“Am I a specialist, too?” asked Josie.
“No, you’re his secretary.” He handed Josie a notepad and pencil. “For the notes.”
Josie was just about to say something, when David kissed her. “Do you think that’s going to stop me from objecting?” she asked.
“I don’t think anything can stop you from objecting, but I like kissing you.”
They were now in front of the detective guarding the entrance, who looked like he’d been working all night and smelled like most of that work had been done in a bar. “I don’t know why the feds are interested in a simple homicide investigation,” he grumbled.
“The victim is a federal agent. You can conduct your own investigation, but she’s one of ours.”
“They shouldn’t even have broads in the Bureau. You’d never catch me working with one. In fact, I’ll bet your agent got herself killed by…”
“Not another word!” barked out Grant. “Losing your life in the line of duty is a sacred sacrifice, and if you say one more word against Agent Medway I’ll knock you into next week!”
“So, it’s all right to strike a police officer?”
“In this case? Yeah!”
Grant pushed past the man as he entered the building, holding the door for Josie and David, who followed him in.
“That was incredibly forward thinking of you, Grant,” said Josie as they climbed the stairs in the dark interior.
“Yeah, well, I don’t think broads should be agents, either, but this one gave her life for her country and that’s something to be respected.”
“I agree,” said Josie, “except for women not belonging in law enforcement and that whole ‘broads’ thing. Shouldn’t we be wearing booties or protective clothing to prevent contamination of the crime scene?” Josie put her hand on the wooden banister as they ascended the stairs to the third floor, then immediately wished she hadn’t. “This is…not clean.”
“Is there blood on it?” asked Grant as he started up the next flight of stairs.
“Gah, I hope not! I didn’t even think of that.”
David handed her his handkerchief. “Here. And I don’t need that back.”
“So, what about the contamination of the crime scene?” asked Josie, who was also becoming aware of the smells of a building with only one bathroom per floor, all of which seemed in need of service.
“What do you mean?” asked Grant.
“Hair and carpet fibers, fingerprints. I know you don’t know what DNA is…”
“DN what?” asked Grant.
“Never mind. What should we avoid when we walk in there?”
“Try not to step in any blood because I don’t want it in my car, steer clear of the corpse and don’t get sick.”
They continued walking up the narrow staircase then down a hall which was dark even though it was a sunny day. There was an open door at the end guarded by a uniformed police officer. Grant flashed his badge and they were admitted into the small studio apartment. There was a window and kitchenette along the back wall, a twin bed which was still made, and a small table and chair. There was a tiny desk, as well as a dresser, the drawers of which had been opened and the contents riffled.
Caroline – Agent Medway – was lying in the middle of floor, shot in the chest, quite obviously dead. Three men in suits and ties were in the room. One was taking pictures of the body with a camera equipped with an old-fashioned flashbulb. The other two were looking through the contents of the sparsely-appointed flat. One of them was smoking.
“I can’t imagine smoking is regulation even in 1936,” said Josie. “Don’t you need to smell things as part of your investigation?”
“Why?” asked Grant.
“It’s what Sherlock Holmes does…” said Josie, trailing off as she realized just how dumb that sounded. Maybe time travel was ruining her brain.
“Clear the room,” Grant barked out to the three men, as he flashed his badge again. They looked about as eager to obey his command as the detective downstairs, but after grumbling a bit they did leave.
Grant bent down to examine the body. Josie turned away because there was at least a small possibility that she was going to be sick. She busied herself by looking through the small desk in the corner.
“This looks like a professional shooter,” said Grant. “I can’t tell for certain until the autopsy, but it appears to be one shot straight through the heart. If it wasn’t a pro, he was awfully lucky.” Grant looked at the victim’s hands. “There’s no sign of a struggle and the door looks intact. I’d say she knew her attacker.”
“But how did she or he make their escape?” asked Josie. “This is a big apartment building and someone would’ve heard the gunshot. Everyone in the building probably heard it. How did the shooter walk down all those flights of stairs without being seen?”
“What if the killer left this way?” asked David at the open window next to the tiny kitchenette. The drop outside appeared to be at least thirty feet.
“How could anyone survive that fall?” asked Josie.
David pointed down. “Look at those two ripped awnings.” There were two broken awnings at ten-foot intervals directly below them. “Maybe the killer used them to break his fall.”
“Almost all the awnings are broken on this building,” said Grant as he joined them at the window. “They could’ve ripped years ago. But it is a theory.”
Josie looked through the cupboard above the kitchenette counter.
“Hungry?” asked Grant.
“I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary when I went through her desk, so I thought she might’ve hidden any official correspondence in here.”
“I’ll check under the mattress,” said David.
Grant removed the one painting on the wall and peeled back the canvas to see if anything was hidden beneath. “Nothing here.”
“Who do you think killed her?” asked David.
