They went back to the office and Conway typed the report on it. It was probably the only report there'd be. There would be a hundred possible heisters conforming to that description in Records, and they'd never pin the charge on any one of them. He stopped typing to light a cigarette. 'At least it would be cooler up in Santa Barbara,' he said. He had just finished the report when another call came in, and another a minute later.
The first was a heist at an all-night pharmacy on Beverly Boulevard, and the other was a body on Rosemont Avenue in the Echo Park area. Schenke went out on the heist and Conway looked up Rosemont Avenue in the County Guide. When he got there, it was a narrow, shabby old eight-unit apartment building. Four apartments down, four up. The man waiting for him at the entrance was about forty-five, a heavily built man with a bald head and rimless glasses. His name was Robert Peterson. He was the manager of the apartments, lived in the right front one downstairs. The door was open and an anxious-looking gray-haired woman was visible in there listening.
'I don't know what happened, Officer, but it's Mrs. Eberhart. Maybe a stroke or something, only she's not that old. Why, she could've laid there hours before anybody found her-a terrible thing-the Kohlers are off on vacation, they've got the apartment across the hall, they've gone to visit their daughter-you see Mrs. Eberhart's apartment is on the rear right. Why, she could've laid there all night, except that I took the trash out and naturally went out the back door and passed her apartment.'
'So, let's have a look,' said Conway.
Down the dim hall the door of the rear apartment on the right was open. With Peterson dithering in the background, Conway took a quick experienced look. The woman was dead. A big, buxom blond woman, the blond courtesy of peroxide, wearing a flowered cotton house robe. She was sprawled just inside the door and there was dried blood on one temple-just a trace. There was a table beside the door, standing sideways out from the wall. You could read it. She'd been knocked down, hit the table. The autopsy report would probably say, fractured skull. He thought resignedly, better get out the lab. It could, of course, have been accidental: Maybe she'd been drunk and fallen down, but also it could be something else.
He asked questions. Peterson said, 'Well, her name's Rose Eberhart. I don't know about any relations. She's lived here about six years. Well, yes, I do know where she worked. It was McClintock's Restatuant on Sunset. She was a nice quiet tenant, Officer, never any trouble and always on time with the rent. I suppose it could've been a heart attack. That can happen to anybody, age doesn't seem to matter. Oh, for goodness' sake, no, I'd never seen her under the influence of alcohol.'
A couple of men from the night watch at the lab showed up in a mobile truck. Conway said, 'You better give it the full treatment, boys.'
Just in case. And leave it to the day watch to look at further.
FOUR
SATURDAY WAS Sergeant Lake's day off and Rory Farrell was sitting on the switchboard. Mendoza glanced over the night report and passed it on to Hackett. 'So we'd better find out something about this Eberhart woman, in case it is a homicide. Wolf's coming in sometime today to make a statement, but there's damn all on that, we can file it and forget it.'
Hackett said, 'I wonder if they've got the air-conditioning back on at the jail. “We've still got to talk to Gerber. Of course, Bauman had the gun, it's likelier he did the shooting. Which reminds me-' He called the lab and talked to Horder.
He had dropped the gun off at the lab on Thursday.
Horder said, 'Oh, yeah, that's the equalizer, O.K. Matched the slug out of the body.'
So they could write a report after they got the statement from Gerber, if he'd say anything, and send in the evidence to the D.A.'s office and forget it. This time, Bauman might go up for a sizable stretch.
It was Landers' day off.
On the other heist last night, the pharmacist had given a fairly good description, volunteered to look at mug shots. He'd be in this morning. Hackett went over to the jail to talk to Gerber. Palliser said, looking over the night report, 'I suppose this restaurant won't be open until ten or so. Has the warrant come through on Aguilar?' It hadn't, but would be showing up sometime today.
Bernard Wolf came in about nine and made a brief statement, and Wanda Larsen took him down to look at mug shots. But there could be a thousand walking around who conformed to that description.
And finally the coroner's office sent up the autopsy report on the supposed Ruth Hoffman. Mendoza read it over rapidly, one hip perched on a corner of Higgins' desk, and passed it over. 'So, a few possibly suggestive things,' he said.
The report said that the girl had died of a massive overdose of a common prescriptive sedative, a phenobarbitol base. Interestingly, there were indications that it had been accumulative over a brief period of time. There had been the equivalent of a couple of strong drinks in the stomach contents. The percentage rate was. 010, and. 014 was the rate for legal intoxication. The estimated time of death was between eight and midnight last Tuesday night. There were no bruises or other marks on the body. She had been a virgin. She had had a meal about six hours prior to death, consisting of some sort of fish, potatoes, green vegetables.
'This is your offbeat one,' said Palliser.
'The wild blue yonder,' said Higgins.
'Well, it says a little something.' ' Mendoza lit a cigarette with a snap of his lighter. 'But there's a gap between Saturday and Tuesday. Where was she? That library card-this was set up awhile ago. If they, whoever, had arranged the killing, why not do it right away? Grandfather! Could she have been with Grandfather? I can't see any pattern to it at all, damn it.'
'Have you heard anything about the possible missing reports?' asked Higgins.
Mendoza had sent out queries to every force in the country about that.
'Nothing's come in yet. Where the hell was she and why? We should be hearing something from the cab companies, if there's anything to get.'
'Those Daggetts could tell us something,' said Higgins.
'I wonder,' said Mendoza. 'They know something but maybe not that much. I haven't leaned on them because we haven't a damn thing to go on, for God's sake. There's no smell of legal proof that the girl was the Martin girl. And whoever primed the Daggetts with the Hoffman story, all they have to do is stick by it, we can't prove it's a lie. What the hell use would it be to lean on them, George? They're not big brains, but they understand that much. Grandfather, Grandfather! If only there was some way to find out where she was going, or thought she was going-' He brushed his mustache back and forth angrily.
'There's just no handle to any part of it,' said Higgins.
Mendoza picked up the phone, asked Farrell to get Communications, asked if there was anything in, from any force, on a possible missing report on the girl. So far most of the police forces in the country had responded and none had any record of such a report.
'So what does that say?' Mendoza emitted a long angry stream of smoke. 'Grandfather! ' The phone buzzed at him and he picked it up.
'You've got a new body,' said Farrell. 'Hoover Street.'
'Hell,' said Mendoza and took down the address and passed it on to Higgins.
Palliser and Higgins went out on that and Mendoza wandered back to his office and sat staring out the window at the view of the Hollywood Hills, chain-smoking, until Farrell rang him and said he had somebody from the Yellow Cab Company on the line. 'Put him through,' said Mendoza.
The man on the line was a Mr. Meyers, sounding efficient. 'You wanted to know about any passengers picked up at International Airport a week ago today. I've got a list for you from the dispatcher. There were only nine.'
'Fine,' said Mendoza. 'We can cut corners here and save some time. I'd like all those drivers to come in to headquarters to look at a photograph.'
'Oh, my God,' said Meyers. 'What a hell of a nuisance, but we do have to cooperate with the police. All right, where are they supposed to come?'
