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He’ll want something in return, so call me if he’s got anything. Meantime, I’ll have someone from the office pack up the rest of the files and messenger them over to your place so you can finish looking through them.”
    Claudia accepted the paper, noting that he had printed Earl Nelson’s address. She dialed the number on her cell phone, making a mental note to check Ivan’s handwriting against the alleged suicide note.

Chapter 5
    Earl Nelson lived in a run-down condominium conversion in one of the less affluent neighborhoods of West Hollywood. Less than ten miles east of the penthouse his sister had called home, it could have been in another galaxy. In the 1960s, the place had been an apartment building for moderate-income tenants, but some twenty years later, mercenary owners concluded money was to be made by turning the flats into condos. Unfortunately for the buyers, new paint and carpets failed to mask the fetid smells of cooking, old kitty litter, and mildew that permeated the maze of hallways. And the passage of time had only made it worse.
    As Claudia entered the dimly lit lobby a youth in black leather slouched past, his hair molded into a crown of magenta spikes. He walked in front of her as if she weren’t there, and punched the elevator call button. When the car groaned to a stop and the door clanged open onto a tiny, graffiti-defaced compartment, she changed her mind about stepping inside with Spiky Boy and decided to take her chances on the stairs.
    Nelson’s apartment was located on the third floor at the far end of a succession of labyrinthine corridors with poor lighting and frayed carpeting. Television sounds penetrated the wall as Claudia knocked at the door. She wondered whether Earl Nelson would resemble Lindsey. He’d been anything but friendly when she’d spoken to him over the phone, but at least he had agreed to see her and even grudgingly acknowledged that he might have what she was looking for.
    The door swung open and an odor stronger than anything she had smelled on her way to the third floor assaulted Claudia’s nostrils with a knockout punch. The stench of old garbage and marijuana mingling with body odor made her want to pinch her nostrils shut. Even LA smog was preferable to breathing Earl Nelson’s personal brand of air pollution.
    Nelson bore about as much resemblance to Lindsey as he did to Brad Pitt, which was zero. He peered at her through mean eyes framed in Buddy Holly glasses, a permanent scowl etched on the sallow face. Middle-aged, maybe ten years older than his sister had been. A long ponytail hung over a soiled green golf shirt, which bore an incongruous Izod logo. The round shoulders were peppered with dandruff. A tattooed snake slithered up his left arm, its red eyes glittering with evil.
    “Earl Nelson?” Claudia offered him her business card. “I’m Claudia Rose. We spoke earlier about Lindsey.”
    “Yeah?” He took the card and jammed it into his trouser pocket without looking at it. Flicked a glance over Claudia’s body, his gaze lingering on her breasts until she crossed her arms. Turning on his heel, he went back inside. “Whaddya waitin’ for?”
    The postage stamp apartment was lit only by the television and what little sun leaked in around the edges of the mangy curtains. Nelson plopped into an ancient recliner that bore the clear imprint of his ass and picked up a bottle of beer from the coffee table. He didn’t offer Claudia a seat, for which she was thankful, as there was no surface in the room where she would willingly sit. She watched, fascinated, as he emptied the bottle and aimed it at an overflowing box of trash in a corner of the room. It missed, and fell clattering against its brethren already on the floor.
    “Fuckin’ thing,” Nelson groused. “I was that close.” He fixed Claudia with an expectant stare and pointed the remote at the TV, muting the sound on Jerry Springer. “So, she finally remembers she had a