by Dell Shannon
"Yes," said Mendoza. "Not much to go on until we know who she was. But thanks so much, Doctor. Maybe you'd better do those analyses, give us some details. What about her clothes?"
"I sent 'em to your 1ab." Bainbridge fished in his pocket and dropped the two rings onto the desk. "You never know what little detail may show up to give you some lead. I'll get to the analyses, probably get back to you sometime on Wednesday."
Mendoza didn't watch him out; he picked up the diamond ring. It wasn't a new ring, and quite anonymous, just a nice solitaire diamond in a Tiffany setting. The wedding band was just a wedding band—no engraving. Mendoza rummaged and found a paper-clip box in the top drawer, dropped them both in. If they ever identified her, and any relatives showed up .... A well-preserved lady of middle age. Whom nobody had yet missed, or Carey would have called. And nothing in from the Feds yet or the lab would have called. But a woman of this type would be bound to be missed sooner or later. Wait and see.
He picked up the report again and saw that the night watch, after a quiet Saturday, had had a hectic Sunday night. Three heists—two bars and a pharmacy—and a man dropping dead in an all-night cafeteria on Wilshire. He went out to the central office to see who was doing what. Landers and Grace had roped Conway into helping out on the paperwork on the Bullock's job. There were five witnesses due in on last night's heists to make statements and look at pictures, and that would occupy Glasser, Hackett and Galeano quite nicely. Higgins had gone out on the dead man: there'd been I.D. on him but Piggott and Schenke hadn't been able to raise anybody at the address.
Mendoza wandered back to his desk chair again and swiveled around to the window. It was raining again, and in southern California in November, that certainly meant another wet winter. His mind slid from the well-preserved lady to Alison's new—old estancia—certainly the right word for it; they'd been up there yesterday morning, and she was wild to make the move. It had certainly—if expensively-turned out an impressive place, high up in the hills above Burbank, with a spectacular view right down to the beach. Because the four and a half acres were outside the city limits in the county, the taxes were not all that bad. She had, of course, been having a field day buying new furniture, the house being four times the size of the place on Rayo Grande, what with the separate suite for Mairi. His red-haired Scots-Irish girl providing him with the set of feudal retainers. Mairi had arrived as a nurse for the twins, and turned into an honorary grandmother. And now there were the Kearneys—caretakers of the estate—and the new apartment for them created out of the old winery. But that was just as well—except that the Kearneys had a black cat named Nicodemus, and how he and El Señor were going to share even four and a half acres remained to be seen. And the matter of the ponies was becoming pressing. Ever since the subject had been first, and unfortunately, mentioned in their hearing, the twins had been demanding to know when the ponies might appear. And Ken Kearney the former rancher would know about ponies. Mendoza supposed there'd be some available, somewhere around. There were bridle trails in Griffith Park where you saw people on horses, so there must be stables somewhere. Yes, and Kearney casually suggesting a few sheep to keep the undergrowth eaten down; there'd only be landscaping around the house. A small stable for the potential ponies had been contrived out of an old shed up there, and there were plans for a riding ring; that had set the twins off again yesterday. "This where the ponies gonna live, when are we gonna get the ponies, Mamacita?" At least, since they'd been in nursery school, they'd got English and Spanish untangled. And there ought to be a good parochial school somewhere at that end of the valley. He wondered suddenly if the sheep would need a barn too. Now he thought about it, he'd never seen a real live sheep in his life. The things that girl got him into ....
* * *
Higgins had gone out on the necessary routine; cops didn't always deal just with crime. The paramedics had been called last night when the man collapsed in the cafeteria, and said it was probably a massive coronary; he'd been gone before he hit the floor. His I.D.—driver's license, Master Charge, Exxon gas card—said he was Earl Harper of an address on Genesee Street in Hollywood. They had looked around the cafeteria last night and found a car registered to him parked on a side street, and brought it into the police garage.
It was one of the unpleasant chores of the job, breaking bad news. The I.D. card in his wallet had said, in case of emergency notify Mrs. Marjorie Harper. The address was an old frame house, neatly maintained; Higgins parked in front, went up and rang the bell.
