Felony File

by Dell Shannon

  He said, "A very sterile existence, wasn't it? So quiet. Such a lady."

  "You," said Hackett, "have exercised the famous crystal ball quite enough for one day. It's five-forty-five. And we've got inquests coming up, on Whalen and the Engel kid, to slow us down further. Tomorrow is also a day. Let's go home, boy."

  * * *

  Galeano came into the office at a little after four, feeling frustrated and mystified. He had got out and around today, on the Reynolds thing, and had got absolutely nowhere. Galeano had worked a lot of homicides, and in his experience if you took a good hard look at the victim, his associates, his areas of being, something usually showed to point the way. Here there was just nothing. He'd never run across such a bunch of honest, respectable, high-minded people in his life, and damn what color they were.

  Herbert Armstrong, who owned the studio where Leta Reynolds had worked, was horrified and grieved. She'd been a fine girl, an excellent retoucher. At that job, she'd had no contact with the customers, of course. All her friends were the same type she was; and by inference their associates. Young women, some married, some not, in ordinary jobs, or just at home as housewives. Her parents were the same: the father was a skilled machinist at a plant in Inglewood. All Melinda Corey's friends were respectable hard-working citizens. The only fellow she occasionally dated was one Lee Ballard, who was a law student at U.S.C.; his father was a member of a very reputable legal firm in Santa Monica. It didn't seem that Leta Reynolds or her sister had known anybody who'd ever had so much as a drunk-driving ticket. Leta went to work, came home, took care of Lily. Quiet girls, both she and Melinda.

  The parents could give him a lead to the ex-husband; they were barely acquainted with the family, who lived near them in Inglewood. Len Reynolds was said to have been living up the coast in Ventura for three years, where he had a job with the post office. That seemed to put him out of the picture, seventy miles up the coast. Besides, everybody said he hadn't been mad about the divorce, and that had been five years ago.

  There was nothing to take hold of, damn it. Even the Avon business—there wasn't any listing in the phone book on that. Some door-to-door selling scheme, he didn't know much about it.

  He was also curious about the Hoffman hearing, and Lake gave him the word on that when he came in.

  "At least it's something, but he'll be eligible for P.A. in seven years."

  Glasser and Wanda were in sole occupation of the office. "Saved by the bell," said Glasser. "I've got an arrest warrant to execute—it just came through—and I've also got an old~fashioned prejudice against exposing lady cops to possible violence. She was hell-bound to go with me."

  "I've been on the case," said Wanda, annoyed.

  "Ah—hah. I've got a little hunch that Fratelli could be a mean character when he's riled. I'd rather have Nick to back me up, thanks."

  "Any time," said Galeano absently. "Either of you know anything about this Avon business? I couldn't find a listing in the book."

  "Oh, it wouldn't be in the yellow pages," said Wanda.

  "It's direct selling—no offices. Mother had an Avon area once, but it can be a lot of work. Why?" Galeano told her, and she was intrigued. "I hardly think a real Avon lady—but I see you have to check. That is a funny one." She looked in the Central book, and found a number for Avon Sales Products. Galeano tried it, but the phone rang nine times without an answer.

  "Come on," said Glasser. "I want to get this bird booked in before end of shift."

  Galeano went out with him. It was nearly dark, and had turned even colder. "We'll have to take your car," said Glasser.

  "That kiddie-car of yours—you just don't like transporting prisoners."

  "I didn't pick it out," Glasser reminded him. He had, as a matter of fact, won the Gremlin in a drawing. They got into Galeano's car, and Glasser told him, "It's the Eagle Grill over on Fourth."

  They had to park double in front, and went in in a hurry. Fratelli was just serving the two men at the bar; about ten others sat around at tables. Glasser went up to the end of the bar and said quietly, "All right, Leon, I've got a warrant for your arrest. Come on out."

  Fratelli stared at him. "What? You can't arrest me—I didn't do nothing—damn fuzz—"

  "Come on," said Glasser. He was four inches shorter than Fratelli and probably forty pounds lighter, but unless he had to he wasn't going to pull a gun in here, in a crowd like this.

  The same thought was passing through Galeano's mind. He flipped up the pass-through at the end of the bar and went past Glasser; he was the bigger man. "Let's do what the man says—don't make it hard on yourself." He took hold of Fratelli's arm.

  Fratelli roared and shook him off, and brought up a fist like a ham, staggering Galeano back against the shelves of glasses behind the bar. Momentarily blinded—the fist had caught him square on the left eye—Galeano swore and groped, saw Fratelli swinging again with a bottle in his hand, and grappled with him.

  Glasser crowded in from behind; in the narrow space behind the bar, they struggled impotently, Galeano hanging onto one of Fratelli's wrists grimly. He heard the crowd beginning to mutter about the fuzz. Then Glasser's hands were over his and he heard the cuffs snap together.

