by Daniel Fox
“A collect call for a Miss Ida Bly.”
“That’s me.”
“Will you accept the charges?”
“Yeah, yeah I accept them.” Ida snapped her fingers, come on come on.
“Caller, go ahead.”
Silence from the other end. Just static popping on the line. Maybe a faint sound of breathing.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m here. Freddo, he said you were a reporter?”
“Yes sir, that’s correct. My name is Ida Bly, I work for the Los Angeles Clarion.”
“Okay?”
“And this is?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m not used to these phones much. Don’t have much call for them I guess. This is Samuel Hodges. Freddo said you needed to speak with me.”
“Was... is your daughter Myrna Hodges?”
A pause. Then: “Yes ma’am, that’s correct. She’s one of my girls. She in some kind of trouble?”
“Did she get in trouble a lot?”
“She uh... she’s a girl that has her own mind. Spirited, I’d guess you’d say. She moved out your way as soon as she thought she was able. Too soon, if you ask me, but... Ma’am, forgive me, but you haven’t said what this is about.”
“Just one more question first sir, please. Did she have any identifying marks on her? Some way you’d know her if say her face... if her face got covered up?”
Quiet. Ida could feel the ice that had to be settling into Samuel Hodges’ bones. Finally: “Yes ma’am. She had this birthmark on her leg. Up high. On the right one if I remember correct, though it’s been a long time since I was giving her baths. Is there, uh, is there something you want to tell me ma’am?”
Ida put her head in her hand. Closed her eyes. Listened to the pop of the static on the line. Before June this would have just been business. She would have just been a reporter. Right at that moment Ida wished she could go back to that. This was hurting her heart too much.
“Ma’am? You still there?”
“Yes, Mister Hodges, I’m here. Like I say, I’m a reporter. There was a very big story over this past summer here in Los Angeles. Big enough to make waves across the country. Around the world, actually. It was... it was...”
“Did this story involve my girl?”
“Yes sir. I think... I’m pretty sure...”
“I think you’re trying to tell me she’s dead, aren’t you?”
Static hissing and popping. “Yes sir. Murdered.”
Ida waited on the line a long time. There were murmured voices, both male, Mister Hodges and good old Freddo. She couldn’t make out the words, maybe the mouth piece on the phone was being covered, but there was grief in the warbles of Mister Hodges, and shock and consolation in the sounds coming from Freddo.
Mister Hodges finally got back on the line. His voice had half the strength from before. It was watery, almost ghostly. “You’re sure it was her? I mean, could there be some mistake?”
“I hope there was a mistake Mister Hodges. I truly do. I hope I’m wrong.”
“But you don’t think you are.”
“No sir, I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
“Murdered. God Almighty. Who would do such a thing?”
“I’m going to find that out for you sir. That’s a promise to you and to your daughter. Did she ever call you, write you, come back for visits?”
“She only came back for the first Christmas after she had moved out west. After that it was just letters.”
“Did you save those letters?”
“Her mamma did. Every single one. Aw hell, how am I going to tell her mamma and her sisters?” A pause, then: “You want me to send them to you?”
“I would like that, yes sir. I’ll get you the address here. But right now, do you remember anything from those letters that might have been a tip-off in hindsight? In the last letters did she ever mention being scared of anyone?”
“No ma’am. On the contrary. She made it sound like she was living the life of Riley. Like she had made it to the promised land. Everything was ‘beautiful’ this and ‘glorious’ that.”
Ida sat up straight. “Do you remember her ever writing about a man named Robert Tree? Or Bob Tree? Or maybe Bobby or Bob?”
“What? The Marine? No. Why would-”
“How about men in general?”
“Well, she talked about being escorted to some fancy-type places by some well-to-do types. Celebrity-types even. Taking her out to restaurants and, what did she call ‘em? ‘Hot spots’. I figured she meant movie stars. I wasn’t too keen on all that but she wrote in her letters to tell me that she was being a good girl and that I shouldn’t worry. I guess she knew me pretty good to write that.” A voice crack. Sobbing. “She was always nuts about the pictures, even before she ever saw one. Got the magazines in the mail. Los Angeles, the Promised Land.”
“I’m so sorry sir. I’m going to have our legal department help you out with getting you out here and getting her back home. We’re going to cover all the expenses, okay?”
Just a man sobbing on the other end of the line.
And a place to look for a provable connection to Bob Tree – high-end hot-spots and restaurants. The kind of places a small-town girl would dream of.
CHAPTER 42
Luckily, there were only about five hundred thousand joints in Los Angeles that might qualify as a “hot-spot”. She spiralled outward from the Wilshire Brown Derby, hitting any restaurant, bar, dance hall, theater, club, and whatever else struck her fancy as a place a young woman would get all dolled up for in expensive shoes.
She showed Myrna’s picture at each stop. She showed Bob Tree’s picture at each stop. Nobody recognized Myrna. Everybody recognized Bob. She got asked by two different waitresses and one swishy Maitre D if Bob was currently seeing anyone.
