The Body in Griffith Park

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  CHAPTER 14

  Smiling broadly, Anna checked in on her patient in the receiving hospital. Mrs. Michaelchek snored. She sounded like a dangerous animal, though she looked safe enough. Her color wasn’t good and she was still shackled to the bed. Matilda dozed in a chair at her side. Two empty bowls suggested that Matilda had eaten her illicit mush and possibly Mrs. Michaelchek’s.

  Anna decided to speak with the doctor to make sure he’d been checking on her. She sought him out on the first floor in the men’s department of the receiving hospital. She found one insane man in a drugged stupor and a man bleeding out from a gunshot wound, crowded into a seven-by-twelve-foot room.

  The surgeon had blood up to his elbows. A trustee assisted him.

  Anna ventured. “Doctor, have you seen Mrs. Michaelchek? You are checking in on her?”

  The surgeon shot her a dirty look. “Yes, I’ve been checking in on her, Assistant Matron Blanc.”

  Anna bobbed a curtsy and wandered onto the main floor of the station. She had a little time. That is, no one was expecting her to be anywhere at this particular moment. She racked her brain for what she could do toward solving the case of the Griffith Park Executioner. They had no leads. All they had was a body.

  And pictures of the dead man in that rather remarkable suit.

  She could canvass tailors. Someone had sewn that awful sac coat; it was no doubt seared into their memory.

  Anna collected her picture of the ant-covered body wearing the bad suit, told Mr. Melvin she was out hunting Eliel Villalobos, and trekked down to the shopping district where the better tailors cut and sewed. It had, despite its color, been a well-sewn suit, and the fabric was a good weave. She called out, “Here Eliel, here Eliel” from time to time, because she didn’t like lying to Mr. Melvin.

  She skipped her father’s tailor; he would never stoop so low. She snuck past her own seamstress’s shop lest the lady see her and demand payment. The next shop appeared open. Anna went inside, jingling a string of bells on the door. “Hello. I’m an LAPD police matron investigating a murder.” She smiled sweetly at the tailor, who was pinning a pair of trousers.

  He was an older man, perfectly turned out. He cocked his head, “How strange.”

  Anna ignored the insult. “Do you know this man or this lovely suit?” She inclined her head graciously and showed him the photo. He leaned forward to look.

  Horror transformed his face—at the suit or at the body, she couldn’t tell. He stepped back.

  Anna held the picture closer to his wrinkled face and smiled winningly. “Please, look again. Never mind the ants or the dead man. Did you make this suit? I won’t tell anyone if you did.”

  The man put down his sewing and disappeared into the back of the shop, slamming the door.

  She had apparently insulted him. Anna now saw the flaw in her strategy. No tailor would admit to knowing anything about that suit. Innocent bystanders, however, wouldn’t have the same reservations.

  Thus, on the way back to the station, Anna pinned the photograph to the wall in the post office along with a note stating that any citizen who recognized this man or his suit should contact Detective Joe Singer at Central Station immediately. She took the liberty of offering a large reward, leaving the amount unspecified. Large was a relative term and meant different things to different people. It didn’t have to be cash at all. The reward could, for example, be the satisfaction of doing one’s civic duty. It could be a horehound candy or a peppermint. Or Joe could sing a song for them on their next birthday.

  When she returned to the station, Officer Snow was there scratching his scaly head, straining to read a letter. He grabbed Anna’s sleeve as she passed. “Stop, girly.”

  She stopped, so as not to rip her dress, and glared at him.

  He smoothed down his hair with his hand and smiled at her. His canine tooth was missing. His eyes weren’t hostile. Snow’s attempt at flirtation? Did he really believe his own rumors, that she would do mysterious things with cops in the stables? After how he’d treated her?

  He thrust the letter in front of her face. She wrinkled her nose. His hand smelled.

  “Read it,” he said. “Please.”

  Anna noted that his smiling, scarred face had turned red. Embarrassment?

  She sighed, took the letter, and perused it. The date on the letter was two weeks ago. It had likely been assigned to Snow but had been languishing on his desk because he had trouble reading words with more than three letters. If he thought his illiteracy would impress her, he was mistaken. If he thought smiling at her would make her meet him in the stables, he was an idiot.

