Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

Twenty years later, his own file was stone cold.

An inconsequential man. Had the papers even bothered to write up his death?

This time I stayed closer to home and used the main Santa Monica library on 6th Street. Barnard's name wasn't listed in the computers for that year or any other. But a search under homicide struck gold in the newspaper files:

Motel, homicide at. Police say the Adventure Inn on the Westside is site of numerous crimes, the latest the murder of a retired private investigator.

The full article was tucked into a bottom corner of the last page of the Metro section.

HOMICIDE PROMPTS IRE ABOUT MOTEL

The early morning shooting death of a retired private investigator in a Westside motel has prompted increased citizen concern about the hostelry. Police confirm a history of criminal activity at the Adventure Inn on 1543 South La Cienega Boulevard, including numerous arrests for prostitution, narcotics, disorderly conduct, and assault. Despite complaints by neighbors, police claim they are legally powerless to close the business down.

The victim, Felix Slayton Barnard, 65, of Venice, was found dead of multiple gunshot wounds in Room 11 by the motel's clerk, Edgely Sylvester, during a morning room check. Sylvester reported hearing and seeing nothing, and by the time police arrived all other residents had vacated the premises. "No surprise," said a bystander, refusing to be named. "They register by the half-hour."

Sylvester denied any personal knowledge of prostitution at the motel. When asked how he could have failed to hear three gunshots, he said, "There's a lot of traffic."

Questioned about why steps couldn't be taken to close the motel, Captain Robert Bannerstock of the LAPD's Westside Division said, "It's a free country. All we can do is go out and investigate occurrences. People need to be careful about where they spend the night."

Ownership of the motel is registered to a Nevada corporation, The Advent Group, and attempts to reach the manager, Darnel Mullins, were unsuccessful.

Darnel Mullins.

Denton Mellors.

Inside job.

Meet me at the Adventure Inn, Felix. There'll be a room reserved for you- have a whore on the house.

I looked up Darnel Mullins in every Southern California phone book the library owned. No Darnels; over a dozen D's spread around various counties. Thirty-five minutes on the pay phone in the entrance eliminated most of them. The rest weren't home.

Roadblocked again.

I sat at a library table, drumming my fingers until I thought of another route.

The clerk. Edgely Sylvester.

Thank God it was an unusual name- and listed in the Central L.A. book on the 1800 block of Arlington.

I took Pico east, toward the center of town. La Cienega was a couple of miles before Arlington, and I veered south and drove to 1543.

Still a motel, now called the Sunshine Lodge and painted turquoise blue. Three arms of cinder block around a dipping, pitted parking lot.

Two pickup trucks in the lot. I pulled in next to one of them. Room 11 was in the northwest corner, catercorner from the office. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung from the doorknob.

I went into the office. A Korean man sat behind the desk, watching Korean language TV. A wall dispenser sold pocket combs and condoms, and a wire rack on the desk was stuffed with maps to the stars' homes. Robin had shown me one last year, given out by a record company as a party favor. Marilyn Monroe was still alive and living in Brentwood, and Lon Chaney was haunting Beverly Hills.

The clerk eyed me and said, "Room?"

Not knowing what to say, I left.

Edgely Sylvester's neighborhood was just past the old Sears store near La Brea, not far from the Wilshire Division police station. The house was a two-story brown craftsman bungalow subdivided into apartments. The front lawn had been turned into parking spaces. A rusting Cadillac Fleetwood and a twenty-year-old Buick Riviera shared it.

Two black men in their sixties played dominoes at a card table on the front porch. Both wore short-sleeved white shirts and double-knit trousers, and the heavier of the two wore stretch suspenders. He was bald and had moist mocha skin. A cigar dangled from his lips.

The skinny man was ebony-toned and his features were sharp, still handsome. He had all his hair and it had been pomaded. He could have been Chuck Berry's less talented brother.

They stopped their play as I came up the walkway. The dominoes were bright red and translucent, with sharp white dots. I had no idea who was winning.

"Gentlemen," I said, "does Edgely Sylvester live here?"

"Nope," said the skinny one.

"Know him?"

They shook their heads.

"Okay, thanks."

As I walked away, the heavy one said, "Why do you want to know?" The cigar was between his fingers, wet and cold. He was sweating a lot, but it didn't look like anxiety.

"Reporter," I said. "L.A. Times. We're doing a story on old unsolved crimes for the Sunday magazine. Mr. Sylvester worked at a motel where an unsolved murder occurred twenty years ago. The victim was a private detective. My editors thought it would make a great piece."

"Lots of new murders all the time," said the skinny one. "City's falling apart, no need to talk about stupid old stuff."

"The new stuff scares people. The old stuff's considered romantic- I know, I think it's ridiculous, too. But I just started out, can't buck the boss. Anyway, thanks."

"Is there money in it?" said the skinny one. "For talking to you?"

"Well," I said, "I'm not supposed to pay for stories, but if something's good enough…" I shrugged.

They exchanged glances, and the heavy one put down a domino.

I said, "Did Mr. Sylvester tell you something about the unsolved case?"

Another look passed between them.

"How much you paying?" said the heavy one.

How much cash did I have in my wallet? Probably a little over a hundred.

"I really shouldn't pay anything. It would have to be something good."

The heavy one licked the end of his cigar. "What if I could find Mr. Edgely Sylvester for you?"

"Twenty bucks."

He sniffed and chuckled and shook his head.

"Finding him's no big deal," I said. "How do I know he'll talk to me?"

He chuckled some more. "If you pay him, he will, my man. He likes his money." Eyeing my Seville. "What's it, a seventy-eight?"

"Seventy-nine," I said.

"Paper don't pay you enough to get some new wheels?"

"Like I said, I just started." I turned to leave.

He said, "Forty bucks to find the man."

"Thirty."

"Thirty-five." He stretched out a palm. With a pained expression, I took out the money and gave it to him.

Curling his fingers over it, he smiled.

"Okay," I said, "where's Sylvester?"

He gave a deep laugh and pointed across the table. "Say hello, Mr. Sylvester."

The skinny man closed his eyes and laughed, rocking in his chair.

"Hello, hello, hello." He held out his hand. "Hello from the star of the show."

"Prove you're Sylvester," I said.

"A hundred bucks 'll prove it."

"Fifty."

"Ninety."

"Sixty."

"Eighty-eight."

"Sixty-five, tops."

He stopped smiling. His skin was as dry as his partner's was moist. His eyes were two bits of charcoal. "Thirty-five for him just for fingering me, and I only get thirty more? That's stupid, man."

I said, "Seventy, if you're really Sylvester. And that's it, because it cleans me out."

I took all the bills out of my wallet and fanned them.

Frowning, he reached behind and pulled out a mock-alligator billfold. Flipping it open, he showed me a soiled Social Security card made out to Edgely Nat Sylvester.