When he got back to his partner, who had put Filmore U. Bracken in the backseat of the car, Wesley showed him the card and said, “Teddy gave me this license number. Belongs to tweakers stealing from mailboxes. The guy’s name is Freddy or Morley.”
“All tweakers steal from mailboxes,” Hollywood Nate said, “or anything else they can steal.”
It seemed to Wesley that he shouldn’t just ignore the tip and throw the license number away. But he didn’t want to act like he was still a boot, so he went back to Teddy, handed him the card, and said, “Why don’t you take it to a post office. They have people who investigate this sort of thing.”
“I think I’ll hang on to it,” Teddy said, clearly disappointed.
Driving to the station, Nate got to thinking about the secretary who worked for the extras casting office he’d visited last Tuesday. She had given him big eyes as well as her phone number. He thought that he and Wesley could pick up some takeout, and he could sit in the station alone somewhere and chat her up on his cell.
“Partner, you up for burgers tonight?” he asked Wesley.
“Sure,” Wesley said. “You’re the health nut who won’t eat burgers.”
And then, thinking of the little secretary and what they might do together on his next night off, and how she might even help him with her boss the casting agent, Nate felt a real glow come over him. What he called “Hollywood happy.”
He said, “How about you, Filmore, you up for a burger?”
“Hot damn!” the derelict said. “You bet!”
They stopped at a drive-through, picked up four burgers, two for Wesley, and fries all around, and headed for the station.
When they got there, Nate said to their prisoner, “Here’s the deal. I’m giving you not only a burger and fries, but a get-out-of-jail-free pass. You’re gonna sit in the little holding tank for thirty minutes and eat your burger, and I’ll even buy you a Coke. Then, after my partner writes an FI card on you for future reference, I’m gonna let you out and you’re gonna walk back up to the boulevard and get your shopping cart and go home to your nest, wherever that is.”
“You mean I ain’t going to jail or detox?”
“That’s right. I got an important phone call to make, so I can’t waste time dicking around with you. Deal?”
“Hot damn!” Filmore said.
When their passenger got out of the car in the station parking lot, Wesley looked at the car seat and said to Filmore, “What’s that all over the seat? Beach sand?”
“No, that’s psoriasis,” said Filmore U. Bracken.
“Oh, gross!” Wesley cried.
B.M. Driscoll and Benny Brewster caught the call to the apartment building on Stanley north of Fountain. They were half a block from the L.A. Sheriff’s Department jurisdiction of West Hollywood, and later Benny Brewster thought about that and wished it could’ve occurred just half a block south.
The apartment manager answered their ring and asked them inside. It was by no means a down-market property. In fact, B.M. Driscoll was thinking he wouldn’t mind living there if he could afford the rent. The woman wore a blazer and skirt and looked as though she had just come home from work. Her silver-streaked hair was cut like a man’s, and she was what is called handsome in women her age.
She said, “I’m Cora Sheldon, and I called about the new tenant in number fourteen. Her name is Eileen Leffer. She moved in last month from Oxnard and has two young children.” She paused and read from the rental agreement, “A six-year-old son, Terry, and a seven-year-old daughter, Sylvia. She said she’s a model and seemed very respectable and promised to get us references but hasn’t done it yet. I think there might be a problem.”
“What kinda problem?” Benny asked.
“I work during the day, but we never see or hear a peep from the kids. The owner of the building used to rent our furnished units to adults only, so this is new to me. I’ve never been married, but I think normal kids should be heard from sometimes, and these two are not. I don’t think they’re enrolled in any school. Even on weekends when I’m home, I never hear or see the kids.”
“Have you investigated?” B.M. Driscoll asked. “You know, knocked on the door with maybe an offer of a friendly cup of coffee?”
“Twice. Neither time was there a response. I’m worried. I have a key, but I’m afraid to just open the door and look.”
“We got no probable cause to enter,” Benny said. “When was the last time you knocked on the door?”
“Last night at eight o’clock.”
“Gimme the key,” B.M. Driscoll said. “And you come with us. If there’s nobody home, we all just tiptoe away and nobody’s the wiser. We wouldn’t do this except for the presence of little kids.”
When they got to number fourteen, Benny knocked. No answer. He tapped sharply with the butt of his flashlight. Still no answer.
Benny called out, “Police officers. Anybody home?” and knocked again.
Cora Sheldon was doing a lot of lip biting then, and B.M. Driscoll put the pass key in the lock and opened the door, turning on the living room light. The room was messy, with magazines strewn around and a couple of vodka bottles lying on the floor. The kitchen smelled of garbage, and when they looked in, they saw the sink stacked with dirty dishes. The gas range was a mess with something white that had boiled over.
B.M. Driscoll switched on a hallway light and looked into the bathroom, which was more of a mess than the kitchen. Benny checked the master bedroom, saw an unmade bed and a bra and panties on the floor, and returned with a shrug.
The other bedroom door was closed. Cora Sheldon said, “The second bedroom has twin beds. That would be the children’s room.”
B.M. Driscoll walked to the door and opened it, turning on the light. It was worse by far than the master bedroom. There were dishes with peanut butter and crackers on the floor and on the dresser top. In front of the TV were empty soda cans, and boxes of breakfast cereal were lying on the floor.
“Well, she’s not much of a housekeeper,” he said, “but other than that?”
“Partner,” Benny said, pointing at the bed, then walking to it and shining his light at wine-dark stains. “Looks like blood.”
“Oh my god!” Cora Sheldon said as B.M. Driscoll looked under the bed and Benny went to the closet, whose door was partially open.
And there they were. Both children were sitting under hanging garments belonging to their mother. The six-year-old boy began sobbing, and his seven-year-old sister put her arm around him. Both children were blue-eyed, and the boy was a blond and his sister a brunette. Neither had had a decent wash for a few days, and both were terrified. The boy wore shorts and a food-stained T-shirt and no shoes. The girl wore a cotton dress trimmed with lace, also food-stained. On her feet she wore white socks and pink sneakers.
“We won’t hurt you, come on out,” Benny said, and Cora Sheldon repeated, “Oh my god!”
“Where’s your mommy?” B.M. Driscoll asked.
“She went with Steve,” the girl said.
“Does Steve live here?” Benny asked, and when Cora Sheldon said, “I didn’t rent to anyone named -” he shushed her by putting up his hand.
The little girl said, “Sometimes.”
B.M. Driscoll said, “Have they been gone for a long time?”
The little girl said, “I think so.”
“For two days? Three days? Longer?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Okay, come on out and let’s get a look at you,” he said.
Benny was inspecting the stain on the bed, and he said to the girl, “Has somebody hurt you?”
She nodded then and started crying, walking painfully from the closet.
“Who?” Benny asked. “Who hurt you?”
“Steve,” she said.
“How?” Benny asked. “How did he hurt you?”
“Here,” she said, and when she lifted her cotton dress slightly, they saw dried blood crusted on both legs from her thighs down, and what looked like dark bloodstains on her lace-trimmed white cotton socks.