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length skirt with a slit and a white brocaded top, swept the sidewalk in front of the business. Monk turned left on Hauser and continued north. He’d stop back at the Hi-Life another time.
    He approached the apartment building Suh had lived in. Interestingly, it wasn’t in Koreatown nor out in Monterey Park or Alhambra where some Koreans lived who plied their trades in the inner city. Rather it was in the Mid-City area on Dunsmuir, north of Olympic Boulevard and before Wilshire. The Galaxie came to rest at the curb in front of the Jordan Palms.
    The private eye walked to the entrance shrouded by a security gate partially hidden by blooming oleander bushes. He found the button for the manager and buzzed. Momentarily, a feminine voice cracked over the intercom.
    â€œYes?” it asked.
    Monk bent near the speaker. “My name is Ivan Monk. I’m a private investigatior looking into the murder of Bong Kim Suh.”
    â€œHe’s dead, his apartment’s been rented for a long time now.”
    â€œI know, I just said that. Did you keep any of his things?”
    There was a pause. Then the voice said, “Yes, come on in.” The gate clicked and Monk entered. He walked toward apartment 2 which the legend indicated belonged to the manager. The door to it opened as he got closer.
    The manager was a redhead with her hair piled high in some kind of ’60s hairdo Monk used to see on the old show Shindig . Getting closer, he was mesmerized by the heavy sea-green mascara which lined eyes with long false lashes. She had to be somewhere in her late forties but she still had her looks. Probably she’d been thinner when she was younger, but the Rubenesque flare of the hips in the too-tight stonewashed jeans gave cause for Monk’s mind to wander.
    â€œI’m Betty,” she said, extending a purple nailed hand.
    â€œIvan Monk.” He returned her firm handshake and showed her his photostat.
    Betty wore a grey V-necked sweater top that strained itself around a chest built like the front end of a B-52. Monk kept his mind on business. A radio playing the allnews station could be heard behind her. “Mind if I ask you some questions about Suh?” They stood talking in the doorway.
    â€œNot much I can tell you, honey.” She appraised Monk as if he were a prime piece of steak. “He paid his rent on time and kept to himself. Never any trouble.” She tilted her head which caused the large hoop earring she wore to bang against the door jamb.
    â€œHow long did he live here?”
    â€œâ€™Bout four years or so. I’d talk to him occasionally about the weather or this and that. Nothing important really. Say, who hired you to look into his death? I don’t watch TV but I heard about them finding his body on the radio. Jesus, living in the city, huh? That’s funny that the cops haven’t been around to ask me anything.”
    That occurred to Monk also. It probably meant they were assembling a task force. He told her who hired him then went on. “Did he disappear from here the same week he left his store over on Pico?”
    â€œYou know that’s the funny part. I read in the papers—I like to keep up on things you know—about how he wasn’t supposed to be around a week before the riots—oh excuse me—the uprising.”
    â€œBut he was still around.”
    She squinted her eyes, seeing into the past. “Oh yeah. Now, I don’t know the comings and goings of all my tenants, Mr. Monk.”
    â€œIvan, please,” he said, flirting just to keep in practice he rationalized.
    â€œIvan,” she responded, displaying even teeth. “Anyways, I didn’t have any reason to believe he wasn’t still running the store until I drove past there, oh, I guess it was a month after the fires, and I noticed it was closed up.
    â€œDid Suh continue to pay his rent on time?”
    â€œOh yeah. First of the month like always right up