The Murder Book

'Something like that.'

'Well,' said Melinda Kantor, 'maybe she's over on the Boulevard.'

'Hollywood Boulevard?'

The resultant smirk said, Another stupid question, and Milo knew he was losing her. 'The boulevard's where the loner stoners go.'

Now Melinda Kantor was regarding him as if he were brain-dead. 'I was just making a suggestion. What'd she do?'

'Maybe nothing.'

'Yeah, right,' said the girl. 'Weird.'

'What is?'

'Usually they send over narcs who are young and cute.'

Ellen Sato produced addresses and phone numbers for the six absent Melindas, and Milo and Schwinn spent the rest of the day paying house calls.

The first four girls lived in smallish but tidy single homes on Hollywood's border with the Los Feliz district and were out sick. Melindas Adams, Greenberg, Jordan were in bed with the flu, Melinda Hohlmeister had been felled by an asthma attack. All four mothers were in attendance, all were freaked out by the drop-in, but each allowed the detectives access. The previous generation still respected- or feared- authority.

Melinda Adams was a tiny, platinum-haired, fourteen-year-old freshman who looked eleven and had a little kid's demeanor to match. Melinda Jordan was a skinny fifteen-year-old brunette with a frighteningly runny nose and vengeful acne. Greenberg was blond and long-haired and somewhat chesty. Both she and her mother had thick, almost impenetrable accents- recent immigrants from Israel. Science and math books were spread over her bed. When the detectives had stepped in, she'd been underlining text in yellow marker, had no idea who Janie Ingalls was. Melinda Hohlmeister was a shy, chubby, stuttering, homely kid with short, corn-colored ringlets, a straight A average, and an audible wheeze.

No response to Janie's name from any of them.

No answer at Melinda Van Epps's big white contemporary house up in the hills. A woman next door picking flowers volunteered that the family was in Europe, had been gone for two weeks. The father was an executive with Standard Oil, the Van Eppses took all five kids out of school all the time for travel, provided tutors, lovely people.

No reply, either, at Melinda Waters's shabby bungalow on North Gower. Schwinn knocked hard because the bell was taped over and labeled 'Broken.'

'Okay, leave a note,' he told Milo. 'It'll probably be bullshit, too.'

Just as Milo was slipping the please-call-us memo and his card through the mail slot, the door swung open.

The woman who stood there could have been Bowie Ingalls's spiritual sister. Fortyish, thin but flabby, wearing a faded brown housedress. She had a mustard complexion, wore her peroxided hair pinned back carelessly. Confused blue eyes, no makeup, cracked lips. That furtive look.

'Mrs. Waters?' said Milo.

'I'm Eileen.' Cigarette voice. 'What is it?'

Schwinn showed her the badge. 'We'd like to talk to Melinda.'

Eileen Waters's head retracted, as if he'd slapped her. 'About what?'

'Her friend, Janie Ingalls.'

'Oh. Her,' said Waters. 'What'd she do?'

'Someone killed her,' said Schwinn. 'Did a right sloppy job of it. Where's Melinda?'

Eileen Waters's parched lips parted, revealing uneven teeth coated with yellow scum. She'd relied upon suspiciousness as a substitute for dignity and now, losing both, she slumped against the doorjamb. 'Oh my God.'

'Where's Melinda?' demanded Schwinn.

Waters shook her head, lowered it. 'Oh, God, oh God.'

Schwinn took her arm. His voice remained firm. 'Where's Melinda?'

More headshakes, and when Eileen Waters spoke again her voice was that of another woman: timid, chastened. Reduced.

She began crying. Finally stopped. 'Melinda never came home, I haven't seen her since Friday.'

CHAPTER 9

The Waters household was a step up from Bowie Ingalls's flop, furnished with old, ungainly furniture that might've been hand-me-downs from some upright Midwestern homestead. Browning doilies on the arms of overstuffed chairs said someone had once cared. Ashtrays were everywhere, filled with gray dust and butts, and the air felt sooty. No beer empties, but Milo noticed a quarter-full bottle of Dewars on a kitchen counter next to a jam jar packed with something purple. Every drape was drawn, plunging the house into perpetual evening. The sun could be punishing when your body subsisted on ethanol.

Either Schwinn had developed an instant dislike for Eileen Waters or his bad mood had intensified or he had a genuine reason for riding her hard. He sat her down on a sofa, and began peppering her with questions.

She did nothing to defend herself other than chain-smoke Parliaments, was easy with the confessions:

Melinda was wild, had been wild for a long time, had fought off any attempts at discipline. Yes, she used drugs- marijuana, for sure. Eileen had found roaches in her pockets, wasn't sure about anything harder, but wasn't denying the possibility.

'What about Janie Ingalls?' asked Schwinn.

'You kidding? She's probably the one introduced Melinda to dope.'

'Why's that?'

'That kid was stoned all the time.'

'How old's Melinda?'

'Seventeen.'

'What year in school?'

'Eleventh grade- I know Janie's in tenth but just because Melinda's older doesn't mean she was the instigator. Janie was street-smart. I'm sure Janie's the one got Melinda into grass… Lord, where could she be?'

Milo thought back to his search of Janie's room: no evidence of dope, not even rolling paper or a pipe.

'Melinda and Janie were a perfect pair,' Waters was saying. 'Neither of them gave a damn about school, they cut all the time.'

'What'd you do about it?'

The woman laughed. 'Right.' Then the fear came back. 'Melinda will come back, she always does.'

'In what way was Janie streetwise?' said Schwinn.

'You know,' said Waters. 'You can just tell. Like she'd been around.'

'Sexually?'

'I assume. Melinda was basically a good girl.'

'Janie spend much time here?'

'No. Mostly she'd pick up Melinda, and they'd be off.'

'That the case last Friday?'

'Dunno.'

'What do you mean?'

'I was out shopping. Came home, and Melinda was gone. I could tell she'd been here because she left her underwear on the floor and some food out in the kitchen.'

'Food for one?'

Waters thought. 'One Popsicle wrapper and a Pepsi can- I guess.'