  But that was established.

  She said, “It’s a kidnapping complaint of sorts, lodged by one Samuel Grayson. He claims his fiancée is being held captive by her landlady. His proof includes that he is no longer allowed on the premises, and that she never writes him back. Yes, he admits, they had a fight, but believes she is definitely being held captive or, surely, she would be returning his letters. He has warned the landlady that if she doesn’t free his fiancée, he will tell the girl’s father where she is, etcetera. Her name is Flossie Edmands, and she resides at 807 South Hill Street.”

  Snow smiled at her again. He took the letter from her hand, crumpled it, and tossed it in the trash. “Thank you.” He lumbered off, his face still crimson.

  Did Snow have a crush on her now? She did not understand his behavior.

  But she did understand why Wolf had assigned the case of the captive girlfriend to Snow—the detective who couldn’t find his face in a mirror. But something about it tugged at her. She reclaimed the balled-up letter from the waste basket and reread it. The girl was allegedly being held captive. The address of the girl in question was 807 South Hill Street.

  She lived at the Jonquil Apartments.

  Anna swished over to Joe, looking perplexed. “Snow was friendly toward me.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Any news on the Griffith Park murder?”

  “Nope.”

  “I put the victim’s picture up in the post office. Maybe someone will recognize him. It’s hard to solve a murder when you don’t know who the victim is.”

  Joe winced. “You used the cleaned-up photographs, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Anna lied. “And, there’s something else.” She put the complaint into his hands. “Read this.”

  Joe’s eyes perused the crumpled complaint. “What’s so interesting about this? The poor sap’s been kicked by his girl . . . Oh.”

  “You see?”

  “I don’t know, Anna. His claim is kind of far-fetched.”

  “Oh please, let’s go back to the Jonquil. We have absolutely no leads on the Griffith Park murder, apart from waiting to hear from the police in Oklahoma.”

  “Is Matilda still here?”

  “She is. She likes the mush. She’s quite wonderful, actually, watching Mrs. Michaelchek. I wouldn’t have been able to go to the inquest without her. She’s very giving.”

  “I think we should talk to her again about what happened at the Jonquil Apartments.”

  “I have. She’s holding to the Martian story.”

  “Anna, even if we caught her Martian, a judge wouldn’t let her testify if she’s mentally unwell.”

  Anna’s shoulders sank.

  Joe shrugged. “If you really want, I could go talk to Mrs. Rosenberg, but she’s not going to incriminate herself.”

  “Maybe we should raid the place. You saw those twins.”

  “No judge is going to give me a warrant based on Matilda’s testimony and a complaint from some poor, jilted sap.”

  “Then, I’ll go undercover. I’ll apply for an apartment. Tomorrow. They’ll take me if they have an empty room. I’m pretty.” Anna was more than pretty but thought it impolite to say so.

  “Unless they recognize your gorgeous picture from the paper. Not to mention that you’ve been there before. Anna, you’re sort of conspicuous.”

  Joe had a point. If
there were shenanigans afoot—bewitching Martians, etcetera—a police matron is the last person they would want on the premises. “It’s been months since my picture appeared in any paper. And I’ll wear a disguise. An eye patch or a rubber nose or something.”

  “Fine. But no accents, and you’re not moving in. Whatever you do, don’t drink anything. I’ll be in the café if you need me.”

  “Be careful. You are also very conspicuous.” Anna winked badly.

  The following afternoon, Anna returned home from the station early to prepare for her sting operation. She donned the curly black wig Joe Singer used to use when he dressed as a girl on sting operations to catch the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend. Matilda had mentioned that the man from Mars preferred girls to wear their hair down, like a child. Thus, Anna searched her wardrobe for a remnant from her younger days. She found a four-year-old gown with white ruffles and a skirt that hit midshin—one she had worn before she’d debuted in society. The dress fit so tightly that lifting her arms was out of the question. Anna would need to restrict her movements and take shallow breaths to avoid bursting the buttons. Even so, when she took her first stride, the side seam on her bodice popped open, gaping like a screaming mouth. She considered it in the mirror and liked the effect. It made her look pathetic and desperate. Anna tore a ruffle for good measure, so that it sagged conspicuously. Then she ripped the pocket.

