an occupational hazard. They nosed around the area of the Starlite a while, but it wasn’t the right time of day to converse with the street people, even if they wanted to pretend that the crazies and druggies would know anything. Or tell it if they did.
When the autopsy results finally showed up, they simply confirmed what was already known. What they had was two boys, two street hustlers, killed by the same hands in two days. And as far as Spaceman could see, there wasn’t a damned thing he or anybody else could do to prevent a third body from popping up the next day.
Disgusted at the sense of futility that he was feeling, Spaceman gave it up for the day. The night men would pay special attention to the boys of Hollywood; beyond that, there wasn’t much to be done. He called the garage, but his car wasn’t ready. It made a perfect end to a perfect day.
He took out the memo from Lompoc and stared at it for a moment. Damn, there just weren’t enough details. The dead boy might have been anybody; there was no reason for him to think it was Robbie. His hand rested on the telephone for a moment; simple enough to call and find out some hard info.
Then he pulled his hand back. Damnit, just because some creep said Robbie might have headed for San Francisco there was no reason to think it was the truth. There was no reason at all for Robbie to have been in Lompoc. And there was very little chance that the killing there was connected with the ones here.
He decided not to call Lompoc yet. They should have a picture down here soon, and if no photo turned up, it meant they must have identified the dead boy. No sense in borrowing trouble.
Blue came back from someplace and leaned against his desk. “I just heard that your son is missing,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Dwight told me.”
“Dwight talks too damned much.”
“Was it supposed to be some kind of secret?”
Spaceman shrugged. He didn’t even know now why he hadn’t wanted Maguire to know. It was dumb. Still, he felt obligated to try and justify himself. “I just don’t like people who bring their problems to the job. It gets in the way.”
“Admirable,” Blue said. “Why don’t you let me help? I’ve got a lot of time and nothing much doing.”
But Spaceman shook his head. Maybe he was just being a stubborn ass—all right, no maybe about it—but that was how he felt. “Thanks, but no thanks. I can handle it.”
“Your car ready?”
“No.”
“I have one you can use.”
Spaceman drew back and glared at him. “You have another car besides that fancy hot rod outside?”
“Just a Jeep. In my garage at home.”
He hesitated, not wanting to be obligated. That was the trouble wit
h getting close to other people; it meant losing some of your control.
“Hey, you have to look for the kid, right?”
“Yeah.” He thought suddenly of the dead boys and the fact that his own son was out there somewhere. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
Spaceman turned down the first invitation to stay for something to eat, but when Blue asked again, he decided what the hell, and agreed.
The house they parked beside was all redwood and glass, making his own place seem even shabbier by comparison. Maguire didn’t gloat over it, at least. In fact, he seemed almost embarrassed by the house, at the same time that his fondness for it was obvious.
Spaceman wondered how rich a person had to be before his wealth was an embarrassment.
Blue stopped long enough in the living room to pour them each a shot on the rocks and then led the way into a large kitchen. Most of Spaceman’s apartment could have fit into the one room. “I better warn you, I’m not much of a cook,” Blue said.
“Hell, I eat out mostly. Or make some of that frozen shit.” He sat down at a round butcher block table and started to work on the drink. The whiskey was smooth all the way down.
Blue opened the refrigerator door and peered inside briefly, before starting to pull things out: lettuce, a lemon, some eggs. Cheese. “You sure I can’t lend a hand looking for Robbie?” he asked, putting a pan of water on the stove and starting to wash the lettuce.
“I’m sure. But thanks.” Spaceman looked for an ashtray and finally found one across the room. He brought it back to the table. “This is just something I have to do. The department has a missing person report, so I’m not exactly doing a solo.” He smoked and drank in silence for a few moments. “I haven’t been much of a father, maybe,” he finally said in a low voice. “This seems like a way to make up for that.” He cleared his throat.
Blue nodded but didn’t say anything. He squeezed the lemon and tossed the lettuce with some olive oil.
“Speaking of crazy names,” Spaceman said, although they hadn’t been, “how’d you get stuck with something like Blue? Sounds like a name for a dog.”
“It was, actually,” Maguire replied. “My old man had a hunting dog that he loved more than anything else in the world. He always said that dog was the bravest, smartest, most loyal creature he’d ever known. So he over-ruled my mother’s choice, David, and named me Blue.” He shrugged.
Spaceman wondered if the story were true; whether it was or not, Maguire seemed determined to stick with it. He dropped the subject. “Thought you said you couldn’t cook,” he said.
Blue smiled sheepishly. “My old man was a real freak on food. He always had the best cooks money could buy working for him. I got used to the good stuff, so I learned a few tricks.”
“Why don’t you just hire somebody?”
Blue shrugged. “I like my privacy. Besides, it kind of relaxes me after a rough day. Like today.”
Spaceman finished his drink and crunched thoughtfully on an ice cube. “Nothing wrong with that,” he said. “They say some of the best cooks are men. Probably all of them aren’t weird.”
Blue just smiled a little. For the next few minutes he was very busy grating cheese, cooking the eggs fleetingly, and slicing some crusty French bread. When the Caesar salad was ready, he opened a bottle of California wine and joined Spaceman at the table. “What do you think about this case?” he asked as they started eating.
Spaceman speared a crouton with his fork and frowned at it. Or at the question. “I think it’s gonna be a bad one,” he said. “Real bad.”
