Body Copy - Michael Craven [68]
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
Michael Craven
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.
214
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