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
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
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