limb snooping around police officers' apartments. If Randy Newman were here, he'd probably be singing
I edged off the 405 at Nordhoff and turned west, cruising past the southern edge of Cal State, North-ridge, with its broad open grounds and water-conscious landscaping and remnants of once-great orange groves. In the prewar years before freeways and superhighways the valley was mostly orange trees, but after the war the orange groves began to vanish and the valley became a bedroom community of low-cost family housing tracts. When I came to L.A. in the early seventies, there were still small bits of orchard dotted around Encino and Tarzana and Northridge, the trees laid out in geometric patterns, their trunks black with age but their fruit still sweet and brilliant with color. Little by little they have melted away into single-family homes and minimalls with high vacancy rates and high- density apartment complexes, also with high vacancy rates. I miss them. Minimalls are not as attractive as orange trees, but maybe that's just me.
Mark Thurman lived in a converted garage apartment in the northwestern part of the San Fernando Valley, about a mile west of Cal State, Northridge, in an older area with stucco bungalows and clapboard duplexes and mature landscaping. Though the structures are old, the residents are not, and most of the apartments are rented to college students or junior faculty from the university or kids out on their own for the first time. Lots of bikes around. Lots of small foreign cars. Lots of music.
I parked across the street from a flat-topped duplex and looked down the drive. The sheet of Watkins, Okum stationery said that Thurman drove a 1983 blue Ford Mustang as his personal car, but the Mustang wasn't around, and neither was the dark brown cop-mobile. Still out fighting crime, no doubt. Or tailing Jennifer Sheridan. A chain- link fence ran parallel to the drive along a row of eight-foot hedges. About halfway back, a little wrought-iron gate ran from the fence to the duplex, cutting the drive in half. Thurman's converted garage was in the rear yard behind the gate, snuggled against the hedges A set of sliding glass doors had been installed where the garage door used to hang and someone had built a little sidewalk out of stepping-stones that ran around the side of the place by the hedges. A curtain of vertical blinds was drawn across the glass doors and pulled closed. It was a nice, neat, well- kept place, but it didn't look like the kind of place a cop taking down heavy graft would keep. Of course, maybe Mark Thurman was smart, and the outward appearance of his home was just a dodge to throw off unsuspecting PI's. Maybe the inside of the place looked like Uncle Scrooge's money bin and the walls were lined with cash and bricks of gold. Only one way to find out.
I got out of the Corvette, strolled up the drive, and let myself through the little wrought-iron gate. A young German shepherd was lying by the gate beneath the hedges next door. He watched me come and when I let myself through the gate he lifted his head. I said, 'Woof.' He got up and walked with me. Police dog. If Thurman came home I'd have to go over the fence. Hope he didn't bite.
There were three young women lying on towels in the little yard that separated the duplex from the guest house. One was on her belly, the other two were on their backs, and the one nearest to me was up on an elbow, adjusting a radio. U-2. Nobody was wearing very much in the way of clothes, and you could smell the suntan oil. The one with the radio saw me first and made a little gasping noise. I said, 'Hi, ladies. Is Mark around?' Elvis Cole, the Smooth Detective.
The one with the radio relaxed and the other two looked over. The one without the radio was wearing little round sunglasses and the one on her belly smiled. The two on their backs were brunette, the one on her belly a blonde.
The one with the radio said, 'He's at work.'
I glanced at my watch and made a big deal out of looking disappointed. 'He said he'd meet me here. I guess he got hung up.'
The one on her belly said, 'Are you a cop, too?'
I said, 'Do I look like a cop?'
The three of them nodded.
I spread my hands. 'I'd do great undercover, hunh?'
The one on her belly said, 'I don't know. You might.'
The other two laughed.
The one with the little round glasses covered her mouth and said, 'Ohmygod, do you know who he looks like? He looks like Mel Gibson in
I was liking the one with the glasses just fine. Maybe thirty-nine wasn't so old after all.
The one with the radio said, 'If Mark told you he'd be here, he's probably on his way. He's pretty good about that kind of stuff.'
I said, 'I've just got to drop something off. You think he'd mind?'
Radio said, 'You could leave it with us.'
'Couldn't do that. It's business-related. And it's sort of a surprise.'
The one on her belly looked interested. 'Evidence.'
The one with the little round sunglasses said, 'Allie likes cops. She wants to see your gun.'
Allie slugged Sunglasses in the leg, and all three of them laughed.
The one with the radio said, 'Go ahead. Mark's cool. He keeps a spare key in a little Sucrets box to the left of the landing behind a plant pot.'
'Thanks.'
The German shepherd was waiting for me when I went around the side of the guest house, and followed me to the door. The Sucrets box and the key were exactly where Radio said they'd be. Some neighbors, hunh? I took out the key and let myself in. The German shepherd sat on his haunches and stared after me and whined. Helluva police dog, too.
Mark Thurman's garage had been converted into a pretty nice apartment. The side door opened into a living room, and from the door you could see the kitchen and another door that led to a bedroom and a bath. A brown cloth couch rested against the west wall and a shelving unit stood against the north. The east wall was the glass doors. A CD player and a Sony TV and a VCR and about a zillion CDs were in the wall unit, but the CD player and
