Free To Die in Beverly Hills by Gerald Petievich Page A

folded and unfolded her arms. More picking. "I don't believe in talking about people," she said finally. "It's against my principles."
    "Mine too," Carr said. He wondered if he was playing it too hard.
    "What if I told you that Lee gave me the medallion? He's dead. What good is information about someone who's dead?"
    Deliberately, he reached into his coat pocket and removed the photograph of the man and woman cavorting in Sheboygan's bedroom. He held it up to her. She stared at it without expression. "Who are these people?"
    "Friends of Lee's."
    "What are their names?"
    "I'm not going to tell you."
    Carr stood up. Casually, he removed his sport coat. He hung it on the back of the chair and sat down again.
    "I have a brief relationship with a man who lives in one of the apartments I manage," she said. "He gives me a medallion as a gift for my birthday. The next thing I know he's dead and I'm in jail being treated like an animal. Is that fair?"
    "What is the man's name?"
    "You had them arrest me in order to force me to answer your questions," she said, her voice rising. "Some people would call that coercion. Coercion is against the law."
    "If you're innocent, why not just answer my questions and stop changing the subject?"
    "It's the principle of the thing. I have principles."
    They stared at each other for a while.
    "Would it violate your principles if I found the information written on a scrap of paper in that wastebasket?" He pointed to a metal trash receptacle next to the door.
    She made a quizzical expression.
    "The information would be anonymous. I just found it on a scrap of paper in a trashcan. That way no one is informing on anyone."
    Face picking.
    "What would you put in your report?"
    "My report would reflect exactly that," Carr said, "that I found the information in a trash basket at the County jail."
    "What's going to happen to me?"
    "The detectives want you prosecuted," he said. "A valuable medallion was stolen in a burglary. It was around your neck. Under the law, you are a receiver of stolen property. I think they can make the case stick. You might end up doing a little time for it. Just a guess."
    "And if I answer your questions?"
    "Then the charges might be dismissed."
    Nothing was said for a while. Carr pulled a ballpoint pen and a note pad out of his inside pocket. He passed them over to her, stood up, put on his coat and left the room. He walked briskly down a tiled corridor and entered an office. Higgins sat straddling a chair in front of a small television screen. On the screen, Amanda Kennedy picked at her face as she stared at the paper and pen.
    "She's thinking about it," Higgins said. "If she'd been around a little more, she'd know that the D.A. would never file a receiving case on her. Hell, it's hard enough to get them to file a case when you catch a burglar red-handed inside someone's house."
    Amanda Kennedy reached for the pen. She pulled her hand back, glanced at the trash basket.
    "Come on, sweet meat," Higgins said. He slid his chair closer to the television.
    Amanda Kennedy seemed to be sniffling. She wiped her eyes. "The waterworks," Higgins said. "This is a very good sign. A very good sign."
    Amanda Kennedy pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her prison smock. She blew her nose and put the handkerchief away. Having done this, she picked up the pen and wrote something on the piece of paper.
    Higgins clapped. Carr took a deep breath. Amanda Kennedy stood up and went to the door. The lock snapped and the door slid open. She crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it in the trashcan on her way out.
    Carr and Higgins hurried back to the room. The trashcan was empty except for the note. He picked it up and unfolded it. The note read:
     
    His nickname is Bones and he is a bartender. That's all I know. The redhead is Shirley. She's a cocktail waitress. I think they work in the same place.
     
    "Gee thanks," Higgins said. "A nickname."
    "I guess it's better than nothing," Carr