“You mean besides a hitman who then dove out the window? I haven’t a clue. It could’ve been a communist who figured out who she was or maybe someone who recognized her on the street from previous work and wanted revenge. Hell, it could be an angry lover, though he would have to be an excellent shot.”
“What about the Nazis?” asked David, who’d flipped the thin mattress over and was now checking for any holes in the fabric.
“If they’d wanted to kill her, the easiest way to do it would’ve been during the riot at the German American League. Someone easily could’ve done it and slipped away.”
Josie picked up the last canister in the cupboard, a tin labeled rat poison. She carefully shook it and felt a slight rustle inside. “Do either of you have any gloves?”
“Alas, they’re at home with my top hat and tails,” said Grant.
“I don’t mean those types of gloves,” said Josie, as she put the canister on the counter, then looked through a drawer. Not finding any rubber gloves, she picked up two towels and carefully opened the can. She poured out the ashy grey contents, then found a tiny cylinder of film in the middle of it.”
“Is that microfilm?” asked Grant, who was looking over her shoulder.
“I think so, but I’ve never seen it in person before,” said Josie.
“What? You live almost a hundred years in the future and you’ve never seen microfilm before?” asked Grant, who shook his head. “Women.”
“We have computer code which can store a warehouse of microfilm in a space the size of a pinhead.”
“How the hell do you do that?”
“With a series of zeros and ones.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Yeah, I don’t really understand it myself.”
Grant shook his head again. “Women.”
“Stop saying that! A lot of great coders are women. In fact...”
David kissed his wife. “Perhaps we can get into that later. I’m surprised the rat poison didn’t dissolve the microfilm.”
“That’s probably not rat poison,”
said Grant as he carefully picked up the microfilm and blew the powder off it. “It might be human remains.”
“Gross,” said Josie.
“Or cigarette ash,” said Grant.
“Even worse!” said Josie.
Grant held the delicate film up to the light. “But it’s a great hiding place. I wonder if the killer got home before her and was looking for this when she surprised him.”
“Can you read anything off that?” asked Josie.
Grant squinted. “It’s really tiny. That’s the whole point of microfilm.”
“Yes, I know what it is in theory,” said Josie. “I just hadn’t seen it in real life. But can you read anything?”
“It looks like it’s in code. But real code, none of those zeroes and ones.
“That is real code!”
“I’ll have to send it off to the lab.”
“Yours or the LAPD’s?” asked Josie.
“The FBI. I never trust the yokels of local law enforcement.”
They were interrupted by someone clearing his throat, then turned to see the detective from downstairs at the door. “This yokel would like to know what you’re holding.”
“Evidence,” said Grant. “And before you say anything, yes, we’ll give it to you as soon as my lab has taken a look at it.”
“It should remain here.”
“And I should be ten pounds lighter, but some things just ain’t gonna happen.”
“If you’re not going to share, get out of my crime scene.”
“We were just leaving, anyway,” said Grant, as he put the microfilm in his pocket and nodded to Josie and David.
The three of them walked to the door, then the detective said, “Sweetheart, make sure I get a copy of those notes you took.”
Josie turned to him. “Okay, look…”
“She’s not your sweetheart,” said David. “And if you continue talking to her that way, I’ll throw you out the window to test our theory of how the murderer got away.”
“Thank you, but it would’ve been much more satisfying to tell him off myself,” muttered Josie as they left the room.
“I’m sure it would’ve been,” said David, as the three of them walked downstairs. “But in my day you didn’t mess with the LAPD.”
“In my day you don’t really do that, either,” admitted Josie.
“Quit yer yammering,” said Grant. “I’ll have someone from the lab pick this up at Lawrence’s house. But for now, I want to ask Blake about Agent Medway last night.”
“Do you think he suspected she was an agent?” asked Josie.
“I think he would’ve said something if he did,” said David. “And he’s the one person besides us who had an alibi last night. Being locked up in jail is apparently good for something.”
“I still want to know how you know so much about jail.”
“And that is a story for another time.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Dead,” said Blake, for at least the tenth time since Grant had told him about Agent Medway. Dora had brought him straight to Lawrence’s house after bailing him out of jail, still wearing his suit from the previous evening. He’d removed his tie, his jacket was ripped at the shoulder and his shoes were scuffed, though he still had movie star looks, despite not having slept much during his night in jail. “And she was an agent for the FBI. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Grant. “I’d been told we had someone undercover, but I had no idea who it was. Did any of you suspect she was anyone other than who she claimed to be?”
Dora, Lawrence and Blake all shook their heads. “No,” said Blake, as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I used to marvel at her dedication to the cause, but I just figured she was a true believer. She told us she’d been a labor organizer in Dallas. It’s not like any of us checked up on her. I can’t believe the FBI was spying on us,” he said with an accusatory glare at Grant. “It’s seems a little un-American, don’t you think?”
“Not any more un-American than plotting to overthrow the government. You have to admit that the communists have caused a lot of serious damage through the years. What exactly happened last night?”