  She finished her disguise with a pair of spectacles, which she had stolen from the pocket of a man on the trolley on a separate occasion. Because she couldn’t see when wearing them, she poked out the lenses.

  Anna did look different—nothing like the photographs that had appeared in the paper where she either looked like a gorgeous society lady or an extremely beautiful prostitute. She just looked like an unfortunate girl—albeit a lovely one. To further distance herself from herself, she popped a piece of Juicy Fruit into her mouth and planned to chew it in public, which Anna Blanc would never do.

  CHAPTER 15

  Rain clouds gathered over Los Angeles threatening to drench the city and fill the river, which now only trickled to the sea. Anna sashayed down the busy sidewalk toward the Jonquil Café, buzzing with excitement, like the city herself—Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles. Anna couldn’t help but sneak glances at her reflection in every plate glass window along the street. She could easily pass for sixteen—her own little sister. To amplify the effect, she abandoned her graceful bearing and slouched.

  Joe sauntered along behind Anna at a safe distance, smiling. He stopped at a fruit stand adjacent to the Jonquil Apartments and pretended to shop. She cast a glance at him over her shoulder and stuck out her tongue. He grinned and pegged her in the head with a cherry.

  Anna squeaked.

  The grocer minding the fruit stand was giving Joe an earful when Anna skipped through the doors of the Jonquil Café. Anna steeled herself, telling herself she’d be safe. It was, after all, a public café with windows to the street. Men were laughing and talking jovially.

  The maître d’, wearing a coat with tails, stood near a reception podium and the feathery fronds of a giant potted palm. He welcomed her, bowing his muscular body, and ushered her to a table by a window as if she were important and not a minor girl chewing gum in torn ruffles who shouldn’t be unescorted in a big, bad city. He handed her a menu printed on fine paper. It felt nice to be treated with deference for a change—the way waiters, tradesmen, and shop-keepers used to always treat Anna when she was an heiress and had a running tab in every good establishment in Los Angeles.

  Anna sat at the table and tried to appear forlorn, wistfully gazing out the window, because sad girls seemed most vulnerable to mashers and macquereaux. Inside she felt exhilarated. She always did when fighting crime. The drawn-down corners of her mouth kept flipping up into a smile. But this was serious business. Ironing out her lips, she ordered milk from the waiter and sniffled, making subtle boohoo noises and dabbing dramatically at invisible tears with one of Joe’s pathetic old handkerchiefs.

  She perused the menu, then glanced surreptitiously about to see if anyone watched her.

  Everyone did—pretty career girls dining at tables with white cloths, and the rich-looking men scattered among them.

  Anna tensed under the weight of their eyes. Could they have recognized her? Or were they just staring at the spectacle of a waif in a nice café. She saw the maître d’ in conference with Mrs. Rosenberg over near the kitchen. They were considering her. The man even had the gall to point.

  Anna didn’t know if she was extremely successful or about to fail dangerously, blowing her cover and the case. At a loss, she boohooed louder. She looked about, snuffling. Where was Joe?

  Mrs. Rosenberg glided over to Anna’s table with her mouth in a pout, looking as sickly sweet as rotting fruit.

  Anna braced herself to spring from the booth and run.

  The pouting lady simpered, “My goodness, dear. Whatever could be the matter? You look like you haven’t a friend in the world.”

  “I haven’t,” Anna said, and snorted, feeling absolutely wonderful.

  “Hush now,” said the landlady. She squinted at Anna. “Have we met?”

  “I’m sure we have not. I’m from out of town.”

  “Well, I’m Mrs. Rosenberg and this is my humble café. What’s your name, child?”

  “Um . . .” Anna’s eyes rolled to the side. Why did she always forget to pick an alias ahead of time? “Gladys,” she declared. “Um . . . Sydalg,” She wrinkled her nose. It was a simple palindrome, not a name at all, but she supposed it sounded Welsh.

