I went out to my car, but Starkey had already gone.
9
Home Away Suites was a chain of cheap no-frills motels geared to drive-by salesmen and people on their way to somewhere else. They were big in the Midwest, but had only six locations in Southern California, with two in the L.A. area, one being in Jefferson Park just south of mid-city, the other in Toluca Lake. Jefferson Park was closer to downtown, so I got their number from information, and called from the SID parking lot. A chipper young woman answered.
"Home Away Suites, your home away from home, may I help you?"
"Is this location number forty-seven?"
"Pardon me?"
"You have several locations, and each location has a number. I'm trying to find number forty-seven."
"I don't know anything about that."
She didn't ask me to hold on, she didn't offer to find out, she simply stopped talking. Home Away probably didn't hire for initiative.
"Could you ask someone, please?"
"Okay. Hold on."
Okay.
A few minutes later she came back on the line.
"Sir?"
"I'm here."
"We're number forty-two. You want the Toluca Lake location."
"Could you give me their address?"
"I'll have to look it up."
"Never mind. I'll call information."
Welcome to the exciting world of Private Detection.
I got the address from the information operator, then headed around the north side of Griffith Park, across Burbank, and into Toluca Lake.
Toluca Lake is a small treesy community wedged between Universal Studios and Burbank where the Ventura and Hollywood freeways merge. Most residents have never seen the lake as it is surrounded by expensive homes, but the larger community is a comfortable mix of middle-class homes, well-kept apartment buildings, and sidewalk businesses.
I followed Riverside Drive across the back of Toluca Lake to Lankershim Boulevard, then slipped under a freeway overpass and into North Hollywood. The Home Away people had cheated the location, but I guess they figured close was good enough. So much for truth in advertising.
Home Away Suites #47 was a gray stucco box; no restaurant, no room service, no frills. Just the kind of place for a traveling salesman or a family on a limited budget. I parked on the street, and entered a lobby as plain and simple as the outside. A bored young man in a gray blazer sat behind the registration desk, reading. An older couple was standing at a rack of tourist brochures, probably trying to decide between standing in line for the Leno show or driving to Anaheim for Knott's Berry Farm. Beyond the registration desk was a set of stairs, and a long straight hall leading to the first-floor rooms.
I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I also intended to search the room even though the clerk probably wouldn't go for it. I knew I would enter the room when I had Chen make the duplicate key, and I knew I wasn't going to wait for the police to get it done. I crossed the lobby like any other registered guest, and went down the hall. Room one-sixteen was in plain view of the couple at the brochure rack, but not the desk clerk. I rapped lightly on the door, listened, then slipped the card into the lock. I pushed open the door, and went in.
The room was empty.
Like the motel, it was spare and plain, with an alcove for a closet and a small bath beyond the alcove. The lights were off, the drapes were pulled, and the air smelled of cigarettes. Everything was neat and tidy because the housekeeper had already made her rounds. Two pairs of men's slacks and two shirts hung in the alcove above a battered gray suitcase. I checked the suitcase for a name tag, but the suitcase was tagless. No telltale clues stood out on the bed or dresser to tie the room to the man in the alley, and the nightstand drawers were empty.
The bathroom was empty, too, except for a small black toiletries case. I was hoping for a prescription bottle showing a name, but it held only the usual anonymous travel articles available at any Rite Aid. I went back to the alcove, and checked the pants hanging on the rail. The pockets were empty. The suitcase was unlocked, so I opened it. A naked woman smiled up at me. She was on the cover of one of those freebie sex newspapers filled with ads for strippers, outcall services, and massage parlors. This one was the Hard-X Times. I lifted it aside, and stared down at