A Cold Heart

They trudged upstairs together and Petra began with the males- six profoundly inebriated men, none of whom recognized Shull. On the women’s floor, she found only three residents in one room, including Lynnette, the gaunt, black-haired junkie Milo had spoken to about Erna.

“Cute,” she said. “Kind of like a Banana Republic ad.”

“Have you seen him before, Lynnette?”

“I wish.”

Behind smudged eyeglass lenses, Diane Petrello’s eyes shut tight, then opened. “Lynnette,” she said softly.

Before Lynnette could reply, Petra said, “You wish?”

“Like I said, cute,” said Lynnette. “I could do him so good he’d buy me pretty things.” She grinned, revealing ragged mossy teeth. Yellow eyes, hepatitis or something in that league. Petra felt like stepping away, but she didn’t.

“Lynnette, have you ever seen this man with Erna?”

“Erna was a skank. He’s way too cute for her.”

One of the other women was elderly and whisker-chinned, stretched out on the bed, sleeping. The other was fortyish, tall, black, heavy-legged. Petra glanced at the black woman, and she drifted over, sliding worn bedroom slippers over threadbare carpeting and sounding like a snare drum.

“I seen him with Erna.”

“Right,” said Lynnette.

Petra said, “When did you see him, Ms.-?”

“Devana Moore. I seen him here and there- talking.”

“To Erna.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right,” said Lynnette.

Devana Moore said, “I did.”

“Here and there?” said Petra.

“Not here… like you know-here,” said Devana Moore. Talking slowly. Slurring. Forming sentences was an ordeal. “Here and… there.”

“Not in the building,” said Petra, “but in the neighborhood.”

“Right!”

“She’s lyin’,” said Lynnette.

“I ain’t lyin’,” said Devana Moore, without a trace of resentment. More like a kid protesting her innocence. Petra was no expert, but she was willing to bet this one’s IQ made her a disastrous witness. Still, work with what you have…

Lynnette snickered.

Devana Moore said, “Girl, I be lyin’, I be flyin’.”

Petra said, “When’s the last time you saw this man with Erna, Ms. Moore?”

“Mizz Moore,” said Lynnette, cackling.

Diane Petrello said, “C’mon, Lynnette. Let’s get some coffee.”

Lynnette didn’t budge. The old woman snored loudly. Devana Moore stared at Petra.

Petra repeated the question and Moore said, “Had to be… few days ago.”

“How many days?”

Silence.

“About?” pressed Petra.

“Dunno- maybe… dunno.”

Lynnette said, “They gonna bust you for lyin’. Mizz Moore.” To Petra: “She’s a retard.”

Moore sagged and pouted, and Petra thought she’d break into tears. Instead, she lunged at Lynnette, and the two woman flailed their arms ineffectually until Petra got between them, and shouted, “Stop it right now!”

Silence. Downcast looks. Lynnette cackled again, and Diane Petrello ushered her out of the room. Devana Moore was crying. Petra said, “She’s just being mean. I know you’re telling me the truth.”

Sniffle. Moore looked at the floor.

“You’re really helping me, Ms. Moore. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t bust me,” said Moore. “Please.”

“Why would I bust you?”

Moore kicked her own ankle. “Sometimes I whore. It’s a sin, and I don’ want to, but sometimes I do it.”

“That’s your business, Ms. Moore,” said Petra. “I’m Homicide, not Vice.”

“Who got homicided?” said Devana.

“Erna.”

“Yeah,” said Devana. “That’s true.” Relaxing, as if confirmation upped Petra’s credibility. She blinked, scratched her head, pointed at Shull’s picture. “He do Erna?”

“Maybe. Where’d you see him and Erna?”

“Um… um… it was over on Highland.”

“Highland and where?”

“Sunset.”

“North or south of Sunset?”

“This way,” Devana pressed her hand against her chest which Petra supposed meant south. Two more attempts to pin down the location failed.

Either way, Highland and Sunset made sense. Right near Erna’s doctor’s office- Hannah Gold. “What were they doing, Ms. Moore?”

“Talking.”

“Talking angrily?”

“Uh-uh. Just talking- you aksing this because he did Erna?”

“Maybe,” said Petra. “What else can you tell me about him, Ms. Moore?”

“That’s it,” said Devana. She crossed herself. “He did Erna, he’s a sinful man.”

***

Petra returned to the station at 4 A.M. Stahl’s desk was unoccupied. Still surveilling Shull; he’d started just after dark. All those hours, sitting there. The guy had an attention span, that was for sure.

She checked her message box. Stahl hadn’t called in. He never did.

Meaning no progress. How did he stand the inactivity?

She supposed Stahl’s willingness to play statue made him the perfect partner on this one. How cases that required more teamwork would work out was anyone’s guess… no sense wondering about that, she needed to keep focused on the here and now.

Four in the morning was no time to bother a friend, so she phoned Milo’s desk at West L.A. and left a message. Knowing he’d be likely to wake her when he returned but that was okay. She wanted to let him know Shull was an habitue of the Snake Pit. Liked to go backstage.

She was thirsty, got up, and poured herself terrible police coffee and drank it standing, alone, in the corner of the detective room. Thought about Shull.

Hollywood night-scene regular.

The professor.

Too bad neither bouncer could verify his presence the night of Baby Boy’s murder. Maybe she’d go back over her witness list, do a major recontact with the photo, see if anyone remembered.

Yeah, she’d have to do that. Big-time tedium. The core of detective work.

With Shull under surveillance, it could wait until tomorrow. She was exhausted, needed to shower and stretch