To Die in Beverly Hills

'Thanks anyway,' Carr said and hung up. He dialed another number.

A woman answered.

'This is Charlie. Did you hear about what happened to Lee?'

'You mean little Lee with the beard?'

'Right. He got killed in a shoot-out with the cops in Beverly Hills.'

'Goddamn.'

'I'm trying to find the guy he used to live with.'

'Lee had some of my records and tapes. How am I going to get my records? They're in his apartment. How did you get my phone number?'

'I found it in Lee's apartment.'

'Oh,' she said.

'What is Lee's ex-roommate's name?'

'Have no idea,' she said. 'I met Lee at a party in Malibu. We dated once and he never called me again. Damn. How am I going to get my records?'

'Do you know any of his friends?'

'No, I don't,' she said. 'Would you get my records for me?'

Carr hung up the receiver and made a note of the numbers he'd called.

At the Los Angeles Police Headquarters building, Carr took the elevator to the third floor and followed the hallway to a door marked Homicide. The room was filled with detectives scattered at desks, most of whom were talking on the telephone. Higgins sat at a desk in the corner of the room. Except for his blond crew cut, he looked pretty much like the rest of the murder dicks; neither young, underweight nor particularly well dressed. Carr strolled to Higgins's desk, where, come to think of it, he had sat since Carr met him. It had been close to twenty years ago.

'How's Jack?' Higgins said.

'Doing as well as can be expected.' Carr sat down.

'I heard it was a ricochet.'

Carr shrugged. 'I'm not sure. I was in another room when it went down. All Bailey remembers is seeing the suspect pull a gun. He doesn't remember how Jack was hit or even how many rounds he fired from the shotgun. You know how those things go.'

Higgins nodded. 'What were the positions?'

Carr pulled out a ballpoint pen. He drew a rough diagram of Jerome Hartmann's house on a pad of paper. He described where he, Bailey and Kelly were before the shooting. He drew an arrow to show the direction of fire.

Higgins rubbed his chin as he perused the diagram. He shook his head. 'I guess anything can happen once the trigger is pulled,' he said.

'I'm still trying to piece everything together. That's why I stopped by. I'd like to have you take a look at the reports and tell me what you think. You're the ballistics expert.' Carr handed him the stack of reports.

Higgins looked Carr directly in the eye for a moment. 'Sure,' he said, 'I'll check 'em out for you.'

'There's something else,' Carr said. He pulled out the photograph of Sheboygan and friends sitting around a cocktail table and handed it to Higgins. 'There's a matchbook on the table. I need a blowup of it.'

'No problem,' Higgins said.

'I'd like to keep this just between you and me.'

'Got it.'

Carr nodded, got up and left.

It was almost 1:00 P.m. and Travis Bailey was alone in the police department's underground parking area. He strolled toward a row of vehicles with grease-penciled notes that read 'Hold for Evidence' or 'Impound' on their windshields. Lee Sheboygan's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the end of the row next to a Cadillac covered with fingerprint dust.

Bailey approached the passenger door of the car. With some difficulty, he tore the red evidence tape off the lock, inserted a key and opened it. To avoid soiling his sport coat, he took it off, folded it carefully and set it in the backseat.

He snatched an impound sheet off the dashboard. The section marked Comments read: 'Owner was suspect/DOA after burg stakeout/Tow to police lot amp; hold as evidence per Det II Bailey.' He set the sheet back on the dashboard. In the glove compartment he found an address book, credit card receipts, matchbooks, a bankbook and some telephone bills. Having scooped out the contents of the cubbyhole onto the floorboard, he searched thoroughly under the seats. He pulled out a sports car magazine, a pamphlet printed by a burglar alarm company and a thick wallet. In the wallet was a stack of credit cards, all bearing Sheboygan's name, a tiny address book (Bailey found his own initials and the Detective Bureau phone number scribbled on the first page), business cards of locksmiths, jewelers, antique dealers, owners of West Side art galleries, Hollywood massage parlors that Bailey knew were whorehouses and three hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.

Travis Bailey removed the cash and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Having dropped the rest of the items in the pile, he proceeded to the trunk. He unlocked it gently and lifted the lid. Inside was an open metal box and a duffel bag. The metal box was filled with pry bars, key blanks, lock-picks, ratchets of various sizes and other burglar tools. Scattered among the well-used instruments were five or six Polaroid photographs of two-story homes. He removed them and closed the toolbox. Next to the toolbox was a small zippered bag containing a jogging suit and a pair of running shoes. He examined the pockets of the suit carefully and recovered a pawnshop receipt for a diamond ring and a laundry ticket. He shoved these items, along with the photographs from the toolbox, into the duffel bag. After thoroughly searching the rest of the trunk, he removed the toolbox and the duffel bag and set them on the cement floor. He slammed the trunk lid shut.

Kneeling down, he filled the duffel bag with everything from the glove compartment, including the wallet and its contents.

Carrying the bag and the toolbox, he walked across the garage to a smelly room filled with trash receptacles. He shoved the duffel bag deep into a brimming trashcan. Using the stairs rather than the elevator, he proceeded to his office. Before he had a chance to wash his hands, Captain Cleaver stopped by his desk. Bailey noticed that he was wearing a monogrammed shirt.

'Find anything in the car?'

Travis Bailey shook his head. 'Just burglar tools,' he said as he opened the box and displayed its contents.

'No address books? Nothin' else?'

Bailey shook his head. 'The man traveled light.'

'Typical hit man.'

The phone buzzed. Bailey picked up the receiver. It was for Cleaver.

'Yes, sir,' Cleaver said. 'Where did it occur? Okay, sir.' As Cleaver stood with the receiver an inch or so from his ear, Bailey could hear the sound of a voice coming from the receiver. 'Yes, sir,' he said finally, 'I'll certainly do my best. I'll try to take care of it.' He set the receiver down.

'Superman's brother got arrested last night at a pajama party. Superman wants it fixed. He says Screen Confidential magazine hired some private eyes to check out the party because lots of movie people were there. They stiffed a robbery-in-progress call into the complaint board to see what would happen. When the patrol officers went in the front door everybody ran out of the back. Superman's brother got pinched for possession of nose candy. He had an ounce in the pocket of his robe. The guy who plays the Black Knight on TV got away. He jumped over the back fence. The private dicks took pictures of everyone.'

'They all ran because of a little cocaine in the place?'

Cleaver shook his head. 'It was a pajama party for men. The host was some big-time agent. The house was full of hairdressers, hired teenage butt-boys, leather freaks … a can of worms. I bet I'll have twenty phone calls from high-power attorneys before the day is over.'

'I don't really see what else I can do on this Sheboygan thing,' Bailey said, changing the subject. 'His tracks were covered.'

Cleaver had a preoccupied look. 'Close it out,' he said offhandedly. 'Let the Feds do the follow-up. They've got the resources. We've got other things to worry about besides a hit man who fucked up and walked into a trap.'