by Dell Shannon
"Take your time. Did you see the woman at all?" asked Mendoza.
"About—two seconds," she said. "Just crazy. I heard Leta open the door and I heard them talking—just a couple of sentences—and I couldn't tell who it was, I thought it might be my girl friend Edna, sometimes she hitches a ride to campus—so I came down the hall to see. This woman was standing by the couch—a perfectly strange woman—and Leta was saying she hadn't much time to look but she liked Avon things. So I knew it was an Avon saleswoman, and I went back to finish my washing?
"Was she white or colored?" asked Galeano.
"Oh, colored."
"Could you tell us anything about her at all?"
She shook her head dumbly. "I've tried to think. It wasn't two seconds. I thought she'd probably pushed her way in, Leta sounded annoyed, and I thought she'd get rid of her easier alone. I think she was taller than either of us, bigger. Not exactly fat, but—bosomy. That's just the impression I remember. She was—I don't know. I didn't really look at her. She had on a blue raincoat. And she had a bag—a sort of briefcase kind of thing. It just crossed my mind, her samples in that." She paused.
"Well, it couldn't have been twenty seconds later—I mean that—I'd just got back to the bathroom and started washing again, when I heard some—some little pops. It wasn't like a gun—I never knew a gun could sound like that. Not loud bangs, just pops. It startled me—I thought maybe Lily had upset something—and I went down the hall, and that woman was just going out the door. I only saw about half of her back—and the door shut, and I said Leta's name and then I saw her—on the couch—I thought she'd fainted, and then I saw the blood—and I just rushed to the door after that woman— but just as I got it open I saw a car pull out from the curb in front. It must have been her—just time for her to get to it. And I can't even tell you what make it was! The rain, and she pulled out fast. It was a white car, medium size."
"That," said Mendoza, "is a very funny little story. Did you discover your sister was dead then?"
"Well, I went right back to her, and I've had some first aid, but I couldn't feel a pulse at all, and I was terrified—I thought she'd been stabbed—I never thought about those pops. But I saw she was— So I called the police. It was the first officer said she'd been shot." She shook her head. "I didn't believe it."
"So we come to some basic questions," said Galeano. "Did she have—"
"Any enemies?" she took him up. "That's crazy too. Of course not. We hardly ever went out except to see Mother and Dad. We were both busy. She wasn't dating anybody—she'd sort of got her fill of men with Len, she wasn't interested."
"What about Reynolds? Was he bitter about the divorce?"
She shook her head. "It was five years ago. They just drifted apart. They were pretty young when they got married, and Leta was always one for improving herself and learning new things, and he wasn't. He never finished high, couldn't get such good jobs, and then he got to drinking. I don't think he cared when she divorced him, and he never came around to see Lily. We don't even know where he is."
And that was all.
Marx and Horder were busy in the living room. "She wasn't here long," said Galeano, "by that story. But she could have touched the coffee table—the girl says she was near the couch."
"But apparently not sitting down," said Mendoza.
"The Avon lady. A gun instead of samples. Extraño."
"And I'll add one thing you already know," said Galeano. "This is a working-class neighborhood, there probably aren't many people at home at this time of day. And nobody who is home, a dreary rainy day, is gawking out the front windows. Nobody else heard the shots, with all the doors and windows shut. Nobody but Melinda saw the woman or the white car."
"She seems like a nice girl," said Mendoza, rocking heel to toe meditatively.
"Doesn't she?"
The morgue wagon was just pulling up in front.
They went back down the hall. Melinda had made herself a cup of coffee, and the little girl was sitting opposite her with a cookie. She eyed the strange white men solemnly.
"Miss Corey—"
She looked up wearily. "I haven't got up the courage to call Mother yet. Now what?"
Lily asked suddenly, "Are you gonna make Mommy feel better?"
At a loss, Mendoza was silent. It was the bachelor Galeano who gave her a friendly smile and said, "We'll try, honey."
"She fell down. That lady pushed her and she fell down."
