But he wasn’t Kelly’s speed. He kept an eye out for her. He was devastated when Kelly was shot.”
“Was he ever a suspect?”
“Oh, no. Heavens, no. He’s just a regular guy. He was out of her day-to-day life. But he was the only one who knew Kelly’s family—her sister. He tried to help the police, but they gave up on the case very quickly.”
Tremaine nodded.
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Vicky said, “Right before she and Evan broke up, he told me he thought something weird was going on. That she was acting strange. You know, disappearing for days and things like that. It hurt him to lose her. To see her become someone else. To go from this beautiful, innocent girl to this beautiful, tragic one. But boy, was she sexy. One of those people who was just born good-looking. Kinda like you, Mr. Tremaine.”
Little Vicky Fong gave Tremaine a friendly wink.
Walking back to her apartment from the garage apartment, Vicky said something and Tremaine wondered why she hadn’t said it before. “I have a box of some leftover personal items. Of Kelly’s. Would you like to see it?”
It never ceased to amaze Tremaine the process by which people decided to dispense information. Why in the hell wouldn’t she have said that earlier?
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to see it.”
Vicky Fong dug around in her closet, back in her apartment now, and produced an old cardboard box about three times the size of a shoebox. On the top of the box, in Magic Marker, it said Personal Items.
It was initialed KB.
Tremaine said, “Why do you have this?”
“Nobody wanted it. The police looked through it for about five minutes. Kelly’s sister didn’t want it. So I kept it.
I have no idea why.”
“Kelly’s sister, Angela Coyle?”
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“Yeah, if you want to call her a sister. They had no relationship. I didn’t even know Kelly had a sister until Angela came out to tell the police what to do with the body.
Angela, she wanted nothing to do with any of it.”
“What about Evan? He didn’t want this stuff?”
“He’s seen it. He looked through it, too, but said he didn’t want it. He said it made him too sad. You know, because every little thing in there was a piece of Kelly.”
Tremaine nodded. Vicky Fong handed him the box and said, “You can’t take it, but you can look at it all you want.
Why don’t you go in the kitchen.”
Tremaine sat at Vicky’s little kitchen table and studied the contents of the box. His initial reaction was very similar to the cops’. Not a whole lot here.
Pictures of Kelly, of Kelly and her friends. Yeah, Kelly was stunning, like a femme fatale almost, you could see the tragedy in her beautiful eyes. And there were letters, a book or two, some personal items from childhood, an old newspaper clipping reviewing a performance of Kelly’s in a small play in Santa Barbara. Amazing, Tremaine thought, how a little box of stuff, a small collection of items, could give such a personal glimpse into someone’s life. Not necessarily a broad or even totally accurate look, but a personal one, to be sure. Reinforced by the sheer fact the little collection of things was meaningful enough to be kept in the first place.
Outside the kitchen, Vicky shuffled around, straightening things, making her already neat apartment that much neater. She said aloud, “I’ve got to straighten up that storage room. It’s a mess.”
Tremaine appeared outside the kitchen.
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Vicky said, “Are you finished looking through the stuff?”
Tremaine said, “I’m going to go make a quick phone call, then I’ll be right back. Okay?”
“Sure,” Vicky said. “Take your time.”
Tremaine walked out to his car and got in. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed up Lopez.
“Lopez,” he said.
“Hey, it’s Tremaine. Got a quick favor. You can just add it to my tab.”
“Your tab’s getting pretty long there, buddy.”
“Yeah, well, I’m looking into the Kelly Burch case, so you could argue that I’m actually helping the LAPD. I’m doing you guys a favor.”
“A valiant effort, Tremaine, but this is going to mean you buying me another steak. At this rate, you might just want to buy me a cow. Or a farm.”
“You should take your act on the road.”
Lopez laughed and said, “What’s up?”
Tremaine said, “You at your computer?”
“Yeah.”
“Look up a guy named Dean Latham.”
Tremain spelled it out for him.
About twenty seconds later, Lopez said, “Got two of
’em.”
“Just like that,” Tremaine said.
“Modern technology strikes again. It looks like one of them probably isn’t of too much interest.”
“Dead?” Tremaine guessed.
“No, but close. He’s ninety-seven. But if you do decide to talk to him, make sure to talk into his good ear.”
