I had this flash of Humphrey Bogart charming the bookstore clerk in The Big Sleep. Lemme see, now, could I remember my Doghouse Riley imitation?
“Well,” she whispered, lips pursed, “we change shifts at midnight. It’s kind of late to be going out, so we all kind of stick together. Usually we go out as a group, maybe three nights a week, over to the Commodore Lounge at the Holiday Inn, you know. But lately, one of the girls on the shift hasn’t been around after work. Somebody said she’d been dating one of the doctors. A married one.”
I grinned at her, a motion that brought a devilish grin to her face as well. “And you think it might have been Fletcher?”
“Well, that’s not to say he was the only doctor who’d cheat on his wife. But if you ask me, he’d be near the head of the line.”
“Jackie, darling, I did ask you. And I’m glad I did. You’ve been a great help. Who is she?”
Jackie shut down for just a bit, either playing coy or honestly wondering if she’d talked too much. I tried to figure out a ploy to keep her talking.
Suddenly, she shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “Oh, why not? I’m sure LeAnn didn’t have anything to do with this. She’s a sweet girl. I’ve known her for months now. She’s just the cutest thing you ever saw.”
Yeah, I thought, doll freaking precious. “What’s LeAnn’s last name, Jackie? I just want to speak to her. That’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sure everything’s all right. LeAnn won’t mind. Her last name’s Gwynn. LeAnn Gwynn.”
I spelled the last name out loud, making sure I got it right. Then: “Where’s LeAnn now, Jackie? She on the floor?”
“No, tonight’s her night off.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Well, not exactly. I’ve never been out to her apartment. Somewhere on Franklin Road, though.”
“I’ll check the book.”
“Oh, she’s got an unlisted number. She told me some guy’d been calling her, hassling her. The usual trash, you know. I had to have my number changed just last month.”
“Gee. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be,” she said. “The guy was a jerk.”
“So how do you get in touch with her in emergencies?”
“Oh, that’s easy. We call Personnel during business hours, or at night the information operator can pull it up on the computer. Only nobody’s really supposed to know that. Say, Harry, we’re going to be over at the Commodore tonight. Why don’t you drop by, join us for a drink?”
I was old enough to be her father, or at least her much older brother. The truth is that I’m at the age where the thought of being at a table full of twenty-two-year-old nurses is more intimidating than arousing. My God, what would I say to them?
“The Commodore at midnight, huh? Sure, I’ll try to make it.”
She smiled. “I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay, Jackie. Hey, listen, thanks for your help.”
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 O. A moment later, the operator’s voice came on. “May I help you?”
“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 M and D.
“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 doodle-doodle-do of the machine.
“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.