Galeano squatted beside her chair. "Did you see it happen?"
She nodded. "I wanted to see who came in. But she went right out after she pushed Mommy."
"Did she push her with anything? Like a stick?"
"Please—" said Melinda. "She's only six."
Lily thought. "Just kind of—with her hand." She held out one hand, forefinger pointed.
Galeano stood up and looked at Mendoza. Both of them were thinking, plenty of little guns around, muzzle only a couple of inches long, the whole hardly bigger than a palm. And at that range she could hardly have missed.
But where was a handle to this random, reasonless thing?
They went out to the Ferrari, leaving the lab men still at work, and Galeano said with a sigh, "All we needed. Unless it's a homicidal maniac picking victims at random, and there aren't many of those around, somebody had some kind of reason to walk in and shoot her. We'll have to talk to everybody she knew—the employer—find the husband. Neighbors. The parents. Some kind of lead ought to turn up. And I'm starving. Let's go have lunch."
"Ought to doesn't say it will, Nick. This is the queerest one we've had in awhile," said Mendoza.
* * *
Landers, Grace and Conway had got to the Personnel office at Bullock's about nine o'clock. "This is the damndest job we've had in a while," said Conway plaintively. "I didn't join the force to shuffle papers all day."
"You were just after a uniform to impress the girls?" asked Landers. Conway, who was good-looking and as dapper a dresser as Mendoza, laughed.
"Anything for a change, I suppose."
The Personnel office had given them a little back room, a table and some chairs. The stacks of file-folders they hadn't examined were still high. Landers divided them into three piles, emptied the ashtray filled at the last session, and they got to work in silence.
It was tedious work; they had to look in several places on each employee's work record for the name, date of employment, type of employment, and termination if any. Bullock's updated these files only quarterly; at the next updating, the file of any employee no longer on the strength would be weeded out, but as of now there should be a few. And Bullock's had a lot of employees. They broke for lunch early, were back at it by a quarter of one, and it was nearly an hour later that Conway let out a whoop.
"Beginners' luck, boys." He shoved a file at Landers. "If that doesn't ring a bell! There you are, the initials too—the time, the place, and the loved one all together."
It was the file of one Mary Webster. She had been hired last April, had worked as a salesclerk in the bedding department, had quit her job in the middle of September. They looked at a few more items on the file. Mary Webster was five-five, Caucasian, had brown hair and brown eyes, weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds, and was twenty-nine years old. Unmarried. Her address was on Fountain Avenue in Hollywood.
"I think you've turned something, Rich," said Grace.
"M. W. And the time—"
"Nearly six months?" said Landers. "She wouldn't have had to stay in the job that long to find out the routine on taking the money in."
"We'd better take a look anyway," said Grace. "Not that I think she'll still be at that address. Not if she's it."
It had stopped raining and was turning very cold. All three of them went up to Hollywood in Landers' Sportabout. The address on Fountain was a new garden apartment with a pool at one side, now drained and covered for the winter; in the cold gray light the brightly painted doors—scar1et, green, blue—looked garish. The apartment th
ey wanted was on the second floor at the back; it had a bright orange door and surprisingly the nameplate said Webster.
"So, coincidence," said Landers, pushing the bell. In a minute the door opened and they faced a woman about sixty, with gray hair becomingly waved, plain crystal glasses. She was wearing a pink quilted housecoat and pink slippers. She looked surprised to see them.
"We're looking for a Mary Webster who used to work at Bullock's," said Landers.
She stared up at him—tall, lanky Landers with his youthful face didn't look like anybody's idea of a cop and said, "I'm Mary's mother." And then the tears welled up and began to spill down her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "Was it something to do with the store? She had to leave without notice—and she hadn't been there long, she used to work at the valley branch of Robinsons' but when we moved here—it was nearer to drive. She'd only been there since April, but they were very kind about it, they paid her for the last two weeks. Was it a mistake?"
"I—" Landers was taken aback.
