Carr noted that with the passage of time, there was more time between arrests and fewer convictions. Also, Sheboygan's residence address, as listed on the face sheet of each arrest form, moved inexorably west from a trailer court in San Bernardino to apartments in Alhambra, Pasadena, Glendale, West Los Angeles and, finally, Beverly Hills. As the rent got higher, so did the lawyer's fees. The names in the fill-in box on the arrest report labeled Attorney Representing: were changed from names Carr recognized as the ex-public defender's, with offices near the county courthouse, to those with offices in Beverly Hills. The arrest package read like that of thousands of other crooks Carr had reviewed through the years. A biography of learning from experience.
Carr's final note was that there were no arrests in Beverly Hills. He tossed the file in a drawer and pulled the scrap of paper he'd taken from Sheboygan's apartment from his coat pocket. He picked up the phone and dialed the first number. The phone rang.
"Go," mumbled a man with a deep voice who sounded as if he might have just woken up.
"This is Charlie," Carr said. "I'm trying to get in touch with Lee Sheboygan. Do you know where I can find him?"
The man yawned. "You can probably find him at the cemetery," he said. "He got wasted by the cops."
"No shit."
"They caught him inside a house…which Charlie is this?"
"Charlie Carr. I need to get in touch with Lee's ex-roommate. Do you know where I can find him?"
"I never met any of his friends…who the fuck is this?"
"Thanks anyway," Carr said and hung up. He dialed another number.
A woman answered.
"This is Charlie. Did you hear about what happened to Lee?"
"You mean little Lee with the beard?"
"Right. He got killed in a shoot-out with the cops in Beverly Hills."
"Goddamn."
"I'm trying to find the guy he used to live with."
"Lee had some of my records and tapes. How am I going to get my records? They're in his apartment. How did you get my phone number?"
"I found it in Lee's apartment."
"Oh," she said.
"What is Lee's ex-roommate's name?"
"Have no idea," she said. "I met Lee at a party in Malibu. We dated once and he never called me again. Damn. How am I going to get my records?"
"Do you know any of his friends?"
"No, I don't," she said. "Would you get my records for me?"
Carr hung up the receiver and made a note of the numbers he'd called.
At the Los Angeles Police Headquarters building, Carr took the elevator to the third floor and followed the hallway to a door marked Homicide. The room was filled with detectives scattered at desks, most of whom were talking on the telephone. Higgins sat at a desk in the corner of the room. Except for his blond crew cut, he looked pretty much like the rest of the murder dicks; neither young, underweight nor particularly well dressed. Carr strolled to Higgins's desk, where, come to think of it, he had sat since Carr met him. It had been close to twenty years ago.
"How's Jack?" Higgins said.
"Doing as well as can be expected." Carr sat down.
"I heard it was a ricochet."
Carr shrugged. "I'm not sure. I was in another room when it went down. All Bailey remembers is seeing the suspect pull a gun. He doesn't remember how Jack was hit or even how many rounds he fired from the shotgun. You know how those things go."
Higgins nodded. "What were the positions?"
Carr pulled out a ballpoint pen. He drew a rough diagram of Jerome Hartmann's house on a pad of paper. He described where he, Bailey and Kelly were before the shooting. He drew an arrow to show the direction of fire.
Higgins rubbed his chin as he perused the diagram. He shook his head. "I guess anything can happen once the trigger is pulled," he said.
"I'm still trying to piece everything together. That's why I stopped by. I'd like to have you take a look at the reports and tell me what you think. You're the ballistics expert." Carr handed him the stack of reports.
Higgins looked Carr directly in the eye for a moment. "Sure," he said, "I'll check 'em out for you."
"There's something else," Carr said. He pulled out the photograph of Sheboygan and friends sitting around a cocktail table and handed it to Higgins. "There's a matchbook on the table. I need a blowup of it."
"No problem," Higgins said.
"I'd like to keep this just between you and me."
"Got it."
Carr nodded, got up and left.
It was almost 1:00 P.m. and Travis Bailey was alone in the police department's underground parking area. He strolled toward a row of vehicles with grease-penciled notes that read "Hold for Evidence" or "Impound" on their windshields. Lee Sheboygan's Mercedes-Benz was parked at the end of the row next to a Cadillac covered with fingerprint dust.
Bailey approached the passenger door of the car. With some difficulty, he tore the red evidence tape off the lock, inserted a key and opened it. To avoid soiling his sport coat, he took it off, folded it carefully and set it in the backseat.
He snatched an impound sheet off the dashboard. The section marked Comments read: "Owner was suspect/DOA after burg stakeout/Tow to police lot amp; hold as evidence per Det II Bailey." He set the sheet back on the dashboard. In the glove compartment he found an address book, credit card receipts, matchbooks, a bankbook and some telephone bills. Having scooped out the contents of the cubbyhole onto the floorboard, he searched thoroughly under the seats. He pulled out a sports car magazine, a pamphlet printed by a burglar alarm company and a thick wallet. In the wallet was a stack of credit cards, all bearing Sheboygan's name, a tiny address book (Bailey found his own initials and the Detective Bureau phone number scribbled on the first page), business cards of locksmiths, jewelers, antique dealers, owners of West Side art galleries, Hollywood massage parlors that Bailey knew were whorehouses and three hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.
Travis Bailey removed the cash and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Having dropped the rest of the items in the pile, he proceeded to the trunk. He unlocked it gently and lifted the lid. Inside was an open metal box and a duffel bag. The metal box was filled with pry bars, key blanks, lock-picks, ratchets of various sizes and other burglar tools. Scattered among the well-used instruments were five or six Polaroid photographs of two-story homes. He removed them and closed the toolbox. Next to the toolbox was a small zippered bag containing a jogging suit and a pair of running shoes. He examined the pockets of the suit carefully and recovered a pawnshop receipt for a diamond ring and a laundry ticket. He shoved these items, along with the photographs from the toolbox, into the duffel bag. After thoroughly searching the rest of the trunk, he removed the toolbox and the duffel bag and set them on the cement floor. He slammed the trunk lid shut.
Kneeling down, he filled the duffel bag with everything from the glove compartment, including the wallet and its contents.
Carrying the bag and the toolbox, he walked across the garage to a smelly room filled with trash receptacles. He shoved the duffel bag deep into a brimming trashcan. Using the stairs rather than the elevator, he proceeded to his office. Before he had a chance to wash his hands, Captain Cleaver stopped by his desk. Bailey noticed that he was wearing a monogrammed shirt.
"Find anything in the car?"
Travis Bailey shook his head. "Just burglar tools," he said as he opened the box and displayed its contents.
"No address books? Nothin' else?"
Bailey shook his head. "The man traveled light."
"Typical hit man."
The phone buzzed. Bailey picked up the receiver. It was for Cleaver.
"Yes, sir," Cleaver said. "Where did it occur? Okay, sir." As Cleaver stood with the receiver an inch or so from his ear, Bailey could hear the sound of a voice coming from the receiver. "Yes, sir," he said finally, "I'll certainly do my best. I'll try to take care of it." He set the receiver down.