At 8:30 P.M. he reached a Colette Murphy in Brooklyn.
Eleven-thirty, her time. She said, “You woke me up.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Not expecting much, Stahl gave her the line—tracing Donald on a routine investigation, no mention of Erna’s name.
She said, “Christ, at this hour? That’s not me, it’s my sister-in-law. My husband’s brother married her, and they had a crazy kid. I’m Colette, and Donald finds himself a Colette, too. Weird, right? Not that it’s any great shakes being in this family. They’re both bums. My Ed and his brother.”
“Donald?”
“Who else.”
“Where’s your sister-in-law?”
“Six feet under,” said Brooklyn Colette.
“Where’s Donald?”
“Who knows, who cares?”
“Not a nice guy.”
“A bum,” she said. “Like Ed.”
“Could I talk to Ed?”
“You could if you were six feet under.”
“Sorry,” said Stahl.
“Don’t be. We weren’t close.”
“You and your husband?”
“Me and any of them. When Ed was alive, he beat the hell out of me. I finally got some peace. Until you woke me up.”
“Any idea where I can find Donald?”
“Thanks for the apology,” she said.
“Sorry for waking you, ma’am.”
“I think he was out in California. What’d he do?”
“It’s about his daughter Erna.”
“The crazy one,” said Brooklyn Colette. “What’d she do?”
“Got murdered,” said Stahl.
“Oh. Too bad. Well, good luck finding him. Check bum places. He drank like a fish. Same as Ed. Navy never cared. Made him a sergeant, or whatever they call them in the Navy—petty something. No big war hero, he shuffled papers. Made himself out like he was a hero. Liked to wear that uniform of his, go to bars, try to pick up women.”
“Military types do that.”
“You’re telling me?” said Brooklyn Colette. “I was married to one for thirty-four years. Ed was Coast Guard. Then he joined the Port Authority, sat at a desk, and made like he was an admiral.” She cackled. “Finally, his ship came in, and I’m on high ground. I’m going back to sleep—”
“One more thing, ma’am,” said Stahl. “Please.”
“It’s late,” she snapped. “What?”
“Do you recall what Navy bases your brother-in-law was stationed at?”
“Somewhere in California. San Diego, or something. I remember we visited them one summer. Sat around doing nothing, some hosts. After that they got to go to Hawaii, Navy sent ’em to Hawaii, can you believe that? Like a paid vacation.”
“How long were they in Hawaii?”
“A year or so, then Donald retired, got the pension, they moved back to California.”
“San Diego?”
“Nah, somewhere near L.A., I think. We lost contact. Me, I’da stayed in Hawaii.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“How would I know? They were stupid. Talking about that side of the family is bringing back bad memories. Good-bye—”
“Any idea where near L.A.?” said Stahl.
“Didn’t you just hear me, mister? Where do you get off, asking all these questions, this hour of the night. Like you got a right. You sound military—you did military time, am I right?”
“I served, ma’am.”
“Well goody for you, oh-say-can-you-see-by-the-dawn—enough of you, soon I’m gonna see the dawn.”
San Diego to Hawaii made it easy. Back to the SSI list. Donald Arthur Murphy, sixty-nine years old.
Somewhere near L.A. Despite her problems, Erna hadn’t strayed far from home.
It was too late to access Navy or county property files, so Stahl drove to his one-room flat on Franklin, removed his clothes, folded them neatly, got on his bed, lay atop his blanket, masturbated briefly while thinking of nothing, showered, and scrubbed himself raw. Then he placed prewashed, precut salad greens on a paper plate, added a can of tuna because he needed protein, ate quickly without tasting, went to sleep.
The next morning, he used his home phone.
Donald Arthur Murphy owned no real estate in L.A. County. Same for Orange, Riverside, San Bernadino, all districts south, to the Mexican border. Stahl worked his way through the northern counties up to Oregon. Still no hits.
A renter.
He phoned the Navy office in Port Hueneme, finally obtained the address where Murphy’s pension check was sent each month.
Sun Garden Convalescent Home. Palms Avenue, in Mar Vista.
A half hour car ride. Connor hadn’t called him in a while, but he wanted to keep things orderly, so he phoned her at the station. Knowing she wouldn’t be in. He left a message—document everything. Tried her home number, got no answer.