Body Copy - Michael Craven [65]
been to this little stretch in a while. He could see the Hollywood Hills to the north, the Beverly Center Mall right to his left. He even snuck a glance over at Nude Nude Nude, a famous strip club right on La Cienega. He remembered a case he’d investigated a few years back that required him to visit that particular establishment a handful of times. But he hadn’t enjoyed it at all, going in there and talking to all the strippers. Nope. It was just business. That’s right, just business. Tremaine smiled as he drove by it. What was that one dancer’s name? The one he interviewed a couple times?
Rhonda? Tonya? Something like that. She was pretty.
Couldn’t spell her own name, but she was pretty. She could dance, too. Stay focused, Tremaine . . .
Tremaine got off La Cienega, weaved through some of the back streets, then onto North Harper. He found a spot right away. Out of his car now, he looked at the names listed on the panel at the front door of 347 N. Harper and, sure enough, he found Vicky Fong, the landlady from the police report. He rang the bell.
“Who is it?” a voice said from the buzzer box.
Tremaine said, “Is this Miss Fong?”
“Who is it?”
“I’m a private detective. I was hoping to talk to you about Kelly Burch.”
The buzzer rang.
Tremaine entered the building—not a dump, but certainly not nice. He found Apartment 101 and, before he knew it, Vicky Fong appeared. About five-two, with a furrowed brow. Her black hair graying a little. She wore a little kimono dress.
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She said, “Is someone finally looking into the case again?”
“Not really,” he extended a hand. “My name is Donald Tremaine.”
Her skeptical look turned into a smile and she said,
“The old hippie surfer?”
Tremaine laughed. Hippie? Whatever. That year he won the world title paid off every now and then. “I don’t think I was ever a hippie, but those years are a little foggy.”
Vicky Fong laughed and said, “We used to watch you at the U.S. Open. I grew up in Huntington.”
Tremaine politely thanked her for remembering him, then gave her the standard routine about his life after the waves. She invited him in.
Inside her neat, modest apartment, Tremaine sat down and began explaining himself. “I’m actually investigating another case. Another murder. A man by the name of Roger Gale. Do you know that name?”
“No. But what does he have to do with Kelly?”
“Nothing.”
“So?”
“So, the case I’m on is a tough one. I’ve found out a lot about the man, Gale, but it’s only made me more confused.
Right now, I’m doing a little poking around with the murders that happened on, or near, the date of Gale’s.”
“You think they might be connected?”
“I don’t know. But I’d love to ask you a few questions about your former tenant.”
Vicky Fong made some coffee and continued to pepper Tremaine with questions about his surf days. When they 206
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both had a cup, and were both seated in the living room, they got to the matter at hand.
Tremaine said, “What was Kelly Burch like?”
“She was a drug addict. But don’t let me get off on the wrong foot. I loved Kelly, she was a sweet girl. I felt sorry for her.”
“Why?” Tremaine said.
“She was so beautiful, so beautiful, but she was sad. She had no family except one sister, who wasn’t in her life.”
Then Vicky said, “She didn’t live in this building. She lived above the garage in the back. I barely charged her rent.”
“Can I see where she lived?”
Tremaine and Vicky walked out the front door, then around to the back of the apartment, where there were six garages. Over the last two, the building became two stories. Kelly Burch’s old apartment.
“That’s where she lived,” Vicky said. “We rented out the room to her for five years. When she first got to town, she wanted to be an actress. But that never really went anywhere. After a while, she didn’t go to any more auditions, she just went to the parties. And then she got into drugs.
She was a sweet girl.”
“Who lives there now?”
“No one. We were only taking four hundred