She didn’t let Maitre Ds and hostesses stop her at the door. She pushed past, sometimes using her fame, sometimes using loud and unladylike language, to get to the bartenders, the busboys, the cigarette girls, the band members... anybody and everybody that might have seen Myrna.
Three hours in, all negatives.
Los Angeles was full of places trying to be hot spots. The social scene shifted all the time. If she ran out of places to try in town, she’d head up and down the coast. If Bob was escorting Myrna out before he killed her, he might have taken her out of town in the hope that there would be less chance he would be recognized.
This might take months. The way Bob Tree had been cracking, she wasn’t so sure the women of the Los Angeles area had days before he struck again.
She hit more restaurants.
More no’s on Myrna. More yeses on Bob.
And then, West Hollywood. Chasen’s.
A yes on Myrna’s picture.
A yes to recognizing Bob Tree from his picture, but a no to the hostess, a tall stunning redhead, ever seeing him in the restaurant. She asked if Ida knew him, and could she get Bob to come in for dinner one night if they comped his meal?
“Was Myrna alone?”
“I’m sorry, who?”
Ida held up the picture of Myrna again.
“Oh. No. Never alone.”
“But you’re saying she didn’t ever come in with Bob Tree?”
“That’s right. I would remember. Excuse me.” The hostess waved Ida to the side, out of the way, so she could seat a family with a teen-aged daughter.
The hostess returned, gave Ida a cool glance.
“Yes, I’m still here.” She nodded at the family seated in a corner. “I know that kid from somewhere.”
“She’s an actress. She loves the chili here. I think I’ve told you all that I can.”
“Yeah, see, I don’t think you have.”
“We value our clients’ privacy.”
“Say what? You make bank on shouting out the names of your clients from the rooftops.”
“I just might have to call the police.”
“I just might have to make a scene. Super em
barrassing. I can scream like a banshee. And you would not believe some of the words I know.”
The hostess looked down her nose at Ida. “Oh, I’d believe it.”
“So?” Ida waved the picture back and forth.
“Fine. I saw her in a couple of times with an older man.”
“But not Bob Tree.”
“I already told you no.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know who he was. Tall. Distinguished.”
“Tall. How tall?”
“I don’t know. I’m five eleven in my heels and he had a good four or five inches on me.”
Six three, six four... Bob Tree territory.
Ida put the pictures in her pocket. “Alright, thanks for your time.”
“You’re that reporter, right?”
“Yeah honey, that’s me.”
“This man you’re looking for, did he do something? Something bad?”
“Yes he did. ‘Bad’ doesn’t cover it. Monstrous. He did something monstrous.”
The hostess chewed her lip for a second. “Wait here.” She moved off.
A couple came in. Ida stepped aside. The hostess returned carrying a thick book. She put it down behind her, slapped on her perfect hostess smile, and escorted the couple to a table.
She returned, put the book on her reservations podium, nodded Ida over to look. She looked around to make sure none of the rest of the staff was paying attention.
“I’m not sure my boss would like me doing this. This is from his office. He used to be a performer, vaudeville guy, likes to have his picture taken with the celebrities.” She flipped open the book, a photo album. She dug her thumb in and flipped to the last few of the pictures. She looked around, checking again to see that the coast was clear. “If Tommy ever found out I was doing this he’d wring my neck.”
“Tommy?”
“The Maitre D. It’s his night off. I’m filling in. Here!” She pointed at two pages of what looked like a New Years’ party.
Ida confirmed it, a banner with cut-off words hung from the ceiling in the pictures, the numbers 1947 coming through clear. Celebrities. Wealthy people. Handsome men. Beautiful women decked out to shine. Dancing. Eating. Drinking. Raising glasses to toast the new year.
The hostess flipped the page.
Ida’s heart stopped.
Myrna smiling big and beautiful into the camera. Laughing. Standing arm in arm with an older man who most definitely was not the mighty war hero Robert Tree.
CHAPTER 43
“Robert Tree.” A.C. Pointe looked shell-shocked himself. He sat with his elbows on his desk, hands to his temples, running his fingers up through his hair as he tried to absorb everything George had just laid out for him.
He finally looked up at George. “Aren’t you two friendly?”
“Yes sir. I mean... we were. After the thing in June we ended up getting invited to a lot of the same parties, shown off together as the guys who took down Lagercrantz.”
Pointe nodded, looking weary. “It does all fit. It helps explain why we’ve had so much trouble with the dead girl’s case. We weren’t being incompetent, we were being blocked. If my superiors knew about Bob Tree’s tendencies they may very well have thrown the proverbial monkey-wrench into the works to stop us from revealing the nation’s beloved war hero’s true nature to the public.”
“Yes sir. Bringing him in... it’s going to hurt a lot of careers. It might even take a bite out of the V.A. He’s in hundreds of pictures shaking hands with every politician from here to Timbuktu.”
“Not to mention a great many policemen. Including myself.”
“And me.”
“This might put an end to our careers, you do understand that?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you’re willing to go through with it anyway?”
“I am.”
“Good man.”
“Do you think we can get that warrant for the shrink’s transcripts?”