  Mrs. Rosenberg slid into the booth beside Anna. “Is there anything I can do for you Miss Gladys? Are you hungry?”

  Anna nodded truthfully. She usually felt hungry now that she prepared her own meals, and the café smelled like ambrosia. “I dream of pig’s feet in batter.”

  And she did.

  “I hope you have bigger dreams than pig’s feet in batter.” Mrs. Rosenberg winked magnanimously and motioned to the waiter, who hovered nearby. “You aren’t dreaming of your prince charming?”

  “I dream of fancy ice cream,” said Anna. “Two scoops.”

  Mrs. Rosenberg’s smile tightened but she nodded to the waiter. He bowed off to the kitchen.

  Anna hoped the sting operation would take a while. She truly did want pig’s feet in batter and fancy ice cream. If she could stretch it out, she might get other things, too.

  When the pig’s feet arrived, hot and dripping with grease, Anna gobbled it up, as she imagined a desperate girl might do. She had never been allowed to gobble anything, thus gobbling delighted her. To her initial horror and then amusement, she burped. This also pleased her and enhanced her disguise. The older lady did not react with horror. Perhaps she was used to ill-mannered girls.

  “Excuse me.” Anna grinned sheepishly and looked around for Joe to see if he was watching. He likely did not know that ladies even could burp and would probably be fascinated. But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was watching Anna from some secret hiding place.

  Or maybe the angry grocer had captured him.

  “Dear, you seem familiar.”

  “Everyone says that. I look like . . . everyone.”

  Mrs. Rosenberg pressed her lips and nodded.

  Not two, but three scoops of fancy ice cream arrived—diabolical and seductive in the extreme.

  Mrs. Rosenberg said. “You look so very lonely. Where are your people?”

  “South . . . Hill . . . ville.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s in Mexico.”

  “South Hillville is in Mexico?” Mrs. Rosenberg frowned, looking slightly perplexed and not a little suspicious of Anna.

  Anna’s heart sank. She had perhaps just blown her undercover operation. And Joe was hiding somewhere, watching her fail. She couldn’t help it. Her eyes began to well for real. She sobbed, “That’s why they call it South Hillville.”

  “There, there, now. I know what it
’s like to be on your own. But things will get better. I promise. Do you have someplace to stay tonight? Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth.”

  “Yes.”

  The lady’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “I’ll sleep in a doorway covered with newspaper.” Anna sobbed happily. She hadn’t entirely lost her mark. “I’ll get a room soon. I just got a job as a chorus girl. So, you see, I can pay for some very humble place. Or I will be able to.”

  Mrs. Rosenberg smiled. “Isn’t that a coincidence. I own an apartment building for career girls.”

  Anna slumped as if the world rested on her shoulders. “That’s kind, but I don’t have references.”

  “I trust my instincts.”

  She really oughtn’t do that, given her instincts were completely missing the fact that Anna was a cop. Or would like to be.

  “You have a room available?”

  At this, the smile slipped off Mrs. Rosenberg’s face. Still she said, “Yes, of course. We’ll make room.” “I can pay you at the end of the week.”

  The lady patted Anna’s hand. “I know you will, dear. Eat your ice cream. I’ll be right back.” Mrs. Rosenberg pressed Anna’s cheek and disappeared into the kitchen. She returned with a lease and pen in hand. “It’s month-to-month. That way, if things change, say if you found a husband, you can go. Why don’t you fill it out while I take care of some business?” She stood and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Through the window, Anna watched her appear in the yard and walk across the lawn to the Jonquil Apartments. The lady held an umbrella. It had started to rain.

  Anna signed the lease and hailed the waiter. “Do you have petit fours? And cocoa?”

  While Anna sated her sweet tooth, she watched through the window. Mrs. Rosenberg ushered a girl out the front door of the Jonquil Apartments into the rain. The girl, a beauty, dragged a trunk. She looked young—maybe sixteen—and possibly Spanish.

  Anna stood up for a better look. The former tenant didn’t seem to be leaving. She just sat on her trunk on the sidewalk with her arms crossed stoically.