“Have you made any progress at all?”
Milo shrugged.
Sonny Koppel said, “Whatever the group therapy thing was, it’s not going to happen. Albin Larsen called me yesterday, said it was okay to rent out the bottom floor. Mary was the glue that held them together. With her gone, it wouldn’t surprise me if Larsen and Gull tried to break their lease.”
“They don’t like the building?”
“I’m not sure they’ll be willing to take on the financial burden. Mary got a sweetheart rent deal from me. There’s no lease, it’s month to month.”
“You’re gonna raise it?”
“Hey,” said Koppel, “business is business.”
“You have a problem with them?”
“I had very little to do with them. Like I said, Mary held things together. Whenever there was some business to discuss- a repair, whatever- Mary was the one who’d call.” Koppel smiled. “I didn’t mind. It was a chance for us to talk. Now…”
He threw up his hands.
Milo said, “She was the business person, but it was Larsen who got her interested in halfway houses.”
“He struck me as an idea guy,” said Koppel. “But when it came to the nuts and bolts, it was all Mary.”
“Mary and you.”
“I had nothing to do with the day-to-day operations. I just know something about real estate.”
“Like getting government funding,” said Milo.
Koppel nodded. No blink, no tremble, not a single errant muscle.
“Did your ex-wife ever ask for help getting some sort of government funding for the group therapy she planned downstairs?”
“Why would she? What would I know about therapy?”
“You’re a savvy person.”
“In my limited sphere,” said Koppel. “I already told you, Mary never consulted me on professional matters.” He twirled his fork. “It’s getting to me. Mary’s death. Pretty stupid, huh? We hadn’t been together for years, how often did we talk, once a month, tops. But I find myself thinking about it. For someone you know to go like that.” He caressed his voluminous belly. “This is my second dinner. I do that- add meals- when things pile up.”
As if to illustrate, he ingested two bacon strips.
“Mary was a powerful person,” he said, between mouthfuls. “It’s a big loss.”
Milo waltzed around the prison rehab issue, but Koppel wasn’t biting. When Koppel called over to the counterman for a double order of rye toast and jelly and tea with honey, we left him opening marmalade packets and returned to the Seville.
Milo said, “So what’s his game?”
“Sounding you out. And letting you know he knew nothing about Mary Lou’s professional dealings.”
“Nudging us closer to the blonde.”
“Closer to Jerry Quick,” I said. “Deflecting attention from himself.”
“A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space- think they’re pulling up the tents?”
“Probably.”
“The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”
“One way to find out,” I said.
Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.
The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade- painted-over graffiti.
No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.
The twin gates meant two groups of mail slots. A. Paul’s button was on the north end of the building. Apt 43. No answer. No manager’s unit listed. Back to the southern gate.
Apt 1, no name, just Mgr.
It was 11:40 P.M. Milo jabbed the button.
I said, “Let’s hope for a night owl.”
“What’s a little sleep deprivation in the service of justice?”
A male voice said, “Yes?”
“Police.”
“Hold on.”
I said, “He doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the tenants are interesting.”
A buzzer sounded, and we pushed through the gate.
The fifty units were arranged in two tiers that looked down on a long, rectangular courtyard that should have held a pool. Instead there was sketchy grass and lawn chairs and a collapsed umbrella. A couple of utility doors on the ground floor were marked TO PARKING LOT. Three satellite dishes rimmed the flat roof. TV sounds washed across the courtyard. Then: music, a smudge of human voice, breaking glass.
The manager’s unit was just to the right, and a man stood in the open doorway. Young, short, maybe thirty, with a head shaved clean and a little frizzle of chin beard. He wore gym shorts, a baggy white T-shirt that read WOLF TRAP 2001, and rubber flip-flops.
When we reached him, he said, “I was expecting uniforms.”
“You get a lot of uniforms?”
“You know, noise calls and such.”
Milo flashed his ID.
“Lieutenant? Is this serious or something?”
“Not yet, Mr…”
“Chad Ballou.” He extended his hand for a soul-shake, thought better of it, and rotated into the conventional position.
Milo said, “Lots of noise calls?”
Ballou’s eyes traced the tiers. “Not more than you’d expect with all these people. I tell the tenants to let me know first if there’s a problem, but sometimes they don’t. Which is fine, I don’t really want to deal with their stuff.”
“You manage the units full-time?” said Milo.
Chad Ballou said, “Relatively full-time. My parents own the place. I’m at CSUN, studying classical guitar. They think I should study computers. The deal is I do this instead of their just giving me money.” He smiled cheerfully. “So what’s up?”
“We’re looking for Angela Paul.”
Ballou touched his chin growth with his right hand. His nails were longish and glossed. Those on his left hand were clipped short. “Paul… Forty-three?”
“That’s the one.”
“The stripper.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“She put it on her lease application,” said Ballou. “Brought in pay stubs from a club to prove it. My folks wouldn’t have approved, but I said, hey, why not? Her income’s better than a lot of the losers who try to get in.” Ballou grinned. “They put me in charge, I figure it’s up to me to decide. Anyway, she’s been no problem, pays her rent. What’s the deal?”
“We want to question her about an ongoing investigation.”
“Have you tried her unit?”
“No answer.”
“Guess she’s out.”
“She out a lot?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Ballou.
“You have a pretty good view from your place,” said Milo.
“When I’m here, I’m mostly practicing or studying. Unless there’s a complaint. And she never complained about anything.”
“She have visitors?”
“I couldn’t tell you that, either. I haven’t really seen her much. Forty-three’s all the way on the north end, upstairs. She can take the corner staircase down to the parking lot door, go in and out without being noticed.”
“So you’ve never seen her with anyone else?”
“Nothing registers.”
Milo showed him the shot of the blond girl.
Ballou’s eyes widened. “She looks dead.”
“She is.”
“Wow- so this is really serious. Is she going to be in trouble- the stripper? All I need is for some big mess that freaks out my parents.”
Milo waved the photo. “Never seen her?”