"Do you know if she kept much money here'?"
"I don't know at all. I don't suppose she got an awful lot from the store-enough to get by on-but I don't know."
Higgins started to explain to her why they'd have to take her prints. She just nodded dumbly. This looked like the crude attack, and there might be prints. It might get unraveled rather easily, or never.
"She was such a nice woman," said Mrs. Sadler. "It's just awful, a thing like that happening."
The mobile lab truck came and later the morgue wagon. Higgins and Palliser waited while Horder dusted the address book, and took it to look at. There was a phone number listed simply under JULIA at a Pasadena exchange and they tried it, but there wasn't any answer.
NICK GALEANO got to McClintock's Restaurant on Sunset at eleven o'clock. It was an old place, but good middle-class, middle-priced. He talked to the manager, Don Whitney, who was shocked to hear about Rose Eberhart.
He said, "What a hell of a thing. I tried to call her when she didn't show up. Thought maybe she was sick. What the hell was it?- I don't think that she was more than in the forties. She was a good waitress-reliable. She'd worked here for nearly ten years. What the hell happened to her?"
"We're not sure yet, Mr. Whitney. She was here yesterday?"
"Sure, just as usual. She was on from ten to six. She'd been on the evening shift up to last month. All the girls would rather work that because you get better tips through the dinner hour, but we change around-give all of them a chance at it."
"She left about six?" By the night report, Eberhart's car had been at its usual slot at the apartment, an old two-door Ford.
"That's right. My God, this shakes me. Like it says-in the midst of life."
"Had she had any trouble with anybody lately, would you know?"
"My God, not that I know of. Rose was an easygoing girl, got along with everybody fine. I can't get over her being dead."
"Well, I'd like to talk to some of the other waitresses, if you don't mind," said Galeano.
"Sure, sure, anything we can do to help you find out about it. There's not much trade in until noon. You can use this booth, let me get you a cup of coffee. I'll send the girls over."
There were four waitresses, only one of them under forty. They were all upset to hear about Rose. Apparently they'd all been friendly with her but not close, they were just surprised and sorry. The one who seemed to have known her best-the two of them had worked here longer than the others-was Marie Boyce. She was a plain-faced thin dark woman about forty.
"Was she a widow, divorced, or what?" asked Galeano. "Did she have any family?"
"She was divorced. Second time about three years back. Yes, she had a daughter from her first husband, she lives back East somewhere-I think it's Cleveland."
"Could you say if she was much of a drinker, I don't mean on the job, but just to relax at home?"
She looked indignant. "She sure wasn't. Not that I do much of it, either, but I don't feel as strong as she did about it. Rose was just death on liquor. She wouldn't take a drink on a bet. She'd seen too much of that with her first husband, he was a lush."
"Well," said Galeano. "Do you know any of her other friends? Did you see much of her aside from on the job?"
She shook her head. "I only saw her at work, but Rose wasn't one to socialize much. She always said she was just glad to get home at the end of the day and put her feet up. This job can be tough on a person's feet, you know."
So Eberhart hadn't been drunk and fallen down. Galeano came out and got into the car, automatically switching on the air-conditioning, and drove down to Rosemont Avenue.
The manager, Peterson, wasn't home. His wife said the police had asked him to go down to headquarters to make a statement. Galeano went down the hall and looked at the door to Rose Eberhart's apartment. The lab men had put a seal on it when they finished work. She'd been right in the open doorway-the door was open-that's how the manager had spotted her when he came past with the trash. The door just opposite bore the name KOLHER the name slot beside the bell. He pushed the bell and faced an elderly little woman with gray hair and glasses. She looked at the. badge and started to talk without any questioning.
"Oh, about Mrs. Eberhart, it's an awful thing. The police were here when we got home and Mr. Peterson told us. Was it a heart attack? She wasn't all that old."
"We don't know yet, Mrs. Kohler. You were out last night?"
"Yes, at our daughter's place in Glendale. It was my birthday, we had an early dinner about five-thirty and played bridge all evening, we didn't get home until eleven."
Galeano reflected, so there had been nobody close enough to overhear any argument in the hall, with that apartment door open. He talked to her another few moments, but she hadn't any more to tell him. They hadn't known Rose Eberhart except casually, exchanged the occasional hellos and that was all.
Galeano came back to the car and decided it was time for lunch. He stopped at a cafe on Silver Lake Boulevard and after debate ordered the chef 's salad. Marta was too good a cook, he'd put on a few pounds lately and he'd better watch it. And this Eberhart thing now looked definitely like a homicide. See what the lab turned up, but before that, have a look through the apartment for addresses and phone numbers, talk to everybody she'd known. In fact, the usual legwork.
THE CAB DRIVERS had been trooping in most of Saturday afternoon, from two cab companies-Yellow and Checker. Among them, fourteen drivers had picked up fares at International Airport between noon and one o'clock last Saturday. They all had a look at the close-up photos. One of them said, "In the usual way I wouldn't be sure. You're only looking at the fare for just a minute, but I think for damn sure I'd have remembered this girl. She's a real beaut." And several of the other cabbies echoed that in different words.
Only one of them, who came in at about four o'clock, shook his head at the enlargement. "I'm not sure. It could be, it couldn't be. The fare I picked up at International, as far as I recall, was a girl about this age, I guess."
Cab drivers got around and saw a lot of people and he didn't remember where he'd taken her, but the dispatcher had the record. It was an address in West Hollywood, Norma Place. Mendoza could guess what the fare had been from Inglewood. Most people flying in here, to any airport in a big city, would be met by friends or relatives, or rent a car at the airport. Nobody took a cab here unless it was necessary.
When the last driver went out, he looked into the detective office and beckoned to Hackett. Higgins was on the phone, Palliser typing a report. Nobody else was there.
"A possible lead on Grandfather," said Mendoza. By now all the various police forces had reported in, and nobody had received any missing report on Juliette Martin. They drove out to West Hollywood in the Ferrari. The address was a dignified old Spanish house with a red-tiled roof and neat green lawn, a well-tended rose bed in front. In a quiet way it said Money. Mendoza shoved the doorbell and after a moment the door opened and they faced a nice-looking middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, intelligent eyes; she was very smartly dressed in a beige sheath and high-heeled sandals, She looked at the badges in surprise.
"Police-what's it about? Not an accident! My husband?"I
"Nothing like that, no, ma'am," said Hackett hastily.
"But then, what is it?"
"Someone took a cab to this address from International Airport last Saturday, Mrs.-" Mendoza waited, watching her.
"Lucas, I'm Mrs. Lucas, Mrs. Timothy Lucas. Do you want to see Linda? What on earth about?"
"Linda who?" asked Hackett.
"Well, for heaven's sake, Linda Barlow, my niece, she's not here right now, she's at the college, and what the police want with her I can't imagine. Yes, she got in from Chicago last Saturday, and my car was in the garage and Tim had to drive up to San Francisco on business, so I told her to take a cab at the airport and I'd pay the fare."