She smiled again, sweetly, innocently, as she walked out the door. Maybe it was that bad attitude of mine kicking up again, but I had a feeling that if Jackie Bell was an innocent young maiden, then I’m a left-handed Japanese pole vaulter.
I headed down the hall toward the nurses’ station again. I stopped at the pay phone in front of the bank of elevators and flipped through the thick phone book that dangled from a chain. Sure enough, no LeAnn Gwynn, L. Gwynn, or any variation thereof.
The elevator opened in front of me and a crowd of people stepped off. One had on a white lab coat, with DR. GORDON EVANS, M.D. sewn across the left breast pocket in green thread, and below that DEPT. OF NEUROSURGERY. I shut the phone book, walked back down the hall, and found another empty room.
I picked up the phone, dialed
“Yes, this is Dr. Gordon Evans, Neurosurgery, up on Fourth Floor West.”
“Yes, Dr. Evans.”
“Is the personnel office still open?”
“No, sir. They closed at four forty-five.”
“Oh, blast it. We’ve got a patient up here that went on some medication yesterday, but the nurse who did the paperwork didn’t write down what time it was started. I’m afraid we’re all screwed up unless I find out when he went on the meds. And I can’t do that because it’s the nurse’s day off and nobody up here’s got her unlisted number.”
“I can pull that out of the computer for you, Dr. Evans. What’s her name?”
I smiled. Some letters are magic, like the ones
“Nurse Gwynn, G-W-Y-N-N. First name LeAnn.”
“Okay, hold just a second.”
She came back on. I scribbled down the number. Sure enough, a Melrose area exchange. “That all you need, Dr. Evans?”
“That’s it for now. Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” she said.
And I’m sure it was.
16
I could go back to my office and check the Criss-Cross Directory, but those damned things are notorious for being out of date or just plain wrong. This was something I had to be sure of.
I hung up the phone and listened carefully inside the empty hospital room, hoping that I wouldn’t be interrupted for at least a couple more minutes. I pulled out my reporter’s notepad, flipped through to Lonnie’s number, and dialed it.
Among Lonnie’s other talents-besides repo’ing cars and blowing up objects with common household items- was his computer expertise. He could do more with a computer than anyone else I’d ever met; only problem was, he usually had to keep quiet about it.
The number rang a few times, then an answering machine picked up. There was no message, just a long moment of silence followed by the distinctive
“Three two seven,” I said, then looked down at the phone and called out the last four numbers. All the patient rooms were direct dial.
I hung up. If Lonnie was anywhere near, I’d get a callback in about forty-five seconds. I fidgeted almost two minutes by the side of the bed, checked my watch, and was about to give it up when the phone rang.
“Yeah?” It was Lonnie.
“Need a favor. You in the middle of anything? Nuclear warhead, perhaps?”
“Depends. What you got?”
“I got a number. Need an address.”
“Speak.”
I read the number, then heard the sound of the phone being laid down. I stood there perhaps another two minutes, devising excuses if hospital security walked in on me. Then the sound of fumbling came across the wires.
“5454 Franklin Road, Apartment 3-F. Think that’s the Ponta Loma Apartments.”
“Thanks, pal. Owe you one.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll collect.”
The phone clicked down immediately. Lonnie had several phone lines going into his junkyard. On this one, you didn’t stay too long, and you never mentioned names.
I glanced out the door into an empty hallway. It didn’t take long for me to cut a rug out of there.
It was close to seven, and I was starving. I figured if LeAnn Gwynn was out for the evening on her night off, she’d be already gone. If not, she was probably staying in. Either way, I had time to eat. I had a hankering for breakfast, so I walked down 21st to the IHOP, the International House of Pancakes. Restaurants come and go like crazy in this city, but the IHOP, like Mrs. Rotier’s, was an establishment that would be around forever. I’d eaten many a meal there, and I had the blood cholesterol level to show for it.
I finished my third cup of coffee and stared down at a plate scrubbed clean of egg yolk and pancake syrup, reasoning that if LeAnn Gwynn had any involvement with Conrad’s murder, she wasn’t likely to chitchat with me about it. Unless, of course, she thought I was visiting her in an official capacity. I’d never done anything like this before, but I figured that if I walked a thin enough line, I could get away with it. I took my license case out of my pocket again and looked at it: picture I.D., fancy badge.
What the hell, why not?
After all, I couldn’t claim to be a police officer. But was it my fault if someone else chose to infer otherwise?
* * *
I drove out Eighth Avenue until it became Franklin Road, past the old Melrose Theatre, the shopping centers, pawn shops, liquor stores, convenience markets, and on under the freeway cloverleaf. Dark had settled in over what was a fairly redneck part of town, with a nearby housing project adding just enough of an air of danger to keep respectable people off the streets. To cap things off, the most popular gay bar in the city is right in the neighborhood as well. Most nights, parking lots for blocks around are packed with people headed for the Mine Shaft Cabaret.
I pulled into the Ponta Loma Apartments and slowed the car. The Ponta Loma was just another apartment complex: built sometime around the early Seventies, hip at the time but aging not very gracefully. In the real estate crash of the late Reagan/early Bush years, places like the Ponta Loma really suffered. The new apartment complexes had fireplaces, ceiling fans, saunas, Jacuzzis. The Ponta Loma was considered far out twenty years ago because it had two pools.
I’m lousy at snap judgments, but I couldn’t figure out why LeAnn Gwynn lived here. I always thought nurses made decent money. She ought to be able to do better than this.
I drove around through the parking lots slowly, looking for F Building. Not surprisingly, it was past the E Building and just before the G Building. And you thought I couldn’t handle this detective shit.…
The two-story building was long, narrow, with apartments off either side facing inward on a long hallway. If LeAnn’s apartment was 3-F, it was a safe bet she was on the first floor. If she was in the back, her apartment had a great view of the parking lot and the Dempster Dumpsters. If it faced the other way, she looked out on another building. Nice life, LeAnn. No wonder you were-how did Jackie Bell put it?-
I parked the car and doused the lights, then sat there for a few minutes, trying to get a feel for the place. It was quiet; no kids running through the parking lot, no splashing coming from the pool, no parties in progress spilling out into the common area. Not at all what I expected.