She was a plump, cheerful-looking woman, and she stared at Higgins on her doorstep—Higgins might as well have had COP tattooed on his forehead—and listened to
him without a change of expression. She just stood there while he told her the facts, and her eyes started to glaze a little.
She said in a too-calm tone, "I never gave it a thought. Not a thought. He's usually home and in bed by eight, but he might've been delayed. Or gone on an errand. My daughter just brought me home a few minutes ago."
"You didn't expect him home last night?"
"Earl works the night shift," she said. "He's a male nurse at St. Vincent's Medical Center. Most nights he has dinner home, of course, but last night I was going out with my daughter to the theater, the Pasadena Playhouse, and we'd be late so I stayed over with her, she lives in Pasadena. Earl said he'd get dinner out before he went to work."
"I see," said Higgins. "I have to tell you it's mandatory to have an autopsy, unless he'd seen a doctor within ten days. You'll be notified when you can claim the body. His car— Are you all right, Mrs. Harper? Would you like me to call someone for you?" They were still there on the porch, the front door open.
"Thank you," she said politely. And then, suddenly, "But Earl can't be dead! He's only fifty-nine, he's never had a sick day in his life! You can't be talking about Earl—" And then she started to cry, and in the end he had to go in and call the daughter, and wait until she got there with her husband. The husband was equally incredulous and insisted on going to the morgue to identify the body. It was, of course, Earl Harper. His son-in-law looked very shaken, and kept mumbling, "Fifty-nine, fifty-nine, and never sick in his life—my God—"
By the time Higgins got back to the office it was nearly eleven o'clock.
* * *
Glasser had just finished taking a statement from one of the witnesses to the pharmacy heist last night when Sergeant Lake brought two people in to see him. The man—small, gray and ferociously energetic—was Michael McNulty of the Board of Health, and the woman—large, florid and flustered—was Miss Florence Cook from the Aid to Dependent Children agency.
Glasser lifted a hand at Wanda across the office, and she came over at once. "Miss Larsen is with me on the case," said Glasser.
"Absolutely disgraceful" said Miss Cook violently. "That house! Merciful heavens, that house! Our office was notified, of course, by Juvenile Hall—I understand the police had told them the children were A.D.C. subjects—and immediately I found the memo on my desk this morning—of course we are not open on Saturdays—I went to interview Mrs. Engel. I had not been to the house before, needless to say."
"Why not?" asked Wanda innocently.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, after all you're disbursing taxpayers' money to see that children are looked after properly," said Wanda, "and I should think you'd want to know something about their homes."
"My dear girl, we are extremely shorthanded at the office—such a heavy case load—if we attempted to visit personally every single applicant, we should never get through the necessary paperwork."
"Had you ever seen Mrs. Engel's children?" asked Wanda.
"Of course she did not bring them to the office when she applied—"
"Then you didn't even know they existed? She just said she had four children and no money, and you started handing her some?"
Glasser opened his mouth to shut her up, but too late. "My dear girl," said Miss Cook, "you must realize that our time is l
imited, extremely limited. With all the paperwork—"
"Taxpayers' money is also limited," said Wanda. Her eyes were very blue, and seemed to be shooting sparks at Miss Cook, who swelled for further speech. "But you saw Mrs. Engel—didn't it occur to you that she couldn't be a very satisfactory parent?"
"If I had ever dreamed of such conditions, naturally I—that house!" said Miss Cook.
"Simmer down," said Glasser to Wanda. "It's the bureaucratic mind. No entry. One way."
"What`?" said Miss Cook.
"If anyone is at all concerned that any action is being taken," said McNulty, with an arctic glance at Miss Cook, "I can assure you that it is. Unlike some other civic agencies, the Board of Health does not automatically and arbitrarily withhold its services from the public on weekends. Two of my colleagues and myself examined the house on Darwin Street on Saturday, and gave the tenants a verbal eviction order at that time. In fact, I considered the danger of infection to be so severe—only three months ago we had several cases of typhoid in that general area—that I had the house sealed at once. I have not let the grass grow under my feet, I assure you, Sergeant—"
"Detective," said Glasser.