Chapter 22
The jeep moved easily down the steep road that led away from Maguire’s castle, back to ordinary life. Spaceman had to admit to himself that he felt better after the food and wine. Maybe Maguire wasn’t such a creep, after all.
Not that he was looking to get stuck with him permanently, of course. He liked working alone; but until McGannon could be persuaded to divorce them, Kowalski figured he could get along with Maguire.
He’d already picked another name from the ones Karen had given him. Becky Malloy, the only girl on the list. She lived in a fancy part of town and the sight of the house confirmed that there was money in the family.
The woman who answered the door had the class to go with the neighborhood and the house. She was outfitted for tennis, in a short white dress with some kind of ruffled thing underneath. The clothes were right for the game, but it was clear from the unruffled hair and the perfect make-up that she hadn’t set foot anywhere near a tennis court. Her tan was flawless and the figure inside the dress nearly so.
Maybe, Spaceman thought, if I could find a woman my age who looked this good, I’d give up the young stuff.
Which reminded him that he hadn’t called Mandy yet.
The woman eyed him speculatively. He got the impression that she looked at all men the same way, testing them to see if they met her standards.
Spaceman had the feeling that he came up a little short on her acceptability scale.
To compensate, he showed her the badge and made sure she caught a glimpse of his gun as he replaced the wallet. Sometimes the rich bitches got turned on by an implication of brute power.
It seemed to work with her. A wet tip of tongue appeared, flicking along the frosted pink lips. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Is your daughter here?”
“Becky? No, not at the moment.” But she stepped aside and ushered him in anyway.
He liked the living room. Done all in muted shades of blue and green, it gave off a sense of coolness.
“What did you want to see Becky about?”
“I was hoping she could help me locate my son. Robbie Kowalski.”
“Robbie is missing?”
“Seems to be.”
She smiled at him. “Excuse my rudeness. Please, sit down. How about a drink?”
He relaxed into the plump-cushioned sofa, but shook his head to the drink. “Do you know when Becky will be back?”
“No.” She remained standing. The better to show off her health spa figure, no doubt. “I honestly don’t think she’d be able to help you anyway.”
“She’s a friend of Robbie’s, right?”
“Well, they were close at one time, but …” She broke off suddenly and glided across the room to a bar in one corner.“ I think a little chablis would be just marvelous. Do say you’ll join me?”
He gave in with a shrug. “Becky and Rob?” he said, when she came back to hand him a glass of sparkling gold liquid.
“They broke up about three weeks ago.”
“Broke up? Why?”
She hesitated. “Because my husband and I insisted.”
Spaceman took a sip of the wine; it didn’t taste as good as it looked. “Why? If you don’t mind telling me.”
She considered her drink. “You mustn’t think it had anything to do with Rob personally. He seems like a very nice boy.”
“But?”
“They just weren’t suited to one another. I mean, their backgrounds and …” The words dwindled off uncomfortably.
“Becky comes from here and Rob is the son of a cop, right?”
“That’s a little blunt, but accurate. Becky has other interests that we feel she should be pursuing right now. Next year she’s going East to school.” The woman shrugged. “I think you can understand our concern.”
“I understand that you thought Rob wasn’t good enough for your daughter.”
“Please, don’t be hurt by what I said.” She scooted a little closer to him on the couch. He was suddenly aware of the perfume she wore, a heavy, cloying scent. “Your job must be terrifying, what with all the animals on the streets these days.”
“There are all kinds of animals,” he said. “In all kinds of places.” The room that had seemed so pleasantly cool before now struck him as a sterile, unfeeling place. Cold, not cool. “When will your daughter be home?”
She looked like she might want to pout, but then she shrugged instead.
“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. She went to spend a few days with a girlfriend, and I expected her home today. But she hasn’t turned up yet.”
“What girlfriend?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
He smiled. “I need to talk to Becky.”
She leaned forward and very carefully set her glass on the polished table. He had the feeling that she wouldn’t be buying any tickets for the next policeman’s ball. “I will call my daughter,” she said tightly. Lady of the manor addressing the stableboy. “I will ask her to come home immediately. I don’t want her to be humiliated in front of others. The girl’s father is in the state legislature. How would it look for a cop to come knocking on his door asking for Becky?”
Since he didn’t know how it would look and he didn’t much care, Spaceman didn’t say anything.
She left the room.
Spaceman finished the wine. He probably wouldn’t be offered any more. Or offered anything else, for that matter. Too bad. He could use a broad with some class for a change. Maybe he was hanging around Maguire too much and a taste for the expensive stuff was starting to rub off.
Spaceman made another note to himself to call Mandy.
It was several minutes before Mrs. Malloy returned. Her uppity attitude had apparently suffered a blow.
“What is it?”
“They said Becky wasn’t there.”
“When did she leave?”
Mrs. Malloy shook her head. “They said she never was there. I don’t understand. Becky told me she was going to stay with those people. Why would she lie?”
Spaceman sighed. “So Becky is missing, too.”
“No, she’s.…” The woman shuddered and sank down onto the couch. “Do you think they’re together?”
“I think it’s very possible.”
She made a small sound, half sigh, half sob.
Spaceman decided that she could use a dose of liquid courage, so he went to the bar and poured her some more wine. Then he poured a shot of Irish for himself. He smiled faintly. So the little bastard was shacked up someplace with a rich bitch.
