could muster, âis that he heard the phone ringing several times over the last few days through the walls, and going unanswered. So he assumed that somebody must have left a message. At least thatâs what he told me.â
âWell, I tried calling her several times,â Ricardo said, âbut I never left a message. I figured there was no point if she wasnât there to hear it.â
I opened my mouth to respond, and then shut it again. Ricardo Sandovalâs assessment that his sister had gotten all the brains in the family appeared to be quite accurate.
âLouie was always neat, even as a kid,â he said, looking around and the well-rummaged apartment. âShe wouldnât have left the place like this.â
âDid anyone else have a key to her apartment?â I asked him.
âI dunno. I doubt it, but I dunno. Think we need to call the cops?â
Now it was my turn to say I didnât know, but only because I was trying to think this thing through.
Finally, I said, âMr. Sandoval, how is it you have a key to Louieâs apartment?â
âOh, she had it made for me. I bunked here for a while when I was in between places of my own, and you can call me Ricky.â
âAll right, Ricky.â
âLouie was always great that way, helping me out when I needed it. Why?â
âWell, I donât want to alarm you, Ricky, but if you call the police and they know you have a key, you might become a suspect.â
âA suspect in what? Messing up my sisterâs place?â
âThey might think you had something to do with her disappearance.â
âThatâs loco talk!â he said.
âYes, I know, but Iâm trying to think like a policeman.â
â Are you a policeman?â Ricky asked, suddenly suspicious. âI thought you said you worked for the newspaper.â
âWhat I said was that I was doing a job for Louieâs editor, which I am.â I fished out a business card and handed it to him. âIâm a private investigator.â
âReally?â the big man asked, inspecting the card. âI didnât think there really were private eyes. It thought they were only in movies and TV shows.â
âThe real job isnât the same, but weâre still here,â I told him. âItâs probably not that different from what you do as a security guard.â
âWell, Iâm not really a guard. Iâm more of a bouncer. I work at the Tropico Room on the Strip.â
I knew that the Tropico Room was the current incarnation of a nightspot owned in the 1950s by a hugely popular entertainer with underworld ties.
âPretty classy.â
âLast week I had to carry Lana Loncraine to her limo. She was a littleâ¦â He made a drinking gesture.
Lana Loncraine was a former child star who had lived the high life before falling on hard times, and had just recently blown her six-hundredth chance at rehabilitation.
âManaged to cop a feel while doing it, too. They arenât real. Her chichis, I mean.â Just in case we didnât get it, he held his hands out in front of his own impressive chest.
âThey look real on TV,â Avery said.
âI know. I was surprised too.â
âGuys, can we please forget about Lana Loncraineâs boobs for a moment?â I broke in. âWe need to concentrate on a plan here.â
âWhat kind of plan?â Ricky asked.
âFirst, I think youâre right, Ricky, you should call the police and report Louie as missing. But they donât need to know you have a key, and frankly, they donât need to know that you were here today.â
âIsnât that like lying?â he asked.
âItâs like lying, but only if they ask you point blank, âwere you there, did you have a key?â and you say no. What Iâm suggesting is that you donât offer the information that you were inside Louieâs
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