"—And I obtained a condemnation order this morning. It was when I had driven down there to post it properly that I discovered—" his glare was frosty- "this—er—Miss Cook on the premises. She had actually broken the seals on the door."
"I had to see Mrs. Engel! How did I know the house was empty? You hadn't left any signs on it. After what the matron at Juvenile Hall told me about the children—"
"My dear madam, you might have inferred that some authority had placed the seals. Now I am in a position to know that the police discovered the condition of the house on Friday—and you have taken no steps until this morning, to protect children nominally in your care. I, on the other hand, spent my entire Saturday afternoon and Sunday hunting down records to discover the owner of the property and informing them—"
"Who is it?" asked Glasser.
"Like several blocks of property in that general area, all that block is owned by a large realty corporation—there has, of course, been some talk of an urban renewal project—"
"Profiteers!" said Miss Cook. "Monopolists!"
"And the condemnation order is now posted," said McNulty triumphantly.
"But where is Mrs. Engel?" demanded Miss Cook.
"I must locate her at once! She will be taken to court as an unfit mother—we'll need a warrant for that, of course—"
"Sorry," said Glasser, "you're in the wrong office for that. You'1l have to go down to juvenile and tell the story there. We'll try to find Mrs. Engel for you—we want to see her again too." When the two of them had gone out, he sat back and laughed.
"It's not that funny, Henry," said Wanda. "I'll bet I could walk into that office and say I had six kids and no husband or money, and they'd simply hand out the monthly checks."
"But we had," said Glasser, "better find out where Fratelli and Hose have flitted to. That place he works will be open at two."
* * *
Mendoza had just come out of his office, hat in hand, at a few minutes before twelve, with the intention of going out to an early lunch with whoever was unoccupied. Only Galeano was in the office, typing. Sergeant Lake was just coming in.
"Oh, you're still here, Lieutenant. You've got something new. Homicide down on Twenty-seventh." He handed Mendoza the memo-slip with the address.
"¡Condenación!" said Mendoza. But the homicides got committed—and discovered—around the clock. "That means you and me, Nick."
"Right with you," said Galeano. As they walked down to the elevator, Mendoza thought irrelevantly that Galeano was looking a bit younger and more cheerful lately; he'd lost some weight too—like Hackett he was inclined to put it on. Mendoza wondered if that had anything to do with that German girl Nick had fallen for in such an unlikely way: how was he doing with her? Everybody had thought amiable, stocky, dark Galeano was a confirmed bachelor at thirty-five. Still, thought Mendoza with a sudden inward chuckle, look at George Higgins. And as he pressed the elevator button, a small imp at the back of his mind said, Or Luis Mendoza, and he burst out laughing.
"Something funny?" said Galeano.
"Just human nature, Nick." Everybody had thought Luis Mendoza was a confirmed bachelor too, and a good deal older than Galeano or Higgins, and six years later, where that girl had got him; the twins, and now the new one (who would turn out to be another redhead, of course), that dog, and now a vast (well, for L.A.) estate, the feudal retainers, and now more livestock. What next, he wondered. But she'd said she was going to take up painting again, with a real studio. That might quiet her down a little; one never knew.
They made a dash for the Ferrari through the rain: not a downpour, but the steady kind of rain that brought a lot of water down.
The address on Twenty-seventh Place—this was one of the solidly black areas—was an old stucco house on a narrow residential street. It wasn't an affluent-looking block, but all the houses were well enough kept up, with strips of lawn and Bower beds in front. This one was painted pink, and at the largest front window were crisp white priscilla curtains, visible from outside. There was a squad parked at the curb, with Patrolman Barrett waiting in the front passenger's seat. Beyond the square front porch the front door of the house was open.
"What have we got?" Mendoza and Galeano ducked into the back seat of the squad.
"Something damned queer," said Barrett. "Rather you than me, try to figure it out. These two women are at home—they're sisters—and the doorbell rings, woman says she's selling something and gets let in, and a minute later brings out a gun and shoots one of them. A Mrs. Leta Reynolds. That's about all I got—the other one was pretty shocked and upset. There's a little girl there too. The other girl asked if she could call her mother and I said she'd better wait for you. She seems a pretty good type—maybe she's got over the shock enough to answer some questions. I left Ray with her."
