windbreakers, also Sears; a pair of narrow black ties hanging from a hook-polyester, made in Korea.
'What was his financial situation?' I said. 'Doesn't look like he spent much on clothes.'
'He spent on food, gas, car repairs, books, phone and utilities. I haven't gotten his tax forms yet, but there were some bankbooks in there.' Indicating the dresser. 'His basic income seems to have been his U.S. Public Health Service pension. Two and a half grand a month deposited directly into the savings account, plus occasional cash payments, two hundred to a thou each, irregularly spaced. Those I figure were donations. They add up to another fifteen a year.'
'Donations from who?'
'My guess would be satisfied travelers-or those who survived them. None of the families we've talked to admit paying Mate a dime, but they'd want to avoid looking like they hired someone to kill Grandma, wouldn't they? So he was pulling in around fifty grand a year, and in terms of assets he was no pauper. The three other passbooks were for jumbo CDs of a hundred grand each. Dinky interest, doesn't look as if he cared about investing. I figure three hundred would be about a decade of income minus expenses and taxes. Looks like he's just about held on to every penny he's earned since going into the death business.'
'Three hundred thousand,' I said. 'An MD in practice could put away a lot more than that over ten years. So he wasn't in the travel business to get rich. Notoriety was the prize, or he really was operating idealistically. Or both.'
'You could say the same for Mengele.' Flipping the skimpy mattress, he peered underneath. 'Not that I haven't done this already.' His back must have twinged, because he sucked in breath as he straightened.
'Okay?' he said.
Suddenly the room felt oppressive. Some of the book aroma had made its way in here, along with a riper smell, more human-male. That and the mothballs added up to the sad, sedate aroma of old man. As if nothing here was expected to ever change. That same sense of staleness and stasis that I'd experienced up on Mulholland. I was probably getting overimaginative.
'Anything interesting on his phone bills?' I said.
'Nope. Despite his publicity-seeking, once he got home, he wasn't Mr. Chatty. There were days at a time when he never phoned anyone. The few calls we did find were to Haiselden, Zoghbie, and boring stuff: local market, Thrifty Drugs, couple of used-book stores, shoemaker, Sears, hardware store.'
'No cell phone account?'
He laughed. 'The TV's black-and-white. Guy didn't own a computer or a stereo. We're talking manual typewriter-I found blank sheets of carbon paper in the dresser.'
'No sheets with any impressions for a hot clue? Like in the movies?'
'Yeah, right. And I'm Dirty Harry.'
'Old-fashioned guy,' I said, 'but he pushed the envelope ethically.'
I opened the top drawer of the dresser on mounds of folded underwear, white and rounded like giant marsh- mallows. Stuffed on each side were cylinders of rolled black socks. The middle drawer contained stacks of cardigans, all brown and gray. I ran my hand below them, came up empty. The next drawer was full of medical books.
He said, 'Same with the bottom. Guess next to killing people, reading was his favorite thing.'
I crouched and opened the lowest drawer. Four hardbacks, the first three with warped bindings and foxed edges. I inspected one. Principles of Surgery.
'Copyright 1934,' I said.
'Maybe if he'd kept up, that liver would've fared better.'
The fourth book caught my eye. Smaller than the others. Ruby-red leather binding. Shiny new… gold-tooled decorations on the ribbed spine. Ornate gilt lettering, but a crude, orange-peel texture to the leather- leatherette.
Collector's edition of Beowulf published by some outfit called the Literary Gem Society.
I picked it up. It rattled. Too light to be a book. I lifted the cover. No pages within, just hollow, Masonite space. MADE IN TAIWAN label affixed to the underside of the lid.
A box. Novelty-shop gag. Inside, the source of the rattle:
Miniature stethoscope. Child-size. Pink plastic tubing, silvered plastic earpieces and disc. Broken earpieces- snapped off cleanly. Silvery grit in the box.
Milo's eyes slitted. 'Why don't you put that down.'
I complied. 'What's wrong?'
'I checked that damn drawer the first time I tossed the place and that wasn't in there. The other books were, but not that. I remember reading each of the copyrights, thinking Mate was relying on antiques.'
He stared into the red box.
'A visitor?' I said. 'Our van-boy commemorating what he'd done? Broken stethoscope delivering a message? 'Mate's out of business, I'm the doctor now'?'
He bent, wincing again. 'Looks like someone clipped the plastic clean. From the dust, maybe he did it right here…very clean.'
'No problem if you had bone shears. One very nasty little elf.'
He rubbed his face. 'He came back to celebrate?'
'And to leave his mark.'
He walked to the door, looked out at the bookcases in the front room, scowled. 'I've been here twice since the murder and nothing else looks messed with…'
Talking to himself more than to me. Knowing full well that with thousands of volumes, there was no way to be sure. Knowing the yellow tape across the door was meaningless, anyone could've pried the lock.
I said, 'The bum Mrs. Krohnfeld saw-'
'The bum walked up the stairs in plain sight and ran away when Mrs. Krohnfeld screamed at him. She said he was a mess. Wouldn't you expect our boy to be a little better organized?'
'Like you said, some people delegate.'
'What, the killer hires a schizo to break in and stick a box in a drawer?'
'Why not?'
'If it was an attempt to piss on Mate's grave, wouldn't delegating lessen the thrill?'
'Probably, but at this point he's being careful,' I said. 'And delegating could offer its own thrill: being the boss, wielding power. It could've happened this way: the killer knows the neighborhood because he stalked Mate for a while. He cruises Hollywood, finds a street guy, gives him cash to deliver a package. Half up front, the rest upon completion. He could've even positioned himself up the street. To watch and get off and to make sure the street guy followed through. He picked someone disorganized specifically, because it added another layer of safety: If the bum gets caught there's very little he can tell you. The killer used some sort of disguise for extra insurance.'
His cheeks bubbled as he filled them with air, bounced it around, blew it out silently. Out of his pocket came a sealed package of surgical gloves and an evidence bag.
'Dr. Milo's in the house,' he said, working his hands into the latex. 'You touched it, but I'll vouch for you.' Fully gloved, he lifted the box, examined it on all sides.
'Someone who knows the neighborhood,' he said. 'Hollywood Boulevard's full of novelty shops, maybe I can find someone who remembers selling this recently.'
I said, 'Maybe the choice of titles wasn't a coincidence.'
'Beowulf?'
'Valiant hero slays the monster.'
We spent another hour in the apartment, going over the kitchen and the front rooms, searching cupboards, scanning the bookcases for other false volumes, coming up with nothing. In some of the books, I found bills of sale going back decades. Thrift shops in San Diego, Oakland, a few in L.A.
Outside on the landing, Milo retaped the door, locked up and brushed dust from his lapels. He looked shrunken. Across the street, a middle-aged Hispanic woman stood in the paltry shade of a wretched-looking magnolia, purse in hand, newspaper folded under her arm. No one else around, and like any midday pedestrian in L.A. she stood out. No bus stop; probably waiting for a ride. She saw me looking at her, stared back for a second, shifted the purse to the other shoulder, removed the paper and began to read.
'If the box is a 'gift,'' I said, 'it's another point in favor of the confederate angle. Someone wanting to put
