"What happens if Vikki doesn't recognize any of the mug shots?" Kelly said, looking blankly at the road.
"Back to square one," Carr said. He yawned.
While putting their service revolvers in the jail safety locker, a hefty matron in a green uniform told them that Vikki had just bailed out. The lady sheriffs glossy lipstick was painted slightly over the edges of her lips, giving her mouth a gigantic appearance.
"Bail bondsman from the San Fernando Valley," she chirped. "He had an order from a judge."
"Well, I'll be god damned," Kelly said. "You might have figured that some Communist judge would screw things up."
"Communist?" the heavily rouged deputy said, smiling.
"That's right, sweet meat. Why else would a judge release a hype on bail? Hypes are sick. They couldn't find their way back to court even if they wanted to."
"Well, they all do it these days."
"That's because they're all Communists. Lawyer Communists. All judges were lawyers once. Don't forget that."
"I guess I never looked at it quite like that." The deputy adjusted a straining bra strap.
Carr and Kelly walked across the parking lot to the government sedan. "I hope Vikki went back to Leach's place," Carr said. "Otherwise we might never be able to find her." He put the stack of mug shots in his coat pocket. He really hoped Vikki was home.
Kelly parked the sedan in the driveway of the pink apartment house next door to Leach's.
"Watch this," Carr said. He stuck his head out the passenger window and spoke in a loud whisper toward the apartment house.
"Is she home?"
"Came in two hours ago in a taxi. She's alone. Why'd you let her go?" said the woman.
"She bailed out," Carr answered. He opened the door and got out of the sedan. Kelly followed.
"Who the hell is that?" Kelly said.
"I don't know," Carr said.
They walked to the front door. Kelly knocked loudly. There was no answer. The house was still.
Kelly stayed at the front door. Carr walked along the driveway and into the back yard. He knocked on the screen door and waited. No answer. Cupping his hands to his eyes, he leaned forward against the screen. Vikki was at the corner kitchen table. Quietly, he felt the door handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. Hothouse air. A burner on the gas stove was on.
Vikki was sitting in the greasy wallpapered breakfast nook, in a dinette chair. A fixing spoon, cotton ball, and an open can of dog food decorated the table. She leaned forward, resting her head on the Formica table as if taking a nap, her right arm, palm up, outstretched.
The syringe was still in her arm.
Carr touched her neck with two fingers. He could tell she was dead.
He sat down resignedly at the table, not concerned about disturbing the evidence. It was accidental, and if it wasn't, he knew there was no way to prove otherwise in an overdose.
Kelly came in the back door.
"We're back to square one," Carr said. He looked at Kelly.
Kelly turned slightly pale. He stepped back.
"O.D.?" Kelly's voice was thick.
Carr nodded.
"I'll get to the radio," Kelly said. He trotted out the back door.
Carr removed the stack of photographs from his pocket and shuffled through them.
ELEVEN
The doors of the postwar apartments faced a cement rectangle the width of a boxing ring. On the windowsills were red clay pots containing cacti and other succulents, some of which were alive. The area smelled of fried food.
Red Diamond knocked three times on a screen door that had a sign saying MANAGER.
A middle-aged woman in a helmet of hair rollers opened the door. She wore a housecoat.
He asked her about Mona as if he had a right to.
"Mona Diamond?" she said. "She moved out of apartment number four about two years ago. Who wants to know?"
"Routine credit investigation," said Red. "She's applied for a loan with our company."
The woman nodded tediously, as if she had something better to do.
"Was she living with anyone?"
"Lived alone. Seldom saw her with anyone. Once in a great while some man would spend the night and leave the next morning. Different guys. This only happened every couple of months. She kept to herself. Did you know her husband was in prison? Some kind of a confidence man. Apparently he really dumped on her. She hated him."
Red shook his head calmly.
"That's all I know about her. Nice gal. Kept to herself. No parties." The woman took a bobby pin from the pocket of her housecoat and plunged it into one of the hair rollers. "Is there anything else?"
"Where did she work?"
"She was a waitress-you know, coffee shops, restaurants-nothing too fancy."
"Where is she working now?"
"I saw her a couple months ago at a coffee shop about six blocks from here. It's on Wilcox below Hollywood Boulevard…the left side…Who did you say you were with?"
"National Credit Bureau," said Red.
"I always ask. You never know who you're talking to these days. There's millions of rapists and stranglers. I hate like hell to even open the door."
"Yes, ma'am," said Red in patrolman style. "Thanks for your help." He walked away holding his breath.
Though dark, it was still sweltering in Hollywood.
Red parked the Cadillac in front of the bay window of the Movieland Coffee Shop. He got out of the car and walked to a sidewalk pay phone without taking his eyes off Mona. Looking bored, she served steaming coffee to customers at the counter. He dropped a dime in the telephone.
A woman answered. "Sovereign Rent-a-Car, Hollywood office. This is June speaking."
Red cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. "Hello, June. This is Dr. Richard Sanders. I rented a Cadillac from you two weeks ago."
"Dr. Sanders…uh…we've been expecting you to return the car. Your contract was a two-day rental."
"That's what I called about. I'm in Phoenix for a heart surgeons' convention and I just wanted to let you know I'll have the car back to you in another week or so."
"Oh…well, I guess that will be okay. It's just that you didn't have any credit cards…"
"Young lady, I certainly wouldn't call if I didn't intend to pay for the rental."
"Certainly, doctor. I apologize if.
"No problem. See you in a week."
"Thank you for calling, doctor."
Red hung up the phone. He wrote "Heart Convention Phoenix" on a card in his wallet, because he knew that details were always important. Stories must be kept straight.
Mona wiped the counter with a rag. Red asked himself how many women over forty could be attractive, yes, sexually attractive, dressed in a puff-sleeved waitress uniform? Perhaps it was the combination of the tiny waist and the full, high breasts. Her blonde hairdo was the same as years ago, when she served drinks at the Sahara in Las Vegas.
Red remembered how the high rollers all had their tongues hanging out when she swished between the crap tables with trays of drinks, and the legs of a fashion model.
Though she could have had anyone she wanted at that time, it was he who had ended up at the Chapel of Dreams saying vows, with a young Tony Dio as best man. It was in the frenetic days of casino credit, room service, and quick, solid scores; his partner, Tony Dio, bringing in the suckers from Atlanta and Chicago to buy stock, land, and gold that didn't exist.
Mona flitted along the counter, filling cups again from a steaming glass pot. She was making her best thin-lipped smile.
Red rolled up the Caddy's windows and concentrated for a moment on relaxing, then tightening, his stomach muscles. It was his own device for trying to calm nervous intestines.
He got out of the car and walked across the street to the coffee shop. With a deep breath for sphincter control, he swung open the glass door and walked in. He took a seat at Mona's section of the counter.