"Oh, I'm sorry, excuse me, but she—she was only twenty-nine, and since her father died five years ago she was all I had—such a good girl—and engaged to such a nice young man, they were going to be married at Christmas—how I'd have loved grandchildren, but she was an only child—hadn't been feeling well, so tired for no reason, but we thought, just run-down—vitamins—"
"Excuse me," said Landers, "I don't think—"
"And when she finally went to the doctor— It was a brain tumor. She just—wasted away. She—she died last Wednesday, the funeral was Saturday." Determinedly she gulped back a sob. "I'm sorry. Something to do with the store? That last check?"
"No, Mrs. Webster," said Grace in his gentle voice. "We thought there might have been a mistake, is all. How much was the check for?"
"A little over three hundred dollars." She looked anxious.
"Then there wasn't any mistake, everything's all right, ma'am."
Back on the street Landers said again, "Coincidence."
* * *
Hackett and Higgins had spent an annoying afternoon chasing the heisters. Two of the witnesses looking at mug-shots had made two identifications, and they went out looking for them: Hay Reeves and Harry Fogarty, both with appropriate pedigrees. Reeves had moved, but a neighbor obligingly told them where his girl friend worked, at a drugstore on Vermont. They found her, and she told them Ray had moved down to Compton on account of getting a job there, on the maintenance crew at Compton College. He was going straight, really, she said, he wouldn't have done anything. It was then four o'clock and Compton was nearly twenty miles away even on the freeway, so they went to look for Fogarty.
They found him at his last-listed address in Boyle Heights, and he was belligerent. He admitted he'd just lost his job but claimed he was absolutely clean. He couldn't, however, prove it. He'd been home alone watching TV last night, he said.
They came out to the street; it was twenty past five. They were using Hackett's new car, the custom Monte Carlo he'd got at such a bargain, and in the dingy street in the gray light it looked like a circus wagon, brilliant iridescent lime-green with a saffron top.
Higgins said, "Hold a line-up tomorrow and see what the witnesses say? He looks good for it."
"He looks very good for it," said Hackett, "but we can't do it tomorrow, George. The Hoffman hearing."
"Oh, hell and damnation," said Higgins.
Hackett took him back to his car, said goodnight and drove home. For once the children were quiet and peaceful, and Angel told him the real estate woman would be coming tomorrow night with all the papers to sign.
"I want to do some sorting out—it's awful what you acc1unulate—but I think we'd just better set a definite date and go," she said. "It costs more but you can get the moving people to do all the packing. Say the end of the month—it'll be a thirty-day escrow. The only thing is, Mark will have further to go to school—"
"It will," said Hackett uncomplainingly, "be further for me too, my Angel."
"But all the nice unpolluted air, up that high," said Angel bracingly. "And much lower taxes, darling."
Higgins drove home—he was getting used to the new route now, up the Pasadena freeway—and found all his family there. After too many years of not having any family, he appreciated the one he'd acquired. It had been an upset and a muddle, moving to the new house, and things weren't straight yet. Mary wanted to paint all the bedrooms and panel the dining room, and Higgins wasn't very handy with tools. But it was a nice house, bigger than the old one, and the yard was fenced for the little black Scottie Brucie.
Steve Dwyer cornered him after dinner, while Mary and Laura were doing the dishes. "I want to ask you something, George."
Higgins put down his paper. "Well, what?" Steve was looking more like Bert all the time, and growing; he was up to Higgins' shoulder now, and Higgins was six-three.
"Well, I mean, I don't want to—I mean it was just something I want to know," said Steve, and his voice was lowered, and he cast a glance toward the kitchen where the two females were chattering.
"Well, what?" said Higgins again. Steve had evinced a faint sort of interest in girls the last few months; Higgins supposed he ought to have a belated man-to-man talk with him, but the idea was embarrassing.
