Free Fall

Mark Thurman lived in a converted garage apartment in the northwestern part of the San Fernando Valley, about a mile west of Cal State, Northridge, in an older area with stucco bungalows and clapboard duplexes and mature landscaping. Though the structures are old, the residents are not, and most of the apartments are rented to college students or junior faculty from the university or kids out on their own for the first time. Lots of bikes around. Lots of small foreign cars. Lots of music.

I parked across the street from a flat-topped duplex and looked down the drive. The sheet of Watkins, Okum stationery said that Thurman drove a 1983 blue Ford Mustang as his personal car, but the Mustang wasn't around, and neither was the dark brown cop-mobile. Still out fighting crime, no doubt. Or tailing Je

I got out of the Corvette, strolled up the drive, and let myself through the little wrought-iron gate. A young German shepherd was lying by the gate beneath the hedges next door. He watched me come and when I let myself through the gate he lifted his head. I said, "Woof." He got up and walked with me. Police dog. If Thurman came home I'd have to go over the fence. Hope he didn't bite.

There were three young women lying on towels in the little yard that separated the duplex from the guest house. One was on her belly, the other two were on their backs, and the one nearest to me was up on an elbow, adjusting a radio. U-2. Nobody was wearing very much in the way of clothes, and you could smell the suntan oil. The one with the radio saw me first and made a little gasping noise. I said, "Hi, ladies. Is Mark around?" Elvis Cole, the Smooth Detective.

The one with the radio relaxed and the other two looked over. The one without the radio was wearing little round sunglasses and the one on her belly smiled. The two on their backs were brunette, the one on her belly a blonde.

The one with the radio said, "He's at work."

I glanced at my watch and made a big deal out of looking disappointed. "He said he'd meet me here. I guess he got hung up."

The one on her belly said, "Are you a cop, too?"

I said, "Do I look like a cop?"

The three of them nodded.

I spread my hands. "I'd do great undercover, hunh?"

The one on her belly said, "I don't know. You might."

The other two laughed.

The one with the little round glasses covered her mouth and said, "Ohmygod, do you know who he looks like? He looks like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Don't you think so?"

I was liking the one with the glasses just fine. Maybe thirty-nine wasn't so old after all.

The one with the radio said, "If Mark told you he'd be here, he's probably on his way. He's pretty good about that kind of stuff."

I said, "I've just got to drop something off. You think he'd mind?"

Radio said, "You could leave it with us."

"Couldn't do that. It's business-related. And it's sort of a surprise."

The one on her belly looked interested. "Evidence."

The one with the little round sunglasses said, "Allie likes cops. She wants to see your gun."

Allie slugged Sunglasses in the leg, and all three of them laughed.

The one with the radio said, "Go ahead. Mark's cool. He keeps a spare key in a little Sucrets box to the left of the landing behind a plant pot."

"Thanks."

The German shepherd was waiting for me when I went around the side of the guest house, and followed me to the door. The Sucrets box and the key were exactly where Radio said they'd be. Some neighbors, hunh? I took out the key and let myself in. The German shepherd sat on his haunches and stared after me and whined. Helluva police dog, too.

Mark Thurman's garage had been converted into a pretty nice apartment. The side door opened into a living room, and from the door you could see the kitchen and another door that led to a bedroom and a bath. A brown cloth couch rested against the west wall and a shelving unit stood against the north. The east wall was the glass doors. A CD player and a Sony TV and a VCR and about a zillion CDs were in the wall unit, but the CD player and the VCR were low-end Pioneer and neither was a bank breaker, even on a police officer's take-home. There was an overstuffed chair at either end of the couch, and a coffee table of bright white pine that matched the wall unit. He would've bought the set from one of those discount places. Imported, they would have told hum. Danish. There wasn't a sea of gold coins that you could dive into, or mounds of money bags scattered around, but I hadn't yet seen the bedroom. One shouldn't jump to conclusions.

I glanced through the kitchen, then went into the bedroom. It was small, with a single window and a door that led into the bath, and it wasn't any more lavishly appointed than the living room. I went into the bath first, then came back into the bedroom. There was a king-sized bed without a headboard, a nightstand, and a dresser with a large curved mirror that didn't match any of the other furniture. Garage sale. The bed was made and neat, and the spread was pulled tight across its surface. I went through the dresser drawers and then I looked under the bed. Under the bed there was a red Lily of France brassiere. Thirty-six C. I pulled it out and looked at it, but there was nothing to suggest the owner. Je

A summer-weight LAPD uniform and a set of navy winters hung with the sport shirts and the jeans and the slacks. They hadn't been worn in a while. A single blue suit looked like it didn't get worn much, either. There were shoes and a spi