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Tremaine laughed. “What about the other one?”
“The other one’s forty-five. Lives in the Hollywood Hills. And, looky here, he’s got a criminal record.”
“Drugs?” Tremaine guessed.
“No, public drunkenness, indecent exposure.”
“Could be he took a leak on the side of the road and ran into a cop having a bad day, but, you never know—could also indicate the guy gets into trouble,” Tremaine said.
“So, who is this guy?” Lopez asked.
“I don’t know. I was looking through some of Kelly Burch’s stuff and I came across the name.”
And he had, on a card that was stuck in the middle of an old paperback, almost like a bookmark. It was like a business card, but it didn’t have an address or a phone number, just a name.
Tremaine continued. “Could be nothing, but I thought I’d have you run a check while I was here at Kelly’s old apartment. Just in case it generated something interesting.”
“Well, the Latham here in the old computer seems to be pretty clean. Other than, like you said, possibly taking a whiz in public. You want his address and phone number?”
“Yeah,” Tremaine said, “I do.”
Tremaine walked back into Vicky Fong’s apartment. Vicky was standing in her little living room in that way that people stand when they’re waiting for someone to enter.
Sort of an unnatural pose.
She said, “Did you find something in the box?”
“Probably not,” Tremaine said. “Just a name I wanted 213
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to check out while I was here. Guy named Dean Latham.
Kelly kept his card. Have you ever heard of him?”
Vicky thought about it. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t ring a bell. But that doesn’t surprise me. Kelly never dropped many names. She wasn’t into specifics.”
“Maybe Evan can help with that one. Could be nothing. Could have been an accident that the card was even in there. It was stuck in a book,” Tremaine said.
“Yeah, ask Evan. If he can help, he will. But that name, Dean, doesn’t ring a bell,” Vicky said.
Vicky Fong walked Tremaine out to his car.
“Thank you for your help, Vicky.”
“I never thought an old hippie surfer would be showing up at my door today.”
There she goes again with the hippie thing, Tremaine thought, smiling as he opened the door to the Cutlass.
Vicky said, “How come they called you ‘Insane Tremaine’?”
“That was the name of a surf video a company released.
It showed me attempting to ride some pretty big waves.
Waves I guess they thought I shouldn’t have attempted in the first place. On the video I do a lot of falling.”
“Well, when you went for the waves, did you think you could make them?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“So what’s so insane about that?”
“I don’t know,” Tremaine said.
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C H A P T E R 3 1
Finding Evan Mulligan was, in a word, easy. Vicky Fong had given Tremaine his address: 132 Courtney Street, L.A. It was a little green house, just above Sunset. Nice street, nice neighborhood.
It was getting dark now, Tremaine had spent almost two hours with Vicky Fong. He pulled the Cutlass into a spot, got out of his car, and walked up to Evan Mulligan’s house.
He rang the doorbell, the door opened, and there was Evan Mulligan. The guy he wanted to talk to, right in front of him, just like that.
Tremaine looked at Evan Mulligan, probably thirty-five, good shape, big even, brown hair, balding a little, blue eyes. He was dressed in running shoes, shorts, and a shirt drenched in sweat. Vicky had said he was a jock type. He sure looked like it now.
Michael Craven
Evan said, “Yes?”
“My name is Donald Tremaine. I’m a private investigator. I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.”
Evan said, “Dude, I paid my taxes, and I’ve got all the receipts for my write-offs.”
Tremaine smiled at his joke. “Actually I’m investigating a murder. Not specifically the murder of Kelly Burch, but I’m looking into the possibility of there being a connection between her murder and the murder I’m investigating.”
Evan’s expression changed. Tremaine could see by this change, in his eyes and in his body language, that this was a subject Evan took very seriously. No more jokes. Evan said, “Come on in.”
Tremaine entered Evan’s house. Pretty nice place. Definitely a guy’s place. Beads hanging down in a couple of the doorways. Carpet, dark furniture. A basketball sitting in a chair. But a pretty nice house, probably worth upward of seven, eight hundred grand. Looked like two bedrooms, the front one that Tremaine could see had been converted into an office.
Evan said, “Let me change my shirt. I just went for a run. Have a seat.”