Down here they ran two-man cars.
"Queer isn't a word for it," said Mendoza. "We'll want a lab truck." They arranged for that; he and Galeano went up the front walk and into the house. Patrolman Wiener was just inside the door, which led directly into a living room. He said, "The girl went into the bedroom. Wanted to get the kid away from the body."
"Understandable," said Galeano. This was a pleasant, homey room, with a worn American-Oriental rug on the floor, old-fashioned upholstered furniture in shades of green and beige, a real brick hearth. It was clean and neat, except for the body; and at first glance you might have thought Leta Reynolds was merely asleep.
She was a nice-looking young woman, chocolate brown, with neat regular features and a slim figure. She was wearing a dull-orange sheath dress and black patent-leather pumps. There was a gold bracelet on one arm, a gold wrist watch on the other. She was lying back on the couch, looking quite comfortable. There was a dark stain on her left breast—not a very big stain.
"She said she heard three or four shots—didn't realize what they were," said Wiener. "I'd guess a small caliber, twenty-two or something." He went into the hall. "Miss Corey, the detectives are here. They'd like to talk to you."
She came to the door of the living room. Wiener introduced them formally and she nodded. "I'm Melinda Corey." She looked about twenty; she was more handsome than pretty, with rather sharp features, a great knot of hair coiled on top of her head; she wore a smart dark-green pantsuit. "Please—we don't have to stay here? I mean—" she glanced at the body, gulped and turned away.
"We'd rather not," said Mendoza. "There'll be some technicians here in a while."
"The kitchen," she said. "There's Lily—" She opened a door and looked into a bedroom. "You just stay there awhile, honey. Don't be scared at any noises—there's just some people coming to—to help Mommy."
"Will she be all right?" The little girl looked about six; she had big black eyes and neat pigtails tied with red ribbons.
"I th
ink so," said Melinda. "I'll be back after a while."
She shut the door and led them down the hall to a square kitchen big enough for a table and four chairs. There was a little stack of dishes in the sink. She sat down at the table and they sat with her. There was a big ceramic ashtray on the table, and Mendoza offered her a cigarette. She bent to his lighter.
"I don't believe any of this has happened," she said. "Half an hour ago—Leta saying she'd do the breakfast dishes—and then the doorbell rang—"
"We have to take it in order. We don't know much about it, suppose you tell it from the beginning. First, she was your sister?"
She nodded once. "Leta Reynolds. I suppose you want—some background. Whatever you call it. She was twenty-seven. She was divorced. This was—I mean, she and Len started to buy this house and she got it as a settlement and went on paying on it."
"Did she have a job?" asked Mendoza.
Melinda put a hand to her eyes. "If she'd just been at work! Any other day she would have been! But if she had been, maybe I'd have got shot. It doesn't make any sense. Yes. Yes, she worked at the Armstrong Photo Salon, she's a retoucher. Usually, she'd have gone to work at nine o'clock, but she'd put in some overtime on those rush wedding pictures last week, and Mr. Armstrong told her to take this morning off."
"What about you?" asked Galeano. His tone was warm and friendly; she relaxed a little.
"I'm going to L.A.C.C., my second year. I came to live with Leta because it's closer for me—Mother and Dad live in Inglewood. I'm an education major. I've got a part-time job at the campus bookstore. Please, I'd like to call Mother. This will about kill them, there were just the two of us left, my brother was killed in an accident two years—-"
"In a while," said Mendoza. "We'd like to hear just what happened, Miss Corey."
"I'll tell you everything I know," she said, "but it just doesn't make sense. Leta kept Lily home this morning, she had a temperature and it was so wet out—she's in first grade—she was, I mean Leta, going to take her over to the Sanfords' when she went to work. That's where Lily always goes after school, her best friend is Barbara Sanford and Mrs. Sanford keeps her till Leta gets home at five-thirty. I didn't have a class till one o'clock. We had a late breakfast, and Leta got dressed to go to work—she wanted to get the tank filled on the way—and I was in the bathroom, washing out some pantyhose and things. When the bell rang."