“Sometime between last Friday and Wednesday.”
“Look, he’s called this number virtually every day, sometimes three or four times a day.”
Stone picked up the phone and dialed the L.A. number.
“Santa Fe,” a man’s voice said.
“Hello,” Stone said, “this is Detective Cantor of the New York City Police Department.”
“Thanks a lot,” Cantor whispered.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a regular apartment building there, or what?”
“Short-term furnished apartments, by the week or month.”
“I’m trying to reach someone who may have moved out last Wednesday or Thursday; could you check your records and tell me who that might be? I don’t have a name.”
“Don’t need a name,” the man said. The sound of pages turning came over the phone “Only one person has moved out in the past couple of weeks. We stay pretty full.”
“Who would that be?”
“A Mr. G. Gable.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“Early thirties, dirty blond hair, kinda long, fairly tall. Nice-looking guy.”
“Have you got a forwarding address?”
“Nope, nothing. You looking for this guy or something?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, if you find him, will you let me know? He owes a month’s rent. He left here by the back way, very early in the morning.”
“Has his place been cleaned out?”
“Oh, yeah; I rented it right away. We always have a waiting list.”
“Thanks very much; I appreciate your help.” He hung up and turned to Cantor. “He was using the name of G. Gable.”
“And we’re looking for G. Power. It’s gotta be our guy.”
“Right. Let’s see what his trash looks like.” Stone cleared off his desk and, a handful at a time, they began going through all the paper.
“Okay,” Cantor said, “we got a lot of very real trash – newspapers, magazines.”
“Vanity Fair, New York, People, Us. He seems to be celebrity-oriented.”
“Here’s a receipt from Saks, from the Armani shop,” Cantor said. “He paid cash. The landlord said he paid his rent in cash, too.”
“What’s the date of the receipt?”
“Let’s see, nearly a month ago.”
“He would have already picked it up after the alterations, then. Too bad.”