in the army?”
“Why’d your confessor make up his story? If she’s a Munchausen, she’d
get off on teasing me with half-truths. It would sure be nice to get
hold of her discharge papers, Milo. Find out exactly what did happen
to her in South” “I can try, but it’ll take time.”
“Something else. I went looking for Chad Jones’s post-mortem chart
today but it was missing. Pulled by Ashmore’s research assistant in
February and never returned.”
Ashmore? The one who was killed?”
“The very same. He was a toxicologist. Stephanie had already asked
him to review the chart half a year ago, when she started getting
suspicious about Cassie. He did it reluctantly-pure researcher, didn’t
work with patients. And he told her he’d found nothing. So why would
he pull the chart again, unless he discovered something new about
Cassie?”
“If he didn’t work with patients, how would he know about Cassie in the
first place?”
“By seeing her name on the A and D’s-the admission and discharge
sheets. They come out daily and every doctor gets them.
Seeing Cassie on them time after time might have finally gotten him
curious enough to review her brother’s death. The assistant’s a woman
by the name of Dawn Herbert. I tried to get hold of her but she quit
the hospital the day after she pulled the chart talk about more cute
timing. And now Ashmore’s dead. I don’t want to sound like some kind
of conspiracy nut, but it’s weird, isn’t it? Herbert might be able to
clear things up, but there’s no address or phone number listed for her
from Santa Barbara down to San Diego.”
“Dawn Herbert,” he said. As in the other Hoover.”
“Middle name of Kent. As in Duke of.”
“Fine. I’ll try to squeeze in a trace before I go off shift.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Show it by feeding me. Got any decent grub in the house?”
“I suppose-” “Better yet, haute cuisine. I’ll pick. Gluttonous,
overpriced, and on your credit card.”
He showed up at eight, holding out a white box. On the cover was a
cartoon of a grinning, grass-skirted islander finger-spinning a huge
disc of dough.
“Pizza?” I said. “What happened to haute and overpriced?”
“Wait till you see the bill.”
He carried the box into the kitchen, slit the tape with his fingernail,
lifted the lid, removed a slice from the pie, and ate it standing at
the counter. Then he pulled off a second wedge, handed it to me, got
another one for himself, and sat at the table.
I looked at the slice in my hand. Molten desert of cheese, landscaped
with mushrooms, onions, peppers, anchovies, sausage, and lots of things
I couldn’t identi~ “What is this pineapple?”
And mango. And Canadian bacon and bratwurst and chorizo.
What you’ve got there, pal, is authentic Spring Street Pogo-Pogo
pizza.
The ultimate democratic cuisine-little bit of every ethnicity, a lesson
in gastronomic democracy.”
He ate and spoke with his mouth full: “Little Indonesian guy sells it
from a stand, near the Center. People line up.”
“People line up to pay parking fines too.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and dug in again, holding one hand under the
slice to catch dripping cheese.
I went to the cupboard, found a couple of paper plates, and put them on
the table, along with napkins.
“Whoa, the good china!” He wiped his chin. “Drink?”
I took two cans of Coke from the fridge. “This okay?”
“If it’s cold.”
Finishing his second slice, he popped his can and drank.
I sat and took a bite of pizza. “Not bad.”
“Milo knows grub.” He guzzled more Coke. “Regarding your Ms. Dawn
K.
Herbert, no wants or warrants. Another virgin.”
He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to
me. Typewritten on it was: Dawn Kant Hesbert, DOB 12/13/63,5’S”, 170
lb brown ~d brown. Mazda Miata.
Under that was an address on Lindblade Street, in Culver City.
I thanked him and asked him if he’d heard anything new on the Ashmore
murder.
He shook his head. “It’s going down as your routine Hollywood
mugging.”
“Right guy to mug. He was rich.” I described the house on North