From the back room, Evan said, “Wanna beer?”
“Beer would be great,” Tremaine said.
Evan was now in the kitchen, in the back, and Tremaine could hear him open the fridge and clank a couple bottles together as he grabbed the beers. Evan reentered the main room, where Tremaine was still standing, and said, “Grab a seat, man.”
Both of them were now seated in comfortable chairs in 216
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the living room, having a beer. Tremaine watched Evan, now wearing a T-shirt that said fresno state soccer, take a big swig.
Tremaine said, “Did you play for Fresno State?”
“First two years. But then, dude, I tore my ACL. It was brutal.”
“That’s a great program. Ranked number one in what,
’87?
“Dude, I can’t believe you know that.”
“Addicted to the sports page.”
“Solid,” Evan said, finishing his beer. “ ’Nother?”
“Not yet,” Tremaine said.
Evan got himself another beer, then sat back down and started the Kelly Burch dialogue for Tremaine, saying, “I have to admit, when you said you were a private detective, I had no idea what you wanted. And then you mentioned Kelly, and it, like, shocked me, hearing her name.
It’s been a while since I’ve talked about it with anyone. But I’m glad someone’s looking into it, because at the time of the murder . . .”
Evan paused for a second, almost reconsidering what he was going to say. Then he said, “Well, I’m just glad someone’s looking into it. I hope I can help. What’s up?”
“You were Kelly’s boyfriend for a time?”
“Yeah, when she first got to L.A. We met at a party. We dated for a few years, her first few years here. Dude, this girl, before she started with the drugs and all that . . . You know about the drugs?”
“Yes.”
“Well, anyway, she was a ten. I mean, she was perfect.
And sweet, too. Really sweet.”
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“What,” Tremaine said, “after a while you couldn’t take her lifestyle?”
“Yeah. I wanted to stay together at first. But then she started doing coke all the time, not calling me back and stuff. I’d catch her in lies. It was sad. The classic beautiful girl who comes to L.A. to be an actress and gets swept away by the scene. It’s a cliché. But it happens. I’ve seen it firsthand.”
“How long after you broke up was she killed?”
“Just over a year.”
Tremaine said, carefully, “Were there other men in her life after you? I mean, anyone she had a relationship with, anyone I could talk to?”
“Nothing serious,” Evan said. “I mean, let’s face it, drugs lead to things—she was
with
other men, probably lots of them. But nothing serious.”
It probably hurt Evan to admit this, but he had a matu-rity about the subject, a willingness to talk about it. He said,
“She was approached all the time, everywhere she went.
But she never got serious with anyone, at least she never mentioned it to me. You know, I don’t think she could get serious with anyone. She was married to her habit.”
Tremaine said, “Like I said, I’m actually not investigating Kelly’s case directly. I’m investigating the murder of a man named Roger Gale and looking for a connection. Do you know that name, Roger Gale?”
Evan said, “Yeah, he was the big ad guy.”
“Right,” Tremaine said.
Evan, wearing an expression that was both surprised and confused, said, “Did he have something to do with Kelly?”
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“Probably not. Except for the fact that they were murdered on the same day.”
Shaking his head as if saddened all over again by the news, Evan said, “And probably lots of others in Los Angeles, too, right?”
“Just one,” Tremaine said. “I checked that one out as well.”
“Are you finding a connection between any of them?”
“Not yet,” Tremaine said.
“Well,” Evan said, suddenly showing some edge, “I don’t think the police ever really had any interest in solv-ing Kelly’s murder. She had a drug problem and had no money, no family to speak of. I really don’t think they gave a shit.”
This must be what Evan had wanted to say before, when he cut himself off, Tremaine thought. Maybe he didn’t want to appear too cynical right off the bat.
Tremaine said, “Unfortunately, you may be right.”
Then, “You mentioned the drugs. Do you think that’s what led to Kelly’s murder?”
“Probably,” Evan said, more pensive now than irritated.
“I think Kelly got way more into drugs and cocaine and crack than she ever let on, especially to me, because every time we talked, which was less and less after it got worse, I was always on her case about it. But you couldn’t control Kelly. And then, maybe she did something that pissed off the wrong person and . . .” Evan paused. “They killed her.”