privileges.
I went back the way I came, took the elevator down to the lobby, then used the pay phone there to call Jennifer Sheridan in Marty Beale’s office. I asked her for Floyd Riggens’s address. She said, “Which one?”
“What do you mean, which one?”
“He’s divorced. He used to live in La Cañada, but now he’s got a little apartment somewhere.”
I told her that if she had them both, I’d take them both. She did. She also told me that Riggens’s ex-wife was named Margaret, and that they had three children.
When I had the information that I needed, I said, “Jennifer?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mark ever complain to you about Floyd?”
There was a little pause. “Mark said he didn’t like having Floyd as a partner. He said Floyd scared him.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said Floyd drank a lot. Do you think Floyd is involved in this?”
“I don’t know, Jennifer. I’m going to try to find out.”
We hung up and I went out of the building and across the street to my car.
CHAPTER
8
F loyd Riggens was living in a small, six-unit stucco apartment building on a side street in Burbank, just about ten blocks from the Walt Disney Studio. There were three units on the bottom and three on top, and an L-shaped stair at the far end of the building. It was a cramped, working-class neighborhood, but working class was good. Working class means that people go to work. When people go to work, it makes things easier for private eyes and other snoopers who skulk around where they shouldn’t.
I parked three houses down, then walked back. Riggens had the front apartment, on top. Number four. None of the units seemed to belong to a manager, which was good, but the front door was open on the bottom center unit, which was bad. Light mariachi music came from the center unit and the wonderful smells of simmering
menudo
and fresh-cut cilantro and, when I drew closer, the sound of a woman singing with the music. I walked past her door as if I belonged, then took the stairs to the second level. Upstairs, the drapes were drawn on all three units. Everybody at work. I went to number four, opened the screen, and stood in Riggens’sdoor with my back to the street. It takes longer to pick a lock than to use a key but if a neighbor saw me, maybe they’d think I was fumbling with the key.
Floyd Riggens’s apartment was a single large studio with a kitchenette and a closet and the bath along the side wall. A sleeping bag and a blanket and an ashtray were lined against the opposite wall and a tiny Hitachi portable television sat on a cardboard box in the corner. A carton of Camel Wides was on the floor by the sleeping bag. You could smell the space, and it wasn’t the sweet, earthy smells of
menudo.
It smelled of mildew and smoke and BO. If Floyd Riggens was pulling down graft, he sure as hell wasn’t spending it here.
I walked through the bathroom and the closet and the kitchenette and each was dirty and empty of the items of life, as if Riggens didn’t truly live here, or expect to, any more than a tourist expects to live in a motel. There was a razor and a toothbrush and deodorant and soap in the bathroom, but nothing else. The sink and the tub and the toilet were filmed with the sort of built-up grime that comes of long-term inattention, as if Riggens used these things and left, expecting that someone else would clean them, only the someone never showed and never cleaned.
There were four shirts and three pants hanging in the closet, along with a single navy dress uniform. Underwear and socks and two pair of shoes were laid out neatly on the floor of the closet, and an empty gym bag was thrown in the far back corner. The underwear and the socks were the only neat thing in the apartment.
An open bottle of J&B scotch sat on the counter in the kitchenette, and three empties were in a trash bag on the floor. The smell of scotch was strong. A couple of Domino’s pizza boxes were parked in the refrigerator along with
I went back the way I came, took the elevator down to the lobby, then used the pay phone there to call Jennifer Sheridan in Marty Beale’s office. I asked her for Floyd Riggens’s address. She said, “Which one?”
“What do you mean, which one?”
“He’s divorced. He used to live in La Cañada, but now he’s got a little apartment somewhere.”
I told her that if she had them both, I’d take them both. She did. She also told me that Riggens’s ex-wife was named Margaret, and that they had three children.
When I had the information that I needed, I said, “Jennifer?”
“Yes?”
“Did Mark ever complain to you about Floyd?”
There was a little pause. “Mark said he didn’t like having Floyd as a partner. He said Floyd scared him.”
“Did he say why?”
“He said Floyd drank a lot. Do you think Floyd is involved in this?”
“I don’t know, Jennifer. I’m going to try to find out.”
We hung up and I went out of the building and across the street to my car.
CHAPTER
8
F loyd Riggens was living in a small, six-unit stucco apartment building on a side street in Burbank, just about ten blocks from the Walt Disney Studio. There were three units on the bottom and three on top, and an L-shaped stair at the far end of the building. It was a cramped, working-class neighborhood, but working class was good. Working class means that people go to work. When people go to work, it makes things easier for private eyes and other snoopers who skulk around where they shouldn’t.
I parked three houses down, then walked back. Riggens had the front apartment, on top. Number four. None of the units seemed to belong to a manager, which was good, but the front door was open on the bottom center unit, which was bad. Light mariachi music came from the center unit and the wonderful smells of simmering
menudo
and fresh-cut cilantro and, when I drew closer, the sound of a woman singing with the music. I walked past her door as if I belonged, then took the stairs to the second level. Upstairs, the drapes were drawn on all three units. Everybody at work. I went to number four, opened the screen, and stood in Riggens’sdoor with my back to the street. It takes longer to pick a lock than to use a key but if a neighbor saw me, maybe they’d think I was fumbling with the key.
Floyd Riggens’s apartment was a single large studio with a kitchenette and a closet and the bath along the side wall. A sleeping bag and a blanket and an ashtray were lined against the opposite wall and a tiny Hitachi portable television sat on a cardboard box in the corner. A carton of Camel Wides was on the floor by the sleeping bag. You could smell the space, and it wasn’t the sweet, earthy smells of
menudo.
It smelled of mildew and smoke and BO. If Floyd Riggens was pulling down graft, he sure as hell wasn’t spending it here.
I walked through the bathroom and the closet and the kitchenette and each was dirty and empty of the items of life, as if Riggens didn’t truly live here, or expect to, any more than a tourist expects to live in a motel. There was a razor and a toothbrush and deodorant and soap in the bathroom, but nothing else. The sink and the tub and the toilet were filmed with the sort of built-up grime that comes of long-term inattention, as if Riggens used these things and left, expecting that someone else would clean them, only the someone never showed and never cleaned.
There were four shirts and three pants hanging in the closet, along with a single navy dress uniform. Underwear and socks and two pair of shoes were laid out neatly on the floor of the closet, and an empty gym bag was thrown in the far back corner. The underwear and the socks were the only neat thing in the apartment.
An open bottle of J&B scotch sat on the counter in the kitchenette, and three empties were in a trash bag on the floor. The smell of scotch was strong. A couple of Domino’s pizza boxes were parked in the refrigerator along with
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