“A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space- think they’re pulling up the tents?”

“Probably.”

“The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”

“One way to find out,” I said.

Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.

The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade- painted-over graffiti.

No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.

The twin gates meant two groups of mail slots. A. Paul’s button was on the north end of the building. Apt 43. No answer. No manager’s unit listed. Back to the southern gate.

Apt 1, no name, just Mgr.

It was 11:40 P.M. Milo jabbed the button.

I said, “Let’s hope for a night owl.”

“What’s a little sleep deprivation in the service of justice?”

A male voice said, “Yes?”

“Police.”

“Hold on.”

I said, “He doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the tenants are interesting.”

A buzzer sounded, and we pushed through the gate.

The fifty units were arranged in two tiers that looked down on a long, rectangular courtyard that should have held a pool. Instead there was sketchy grass and lawn chairs and a collapsed umbrella. A couple of utility doors on the ground floor were marked TO PARKING LOT. Three satellite dishes rimmed the flat roof. TV sounds washed across the courtyard. Then: music, a smudge of human voice, breaking glass.

The manager’s unit was just to the right, and a man stood in the open doorway. Young, short, maybe thirty, with a head shaved clean and a little frizzle of chin beard. He wore gym shorts, a baggy white T-shirt that read WOLF TRAP 2001, and rubber flip-flops.

When we reached him, he said, “I was expecting uniforms.”

“You get a lot of uniforms?”

“You know, noise calls and such.”

Milo flashed his ID.

“Lieutenant? Is this serious or something?”

“Not yet, Mr…”

“Chad Ballou.” He extended his hand for a soul-shake, thought better of it, and rotated into the conventional position.

Milo said, “Lots of noise calls?”

Ballou’s eyes traced the tiers. “Not more than you’d expect with all these people. I tell the tenants to let me know first if there’s a problem, but sometimes they don’t. Which is fine, I don’t really want to deal with their stuff.”

“You manage the units full-time?” said Milo.

Chad Ballou said, “Relatively full-time. My parents own the place. I’m at CSUN, studying classical guitar. They think I should study computers. The deal is I do this instead of their just giving me money.” He smiled cheerfully. “So what’s up?”

“We’re looking for Angela Paul.”

Ballou touched his chin growth with his right hand. His nails were longish and glossed. Those on his left hand were clipped short. “Paul… Forty-three?”

“That’s the one.”

“The stripper.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“She put it on her lease application,” said Ballou. “Brought in pay stubs from a club to prove it. My folks wouldn’t have approved, but I said, hey, why not? Her income’s better than a lot of the losers who try to get in.” Ballou grinned. “They put me in charge, I figure it’s up to me to decide. Anyway, she’s been no problem, pays her rent. What’s the deal?”

“We want to question her about an ongoing investigation.”

“Have you tried her unit?”

“No answer.”

“Guess she’s out.”

“She out a lot?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Ballou.

“You have a pretty good view from your place,” said Milo.

“When I’m here, I’m mostly practicing or studying. Unless there’s a complaint. And she never complained about anything.”

“She have visitors?”

“I couldn’t tell you that, either. I haven’t really seen her much. Forty-three’s all the way on the north end, upstairs. She can take the corner staircase down to the parking lot door, go in and out without being noticed.”

“So you’ve never seen her with anyone else?”

“Nothing registers.”

Milo showed him the shot of the blond girl.

Ballou’s eyes widened. “She looks dead.”

“She is.”

“Wow- so this is really serious. Is she going to be in trouble- the stripper? All I need is for some big mess that freaks out my parents.”

Milo waved the photo. “Never seen her?”

“Never. What happened to her?”

“Someone made her dead.”

“Jesus… you’re not going to tell me if I have something to worry about?”

“If Angie Paul’s body is lying moldering in her unit, you might.”

Chad Ballou blanched. “Shit- you’re serious?”

“You mind taking a look?”

“I’ll give you the key,” said Ballou. “You look.”

“Legally,” said Milo, “that would pose a problem. You as the manager, have a right to make reasonable inspections. Say, if there’s a suspected gas leak, or a circuit goes out. Any maintenance issue.”

Ballou stared at him. “Moldering… sure, sure- can I just open the door, and you look?”

“Fine.”

“Should we do it now?”

“In a sec,” said Milo. “First tell me where Ms. Paul does her stripping?”

“That I can do. That I can definitely do.”

We followed Ballou into his apartment. Neat, sparse, devoid of character, with a sixty-inch digital TV in the front room along with three classical guitars on stands. The set was tuned to MTV. Heavy metal band, high volume. Ballou turned it down, saying, “I’m eclectic.”

In the kitchen, next to the fridge, stood a trio of three-drawer files. Ballou opened the center drawer and fished out a black file folder. He opened it, thumbed, said, “Here we go,” and held out a sheet of paper.

Angie Paul’s rental application. She’d claimed income of three thousand a month net, and a note in the margin said, “Verified.” Under place of employment, she’d listed “The Hungry Bull Club, W.L.A. branch (Exotic Dancer).” My eyes dropped to the bottom of the form. Personal references.

1. Rick Savarin (manager, THB)

2. Christina Marsh (coworker)

Christa or Crystal.

I said, “You ever check out her references?”

Ballou said, “She showed me pay stubs.”

“What about previous landlords?” said Milo. “Isn’t it standard to call them?”

“I think,” said Ballou, “that she said she was from out of town.”

“Where?”

“Is this going to matter? Oh, man.”

Milo said, “Where out of town?”

“I don’t remember. She made enough money to handle the rent easily and came up with first, last, and damage deposit. So she stripped, big deal. She’s been an okay tenant.”

Milo folded the application and put it in his pocket. “Let’s have a look at her place.”

Angie Paul’s unit was similar in dimension to Ballou’s. Also neatly kept, with a smaller TV, cheap furniture, cotton throws, a couple of rose-and-kitten prints on the walls. The smell of heavy, musky perfume reached the doorway where I stood near Chad Ballou.

Milo disappeared into the bedroom area. Ballou tapped his foot, and said, “So far, so good?”

I smiled. It didn’t comfort him.

A minute later, Milo emerged saying, “Nothing moldering. When Ms. Paul shows up, don’t tell her we were here but give me a call.” He handed Ballou a card.