Two versus three was a crucial distinction. Erna Murphy had been killed three days ago. Two would mean Strobe had zero credibility.
“Two or three, choose one,” said Petra.
“I’d hafta say three.”
“Where’d you see her, Duncan?”
“ ‘Roun Bronson, Ridgeway, ‘roun there, you know.”
Not far from where Erna’s body had been found. Petra squinted at Strobe, took in his scrawny frame, the double bags under his eyes, incipient wrinkles. The kid had what, five more years?
Strobe fidgeted under her scrutiny, rocked on his heels, twisted his hair. Girlish gesture, but nothing feminine about this kid. He was a victim turned to predator. On a dark, secluded street Petra wouldn’t have approached him without backup.
“What time was this?” she said.
“Like I said . . . late.” Another chuckle. “Or early, depending.”
“What time?”
“Two, three, four.”
“A.M.”
Strobe stared at her, stunned by the idiocy of the question. “Yeah,” he said.
“What were you doing there, Duncan?”
“Hanging.”
“Who were you hanging with?”
“No one.”
“Hanging all by yourself.”
“Hey,” said Strobe, “least I know I got good company.”
Hollywood near Bronson was only a short stroll from Hospital Row on Sunset. Perfect place to score pills from some corrupt doctor or nurse or pharmacist, then back to the boulevard for resale. More than theory. Petra knew last year Narcotics had busted a surgical resident playing wholesaler. Idiot studies that hard, gets that far, only to blow it.
She said, “I’m figuring you were doing a little trading.”
Strobe knew exactly what she meant and he flashed a gap-toothed grin. Green stuff grew on his gums. Lord.
Petra said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
“She’s a crazy, right?”
“Was.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what I saw, a crazy, acting crazy, walking up and down crazy, talking to herself. Like any other crazy. Then some car picked her up. A john.”
“You’re saying she was hooking?”
“What else do bitches do at night when they’re walking back and forth.” Strobe laughed. “So what, he cut her? We got a Jack Ripper or something?”
“You’re amused by all this, Duncan.”
“Hey, you get your laughs where you get ’em.”
“Do you know for a fact that she was hooking?”
“Well . . . sure. Why not?”
“There’s ‘sure’ and there’s ‘why not,’ “ said Petra.
“I gotta choose one again?”
“Cut the crap, Duncan. Tell me what you know for a fact and there’s another twenty in it for you. Keep this up, and I take back the first bill and book you on something.”
“Hey,” said Strobe, in that same scary voice. Petra figured she’d probably averted something nasty between him and the hot-tempered falafel vendor. For the time being.
Strobe’s eyes were all over the place, and his emaciated frame had tightened up. Checking out an escape route.
Or planning something aggressive?
Then he glanced at Petra’s purse.
Her gun was inside, right on top. Her cuffs were on her belt, riding the small of her back.
He wouldn’t be that nuts—would he?
She smiled, said, “Duncan, Duncan,” grabbed him, spun him, bent his arm back, fumbled with the cuffs, got one wrist, then the other.
“Aw, ‘Tective!”
A quick frisk produced a crumpled, half-empty pack of Salems, a baggie of pills and capsules, and a rusted pocketknife.
“Aw,” he repeated. Then he began bawling, like a baby.
She put him in the backseat of her car, stuffed the cigarettes in his shirt pocket, ditched the dope down a sewer drain—sorry, Pacific Ocean—pocketed the knife, got in front, unzipped her purse, placed her hand on her gun.
Tears drizzled from the kid’s eyes.
“I’m real sorry, ‘Tective Connor,” he said, sounding around twelve. “I ain’t trying to jerk you aroun’, I’m just hungry, is all, need a sandwich.”
“Not enough business?”
Strobe looked in the direction of the storm drain. “Not no more.”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t have time for games. Tell me exactly what you know about Erna Murphy and what you saw three nights ago.”
“I don’ know nothing about her, don’ even know her name,” said Strobe. “I just seen her like I told you, I know she’s one a the crazies—”