not likely. There had been no seminal fluid in her vagina, anus or mouth. Mario Villalobos had checked with Hollywood, Wilshire and Central divisions. There hadn’t been a street whore murdered for several months, and earlier victims were not killed like this one.
Mario Villalobos, using the passkey given to him by Oliver Rigby, broke the coroner’s door seal, entered, and sat on the bed in the dismal little room of Missy Moonbeam thinking how much he’d love to have a double shot of vodka. He’d just about conceded that this had the earmarks of a case that faded away under a deluge of “investigation continued” follow-up reports, and finally was forgotten. When street whores were done in by unknown suspects, the possibilities were infinite. It usually became one of those “an arrest is imminent” gags when the lieutenant asked about it every month or two.
Even Missy Moonbeam’s trick book was pathetic. It bore the names of every superstar in Hollywood along with phone numbers allegedly belonging to the superstars. He smoked and shook his head wearily, and imagined the frail little coke freak with the man-in-the-moon tattoo on her thigh, stroking the ego and the limp penis of some john who couldn’t get it up until she showed him how lucky he was to be turning a trick with a girl who regularly balled the biggest superstars in Hollywood. And here were their names and phone numbers in her trick book to prove it. And as often as not, when the john started looking at those names and imagining himself treading the same ground that his favorite movie actors had trod, so to speak, it was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Burt and Clint and Warren, and… Jesus Christ! Look out, man-in-the-moon! I’m coming through!
It was such a corny old game that it made the detective pity all the Thelma Bernbaums he had known. Then when he picked up the trick book he saw another piece of writing on the back of the book. There were doodles around the name, squiggly lines and jagged, manic, red slashes. There was a red ballpoint pen lying beside the book. A name and phone number were scrawled within the jagged doodles. The entry was not written neatly, as were the other names and numbers, by an Omaha child raised with the Palmer penmanship method. It was written by the same hand all right, but it was scrawled, no slashed across the book. It was on the page not with the play phone numbers, nor the real ones, the numbers that turned out to be sisters in Omaha, an aunt in Kansas, a V. D. clinic in Hollywood, an answering service favored by street whores. All the numbers that counted. It was slashed across the back of the book, and it aroused his curiosity.
The name was Lester. The telephone number was not a metropolitan Los Angeles number. When he got back to the squad-room, Mario Villalobos ran the telephone number and it came back to the Division of Chemistry and Chemical Engineering, at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, one of the foremost institutions of scientific learning in all of America.
Mario Villalobos wondered if Lester was some student or professor who, tiring of science all day, occasionally enjoyed a little of Missy Moonbeam’s “art” in the drab little room on the fifth floor. But that didn’t seem likely. His was the only name among the important numbers. A relative? Family friend? He wondered how many Lesters there might be in the faculty, staff or student body of Caltech. Probably hopeless, or of no value in any case. He’d make one quick phone call to Caltech to satisfy the lieutenant and that would be that.
Before leaving he checked her clothes and saw that Missy Moonbeam had favored hot pants, which never go out of style, not with the street whores of Hollywood. And she had three pair of thigh-length plastic boots: one red, one green, one yellow. Mario Villalobos supposed that the boots must have just allowed the tattoo on her leg to peek out between the hot pants and boot. He replaced the
Mario Villalobos, using the passkey given to him by Oliver Rigby, broke the coroner’s door seal, entered, and sat on the bed in the dismal little room of Missy Moonbeam thinking how much he’d love to have a double shot of vodka. He’d just about conceded that this had the earmarks of a case that faded away under a deluge of “investigation continued” follow-up reports, and finally was forgotten. When street whores were done in by unknown suspects, the possibilities were infinite. It usually became one of those “an arrest is imminent” gags when the lieutenant asked about it every month or two.
Even Missy Moonbeam’s trick book was pathetic. It bore the names of every superstar in Hollywood along with phone numbers allegedly belonging to the superstars. He smoked and shook his head wearily, and imagined the frail little coke freak with the man-in-the-moon tattoo on her thigh, stroking the ego and the limp penis of some john who couldn’t get it up until she showed him how lucky he was to be turning a trick with a girl who regularly balled the biggest superstars in Hollywood. And here were their names and phone numbers in her trick book to prove it. And as often as not, when the john started looking at those names and imagining himself treading the same ground that his favorite movie actors had trod, so to speak, it was the ultimate aphrodisiac. Burt and Clint and Warren, and… Jesus Christ! Look out, man-in-the-moon! I’m coming through!
It was such a corny old game that it made the detective pity all the Thelma Bernbaums he had known. Then when he picked up the trick book he saw another piece of writing on the back of the book. There were doodles around the name, squiggly lines and jagged, manic, red slashes. There was a red ballpoint pen lying beside the book. A name and phone number were scrawled within the jagged doodles. The entry was not written neatly, as were the other names and numbers, by an Omaha child raised with the Palmer penmanship method. It was written by the same hand all right, but it was scrawled, no slashed across the book. It was on the page not with the play phone numbers, nor the real ones, the numbers that turned out to be sisters in Omaha, an aunt in Kansas, a V. D. clinic in Hollywood, an answering service favored by street whores. All the numbers that counted. It was slashed across the back of the book, and it aroused his curiosity.
The name was Lester. The telephone number was not a metropolitan Los Angeles number. When he got back to the squad-room, Mario Villalobos ran the telephone number and it came back to the Division of Chemistry and Chemical Engineering, at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, one of the foremost institutions of scientific learning in all of America.
Mario Villalobos wondered if Lester was some student or professor who, tiring of science all day, occasionally enjoyed a little of Missy Moonbeam’s “art” in the drab little room on the fifth floor. But that didn’t seem likely. His was the only name among the important numbers. A relative? Family friend? He wondered how many Lesters there might be in the faculty, staff or student body of Caltech. Probably hopeless, or of no value in any case. He’d make one quick phone call to Caltech to satisfy the lieutenant and that would be that.
Before leaving he checked her clothes and saw that Missy Moonbeam had favored hot pants, which never go out of style, not with the street whores of Hollywood. And she had three pair of thigh-length plastic boots: one red, one green, one yellow. Mario Villalobos supposed that the boots must have just allowed the tattoo on her leg to peek out between the hot pants and boot. He replaced the
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