Blake paused for a moment, as if seeing the previous night’s events through new eyes. “The fighting was already going strong when Caroline – your agent – and I got to the street in front of the League. A couple hundred people were fighting, then the Hitler Youth came pouring out of the building, and they weren’t amateurs. They brought clubs and brass knuckles. We mostly had our signs from the protest.”
“That’s not all, from what I heard,” said Grant.
Blake grimaced. “Caroline brought bottles for Molotov cocktails.”
“She was the one who started that?”
“Yeah, though she didn’t have to work too hard to convince the rest of us. I don’t remember everything which happened at that point because there was a lot going on. Somebody threw the first one, then it was an out and out riot. Pretty soon I heard sirens and then the police showed up and started beating the communists.”
“They arrested some League boys, as well.”
“Yeah, but my bruised ribs are courtesy of a policeman’s nightstick.”
“Fortunately, they avoided your face,” said Lawrence. “Hollywood forgives communism but cannot abide a star who loses his looks.”
Blake grinned. “I’ll remember that for future demonstrations.”
“I’d advise you to avoid future demonstrations,” said Grant.
Dora looked up from checking Blake’s bruised ribs. “Do you think we’re in danger? Is the person who killed Caroline coming after us?’”
“It’s hard to say since we have no idea who killed her. But it’s a possibility. Someone from the League could have followed her home last night and killed her. The Silver Shirts are certainly capable of that. Or, it could’ve been a communist who realized she was a federal agent. It even could’ve been something personal, like a lover’s dispute. Was she dating anyone?”
Blake shrugged. “I don’t know. She didn’t talk much about her private life. A lot of party members hung out at her place in Venice, but I figured that was because she always had free booze. You think someone followed her all the way from downtown to Venice?”
Grant hesitated before speaking, not wanting to reveal too much about where she was found. “Anything’s possible.”
“Her place was ransacked,” said David. “I don’t think a lover would do that.”
“Do you have any idea what they were looking for?” asked Lawrence.
“Not at this point, but we did find a few things of interest.”
“I hope you find who did this,” said Dora. “I wasn’t close to her, but no one deserves to be murdered and if it was the League, they need to be brought to justice.”
“That’s my goal,” said Grant.
“How was your night in jail?” Josie asked Blake. “Did you hear anything which might make sense now in light of Agent Medway’s death?”
Blake grimaced. “They processed us with the League boys, so I spent most of my time just trying not to get beaten up again. They said some delightful things, of course. I didn’t understand much of it, though I have a feeling my mother’s honor was dragged into it. Several of the League boys looked smug, but I couldn’t tell if it was anything in particular or if that was just their normal expression. Looking superior seems to be their thing.”
“But wouldn’t anyone in jail be eliminated as a suspect?” asked Lawrence.
“Normally,” said Grant. “But this could’ve been pre-meditated. I don’t think it was a particular secret that the communists would show up that night. They could’ve planned to kill her to make a statement.”
“Then why didn’t they do it at the demonstration?” asked Josie. “It seems a lot less risky than following her home.”
“These are all good questions,” said Grant. “And I hope we get some equally good answers soon. Could anyone else have wanted her dead?”
&n
bsp; “She certainly wasn’t making any friends at the studios,” said Dora.
“That’s true,” said Blake. “The last thing they want is a fully unionized workforce. Caroline was going after the studio system, which basically treats us like indentured servants. We can’t work where we want or pick our projects, and we don’t get paid very well considering how much time we put in.”
Grant snorted. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a Depression going on. You get paid to look pretty on camera. It beats standing in a bread line.”
“That’s true,” said Blake. “And I should know since I’ve done both.”
“I don’t think she had as many enemies at the studios as you think,” said Josie. “I saw her with Ralph Harris on the MGM lot, and they looked pretty friendly to me.”
“Did he know she was an agent?” asked Dora.
Grant rubbed his neck. “It’d be against protocol if he did. How friendly did they look?”
“Very,” said Josie.
“Then we’re back to square one.”
* * *
It was mid-afternoon before Greta pulled herself out of bed, since she hadn’t returned home until close to dawn. After taking extra precautions to secure her doors and windows, she’d radioed Berlin about the night’s events – omitting the attack on her – then all but collapsed in bed.
Now she was seeing herself in daylight for the first time. She looked, appropriately enough, like she’d been run off the road and almost killed. Her fingernails were broken, she had purple bruises on her thighs and bottom, and she ached all over. She carefully surveyed the cuts on her face and neck. She could probably conceal most of them with make-up, but she’d keep a low profile over the next few days until they healed. She couldn’t afford to raise any suspicions now, especially with the house party just a few days away.
There was a knock at the front door and her heart stuttered for a moment. She was only in her dressing gown, which gave her no place to conceal a gun. She walked quickly to her bedroom and exchanged the dressing gown she was wearing with one with a hidden pocket, then slid her sheathed stiletto into it. She pulled the robe tighter about her, then walked to her foyer.
The Tinseltown Murderer Page 12