He said, “Okay.”
“For all we know his name’s not even Drummond,” said Petra. “Yuri’s probably fake and so why not the surname?” The incident with Olive Gilwhite had left her combative.
Stahl didn’t answer.
“Let’s go,” Petra said, shoving the card at him and grabbing her purse.
“Where?”
“On a Drummond-search.”
19
Kevin Drummond’s Rossmore address matched an eighty-year-old, three-story brick-faced, mock Tudor just below Melrose, where the street turned into Vine and commercial Hollywood began.
The mansions of Hancock Park were a brief stroll south, and between that high-priced real estate and Drummond’s block, sat the Royale and the Majestic and other elegant, doorman-guarded buildings. Gorgeous old vanilla-colored dowagers, facing the green velvet links of the Wilshire Country Club, built when labor was cheap and architecture meant ornament. Petra had heard that Mae West had lived out her days in one of them, clad in satin gowns and keeping company with young men till the end. God bless her.
But any vestiges of glamour had faded by the time you got to Drummond’s street. The bulk of the buildings were ugly boxes knocked into place during the fifties, and the remaining older structures appeared ill tended, like Drummond’s. Several bricks were missing from the facade and a warped slat of cardboard shielded a second-story window. On the ground floor, protection was provided by rusty security grates across the front door and the street-level windows. The alarm sign on the scrubby little lawn was that of a shoddy company Petra knew had been out of business for years. The hub, indeed.
To the right of the entrance were twenty call buttons, most with the tenant IDs missing from the slots. No identification for Drummond’s second-story unit. The names that remained in place were all Hispanic or Asian.
Petra pushed Drummond’s button. No answer. She tried again, leaned on the buzzer. Nothing.
Unit One was the manager, G. Santos. Same result.
She said, “Let’s try the other two.”
Randolph Drummond’s place on Wilton was a sixty-unit, pink-stucco monster built around a cloudy swimming pool. Drummond’s apartment was at street level, facing the traffic. No security here, not even a symbolic gate across the cutout that led to the complex, and Petra and Stahl walked right in and up to Drummond’s door.
Petra’s knock was answered by a boomy “Hold on!” The lock turned and the door opened and a man leaning on aluminum elbow crutches said, “What can I do for you?”
“Randolph Drummond?”
“In the flesh. Such as it is.” Drummond’s torso canted to one side. He wore a brown v-neck sweater over a yellow shirt, spotless khakis, felt bedroom slippers. His hair was white, neatly parted, and a snowy beard bottomed a full face. Weary eyes, seamed skin, mild tan. Hemingway on disability.
Petra would have guessed his age as closer to fifty-four than forty-four.
Massive forearms rested on the crutches. A big man above the waist, but skimpy legs. Behind him was a bed-sitting room—the bed open and covered with a silk throw. What Petra could see appeared military-neat. The sounds of classical music—something sweet and romantic—streamed toward the detectives.
Waste of time. Handicap aside, this was no zine guy. She said, “May we come in, sir?”
“May I ask why?” said Drummond. Jovial smile but no give.
“We’re investigating a homicide and looking for a man who calls himself Yuri Drummond.”
Drummond’s smile expired. He shifted his weight on the crutches. “Homicide? Lord, why?”
His reaction made Petra’s heart beat fast. She smiled. “Could we talk inside please, sir?”
Drummond hesitated. “Sure, why not? Haven’t had a visitor since the last wave of do-gooders.”
He stamped backward on his crutches and cleared space, and Petra and Stahl stepped into the apartment. Inside, the music was louder, but barely. Kept at reasonable volume—issuing from a portable stereo on the floor. One room, just as Petra had thought, outfitted with the bed and two armchairs, a cubby kitchen. A tiny bathroom could be seen behind the arch in the rear wall.
Two plywood bookcases perpendicular to the bed were filled with hardcovers. Literary fiction and law books. Drummond had been busted for manslaughter; a jailhouse expert?
Petra said, “Do-gooders?”