Pointe slapped his hands down on his desk and pushed himself up. He paced. “No. In my experience medical information is where even the most aggressive judges will draw the line. We’ll need more, some other evidence to present before we go for the warrant.”
“I can try to pick up Bobby again, keep a tail on him.” George pointed at his massive frame. “But to tell the truth I’m not exactly built for not being noticed.”
Pointe grunted, grinned. “Truer words were never spoken. We’re going to need allies.”
“Is there anyone else in the Department you trust sir?”
“Detective Fortier. I believe he’s still exceedingly grateful to you for saving his life.”
“You know Officer Hartman?”
Pointe frowned. “The name is familiar.”
“She works the public outreach stuff.”
“A woman?”
“It could work for us – nobody would corrupt her on account of her being beneath notice. And she’s real eager to do something other than public outreach.”
“Fine points. But I’ll admit to an old-fashioned prejudice, I wouldn’t feel comfortable putting a woman in the line of fire. Detective Pileggi.”
“I don’t know about Pileggi sir.”
“I do. I’ve had him running quiet errands for me. Bring your car round front of the building, I’ll meet you there in a minute once I’ve called them together. Needless to say, we won’t be having our little cabal meet here in the lion’s den. Go on now son, we have work to do.”
***
Bob Tree finally returned to his apartment after hours of wandering around the Santa Monica Pier, the beaches, trying to enjoy looking at girls and getting the sea air into his lungs. None of it worked. He was still suffocating.
And then he got to his door and found the wood around the lock roughed up and splintered. He put his fingertips to his door and pushed – it swung open.
He went in. His apartment looked like the ass end of a tornado. The sofa cushions cut open, stuffing ripped out. His Japanese flag torn off the wall, cut into ribbons, probably by the katana that was lying on the floor.
He didn’t know he was growling. He didn’t know his eyes were popping. He lurched into his bedroom, banging his shoulder off the door-frame. The mattress had gotten the same treatment as the sofa cushions. All of his clothes were pulled out of the closet, the pockets turned inside out, the fabric sliced up.
His footlocker was open. The contents scattered around the room. His picture of his unit had been torn out of the frame and crumpled up into a ball. There was dirt on it – someone had stomped their foot down on it as an insult after injury.
He smoothed the picture out against his leg as best he could. The picture was webbed with white lines where the paper had been abused. He turned it over to smooth it out from the backside. The person who had done this to his place, to his picture, to him, had actually stomped their foot down on the back of the exposed picture first, then crumpled it up.
They left a footprint. A dirty footprint on the back of the one picture he still had of his friends. His brothers.
It was the pointed shape of a woman’s shoe.
Bly.
CHAPTER 44
“Pull over here.”
George coasted to the curb, cut the ignition. Skid Row. They sat out front of some of the old abandoned houses. The houses’ windows were boarded up, the doors gaping open like idiot mouths.
Pointe nodded up at the house in the middle. “I called Fortier and Pileggi while you were fetching the car. They should be waiting for us inside.” He got out.
George followed. They went up the cracked and rolling walkway toward the house. They mounted the steps.
Pointe held up a hand. “Let’s take a moment, make sure we weren’t followed.”
“Sir, all due respect, if someone was following us wouldn’t coming to Skid Row make us look suspicious? It’s not like we usually take roll call here.”
“Think about how many times in your and Miss Bly’s s
tory you told me of valuable tips that seemed to be deliberately left by the wayside. I fear they’re already suspicious of us. I fear that whatever it is we’re unearthing has been going on for some time. We do stick out in this neighbourhood, it’s true. But the advantage is so will anyone else.”
“How high do you think this goes? I mean... Bob Tree. He’s had dinner with the governor.”
Pointe shook his head. “However it turns out, I’m sure it’s going to be unpleasant.” He took one more look in both directions down the road. “Last chance son. If you want out now’s the time.”
“Are you thinking of backing out, sir?”
Pointe shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Me neither. I’m in sir, all the way.”
“Right then.” Pointe nodded at the house’s open door. “Let’s get this started then.”
George went in first. Took a right into the living space. There was a hole in the floor. An old soiled mattress curled in the corner. He understood what was going on as soon as he heard Pointe’s gun scraping against the leather of its holster.
He jumped directly backward, his big body slamming into Pointe, knocking them both down, Pointe bellowing as a bone cracked somewhere in his body. George lay on top of him, jacked an elbow backwards into Pointe’s face, flattening his nose, making blood squirt out in a fan.
He went for the gun in Pointe’s right hand. They wrestled for it. George started to pry Pointe’s fingers away.
Fortier came out of the dark, from further down the hall. Holding his revolver, a .32, old school. He had a head-shot, easy, George didn’t even realize he was there at first until Pointe underneath him wheezed out, “Shoot him! For Chrissake!”
George snapped his head up. Saw Fortier. Saw Fortier’s gun shaking in the air. George rolled away, graceful and fast for his size, pulled up Pointe as a shield, backed towards the front door.
A noise from behind. George looked back – Pileggi coming through the door with a shotgun. He couldn’t take the shot and not hit Pointe, he slammed the butt into the crook of George’s neck instead.