The woman laughed and tossed the hair off her freckled face. "Are you kidding? It was a relief to get out of that office! I just wish it could have been for a more pleasant reason."
Driving out of the rec area Johnnie observed, "Nice dame."
"Dame?" Noah glanced in the rearview mirror. Johnnie's arms were stretched against the back seat and an unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth.
"What are you, Humphrey Bogart?"
"Did either of you get hits on the pictures?"
Johnnie pulled a list from his pocket.
"Yeah, we got a couple."
Frank compared his list to hers. One of the pictures showed up on both their lists.
"Daniel Nathan Sproul," she said. "Let's check him out."
Turned out that Daniel Nathan Sproul had three priors, two drug-related, one for lewd behavior. The computer spit out an address for him and at six o'clock that evening Frank and Noah were on his doorstep. He lived in an apartment in Baldwin Hills and he came to their knock sleepily, as if they'd woken him.
Frank held her badge up to him, asking if he was Daniel Nathan Sproul.
"What if I am?"
"If you are we have some questions for you."
"This isn't a good time," he answered dreamily. "Why don't you come back later?" He slumped against the doorframe, his eyes on the detectives but looking through them.
"What are you on?" Noah asked politely.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what are you trippin' on?"
He smiled. "Ain't trippin'."
"Internal possession's a felony, Sproul. But to be honest, we're not narcs. We're homicide cops. I don't care if you're shootin'. I just want to ask you some questions."
Sproul smiled, as if a long lost buddy was waving at him from behind the homicide cops.
"Do you know what today is?" Frank asked.
"First day of the rest of my life?" Sproul guessed.
"The date," Frank said patiently. "What is today's date?"
Sproul giggled. "I don't know. You're cops. You should know stuff like that."
Noah reached behind for his cuffs.
"Take him in?"
"May as well put him in the cooler and see what we can get out of him in the morning."
Noah hooked him despite a feeble protest, checking out the track marks on his arms. They drove him downtown, right through the bright lights and glamour that people called L.A.
Sproul didn't look very good when he came out of the chilled holding cell almost a day later. He was only twenty-two but could have easily passed for being in his late thirties. His skin was tinted yellow and he needed a shave. The muscles in his arms held no tone. He was nearly as tall as Noah, though, and broader. Even in bad shape a young girl shouldn't be trouble for him.
In the tiny interview room Noah asked Sproul basic questions—name, age, occupation, education—that required simple, innocuous answers. The detectives already knew the information, but it gave them a chance to establish their suspect's verbal and physical style when he was relatively relaxed and calm. As they questioned him, any changes in this style could be indicators that he had tensed or was nervous about something.
"So how long you been chippin?" Noah asked.
"I don't know," he responded tiredly, "two, three years."
"Kinda dangerous isn't it?"
The young man shrugged.
"What's it to you?"
Noah shrugged back.
"What do you know about this girl?" he asked, slapping a color picture of Melissa Agoura under Sproul's nose.
Sproul peered closer, then squirmed back against his chair.
"Who the fuck is she?" he asked, glancing up at the detectives.
"Melissa Agoura. Recognize her?"
Sproul eyed the ugly picture again.
"Uh-uh. What happened to her?"
"You tell us," Noah said.
"Fuck if I know."
Then they could see it dawning on him.
"You think I did this?"
"Did you?"
"Fuck no! I'm a junkie, not a murderer," he said sincerely.
"There's no law says you can't be both."
"Well I'm not."
"Why don't you tell us about the 288 you got pulled on?"
"The what?"
"The little incident when you were arrested for accosting women on the street?"
"Aw, shit, that wasn't anything," Sproul said dismissively. "I was messed up. Just being stupid with my friends."
"Doesn't seem like you got a lot of respect for the ladies."
"I got plenty, I was just fooling around. Didn't mean nothin' by it."
"Maybe you didn't mean nothin' when you started batting her around—"
"—I never touched her! I don't even know who she is. I never seen her before now."
Noah changed tack.
"You know where the Kenneth Hahn Recreation Area is?"
Sproul was puzzled by the switch but answered affirmatively.
"You ever been there?"
"Yeah. Lots of times."
"What do you go there for?"
Sproul hesitated, obviously reluctant to answer. The detectives pushed and he copped to meeting his dealer there.
"Did you ever see her there?"
Noah slid a family photo of Agoura across the scarred table. Sproul looked at it carefully.
"No. She the one who got beat up?"
"What do you do when you're in the park waiting to score?"
"I don't know. Just hang out."
"You ever talk to anybody?"
"I don't know. It's not like I'm hanging around a lotta people when I'm trying to make a deal go down, you know?"
"Think. Who have you ever talked to?"
"I don't know."
They could see him thinking.
"Maybe I've said hi to the guy picking up trash. Or the girl at the entrance."
"What girl?"
"The one in the booth as you come in."
"You ever said hello to any other girls?"
"I can't remember. I don't think so, at least none I remember."
Noah asked Sproul where he was on October 19th and Sproul laughed.
"Like I know just off the top of my head."
"It was a Sunday. What do you normally do on Sundays?"
"That's the weekend. I don't know what I was doing. I coulda been doin' anything."
"Like what? What do you like to do when you're not working or chipping?"
Frank watched silently as Sproul groped for answers. Noah asked about other dates, then changed subjects and quizzed Sproul about his social life. Sproul was answering easily, willingly. He was leaning over the table, facing Noah with his hands open, holding his gaze easily. Frank didn't get any indication that Sproul was their man, but she let Noah play out the interview.
An hour later he stood and motioned Frank to follow him outside.
"I don't think this kid knows shit," he said.
"I don't either. Let's lose him."
They went back into the box.
"Mr. Sproul, do you have any vacation plans?"
"No."
"So if we came to find you at home in a day or two, or at work, you'd be there?"
"Well, yeah. I mean if I wasn't out, or..."
"Or what?" Frank asked.
"Or in jail."
"Why would you be in jail?"
"Felony possession," he reminded her patiently.
"We're going to let you go, Mr. Sproul. Don't leave town. Here's our number. If you have to leave you'd better call us first or you're going to be in a world of hurt."
Sproul couldn't believe he was being let go.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. Let's just say you owe us one."
Sproul clearly wasn't happy about owing the LAPD a favor, but he was eager to get home.
"So I'm free to go?"
Frank nodded dispassionately. She was hungry and tired, and it seemed like all the cases lately were diggers, but knowing that the interviewee was always watching the interviewer, Frank betrayed no emotion. She opened the door, and Daniel Sproul scuttled out to find his next fix.