"Well, look," said Steve. His round young freckled face looked rather desperate. "George, I know Mother wants to fix the place up, and paint and so on costs money. It's just, can't we sort of squeeze out enough to build a darkroom in the garage like I had? Because—"
Higgins began to laugh. Photography had always been Steve's first love, and evidently adolescence wasn't interfering with it yet. "We'll do it," he promised. "We'll fix one, Steve—running water, safety lights and all. Because one of these days you're going to be an LAPD lab man, you've got to keep your hand in."
A blinding grin rewarded him. "I just wanted to know," said Steve.
* * *
Glasser and Wanda had landed at the Eagle Grill just after it opened. Leon Fratelli was behind the bar. It wasn't a very fancy place, but it looked reasonably clean. There were only two customers in at that hour. He said to Glasser's question, "Yeah, there were some guys come and said we hadda get out—an order of some kind. Why the hell, I said, we got a dictatorship, tell people where to go, get out, don't come back? Listen, I don't guess Rosie's the best housekeeper in the world, but it was damn cheap rent and what's it matter to anybody?"
"All we want to know is," said Glasser, "where have you moved? With Rosie? There are—um—some A.D.C. papers for her to sign."
"Oh. The money for the kids. That's good," said Fratelli. "Well, hell, rents most anywhere sky high, it's terrible. We ain't found a place. Acourse, it's easier not havin' the kids, I got to say that. Right now we got a room in a hotel on Temple, the Arcade. It's four bucks a night, we got to find some place else."
"Y0u know," said Wanda, outside in the Gremlin, "what puzzles me, why does he stick to Rosie? He's not any prize himself, Henry, but she's a lot farther down."
"I don't think," said Glasser, "he'll stick to her much longer. She's getting past picking up the johns and rendering even token service."
"Those children," said Wanda. "My God."
"Yeah. Very unlikely that whoever fathered them was much better than Rosie. It says somewhere, man He made a little lower than the angels," said Glasser.
He went out helping on the legwork on the heists later, and it was five-twenty when he landed back at the office. Wanda was there, nobody else.
The autopsy report on Alice Engel had just come up. As expected, she'd been beaten, raped and strangled. Pubic hairs from the body had been sent to the lab. There was also a lab report which had come in earlier. Numerous latent prints had been lifted in the house. Five identifiable prints belonging to Leon Fratelli (record appended) from headboard of bed, chest in bedroom, chairs in living room; numerous prints belonging to Rose Engel (record appended) from both bedrooms, kitchen. The lab said the pubic hair belonged to a male Cau
casian; if a specimen was obtained from any suspect, it could be matched for comparison.
"So what do you think?" asked Glasser. "You bucking for detective."
"Just what you're thinking, Henry," said Wanda. "The whole dirty thing is obvious."
"Yes," said Glasser. "Just for fun, let's see if the boss thinks we can get a warrant."
But it was five to six, and Mendoza had gone home a little early.
FOUR
WHEN MENDOZA CAME IN on Tuesday morning there was a manila envelope from the coroner's office on his desk with the night report. He slit it open: the autopsy report on David Whalen. There wasn't much in it: the weapon had been a long narrow knife with a serrated edge, and no special skill had been exhibited; he had been stabbed four times, and two of the blows would have been fatal alone.
He glanced at the night report; a nice quiet night for Matt and Bob, only a hit-run out on Alvarado. He heard Hackett and Higgins coming in, and took the autopsy report out to the hall with him.
"Damn it, Art, it's a Murder One charge. Even Fletcher can't hand him much less than— Morning, Luis, what've you got?" Higgins took the report without interest.
"I'll take no bets," said Hackett glumly, and Scarne came in behind Landers and Conway. It was Grace's day off.
"Morning," said Scarne. "I knew you were chafing at the bit on this one, Lieutenant, so I brought it up myself.
It just came through." He handed Mendoza the yellow teletype; it was the kickback from the Feds on the prints of the lady in the park.
"Ah," said Mendoza.
"Of course it may not help you much, it's a little out of date," said Scarne with a grin, and departed.