  "All right!" said Glasser crisply. "That's enough, Leon." But with the cuffs on, Fratelli suddenly quieted down. He walked out to the car meek as a lamb. Glasser asked, "You all right, Nick?"

  "I'm O.K. But I think you'd better drive, I seem to be bleeding some."

  They booked Fratelli in at the central jail, and stopped at First Aid. Fratelli was wearing a big fake-diamond ring, and had caught Galeano a jagged cut with it. The nurse in First Aid washed it, told him he was going to have a beautiful shiner by tomorrow, and applied a neat dressing. Glasser passed on the message for the jail doctor; he was to get a specimen of Fratelli's pubic hair and send it over to the lab, please. "You sure you're O.K. to drive home, Nick?"

  "I'll be O.K.," said Galeano. But he wasn't going home. At this end of the day, he needed a shave and there was a little blood on his shirt, and his right knuckles were raw where he'd got in one good one on Fratelli's jaw. But damn it, if she would think about marrying him—and he thought it was going to be all right—she'd have to get used to him as he was. After he dropped Glasser off in the lot, he drove up to the restaurant on Wilshire where Marta Fleming worked. She spotted him right away when he came in, and as soon as she'd emptied her tray she came over to the single table by the window. "Nick, what has happened to you? You are hurt much?" Her dark eyes were concerned.

  "Just a fellow resisting arrest—nothing much." He smiled at her; he thought it was going to be all right, but he was being careful. She was convent-bred, and of a very conventional middle-class German family, and her husband hadn't been dead a year yet. Not until January. But she'd go out with him, let him take her to dinner at quiet places. And there were a couple of hopeful signs, he thought. She was thick as thieves with his mother, the pair of them prodding him to attend Mass regularly, persuading him to go on that diet.

  He grinned up at her. "You can bring me a steak. I've earned it. And a bourbon and soda first."

  "The calories," she said severely. "So you have earned it. One. But rice with the steak, no potatoes."

  Her tawny blonde hair was pinned back under the uniform cap, but when they went out somewhere she let it loose.

  "That's my girl," he said; but he said it to her back as she hurried off.

  * * *

  Landers and Conway had finished going through the employee records at four o'clock, and had drawn a blank. There were no other significant initials or dates.

  "I said from the start, a dead end," said Landers. But Conway had got interested in this very slick operation. "All right, so there had to be inside information from somewhere. It didn't have to be an exact copy of the jobs in Philly and Pittsburgh. Look, why the hell should that same gang be all the way out here? If you ask me—people get around these days, and all sorts of people—it's likelier it was some
body who was there then, read about those jobs. Now here, and needing some ready cash, thinking about all the loot to be had in one fell swoop—the hell of a lot more than he'd get on any other kind of heist. Look, Tom—"

  "And just happening to run into three eager accomplices at the nearest bar?"

  "Hell," said Conway, "if he had the inside dope, he could hire three thugs to help out nearly anywhere."

  Landers admitted that. "Look, Tom, are any of those guards unmarried? If so, has one of 'em maybe just found a new girl friend? Men get talking about their jobs—even security men—if they're with somebody they think they can trust."

  Landers said doubtfully, "Well, it's another idea to toss around. The lab report was no use—all the prints in the elevator belonged to the guards, and no prints in the van at all. And the rope was an ordinary brand you can buy at any hardware store." He massaged his jaw thoughtfully. "You know," he said, "one of the guards said something about the ground-floor man going around checking to be sure all the customers are out. I wonder—somebody like that, lurking behind counters long enough to see what was going on with the money bags? Seeing all the take from one or two departments going to the same place, he could guess it was all going there. And then all innocent going up to a guard, ‘Is the store closed? I didn't realize,' and getting let out."

  "Yes, but," said Conway, "the rest of it, up on the eighth floor—"

  Landers got up suddenly. "That freight elevator is numbered," he said. "Come on, Rich. Let's try something." He led Conway out to the regular employees' elevator that went all the way down, and took it down to the seventh floor. Here, at this side of the building, were Infants' Wear, Children's Wear, Ladies' Lingerie, Fabrics, Luggage. He led Conway as far as that, and stood looking helpless and inquisitive until a clerk bustled forward.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "I—er—left an umbrella in the store yesterday. In one of the rest rooms, I think—I was waiting for my wife—-" A slander on Phil, who never kept anyone waiting.

  The clerk was instantly helpful. "It may have been turned into Lost and Found, sir. If you'1l go straight down this aisle through Ladies' Lingerie, you'll find an elevator to take you up—it's the ninth floor."

  "Oh, thank you," said Landers. He led Conway back, found the dead-end aisle, and there was the elevator. It was labeled, To 8TH AND 9TH FLOORS ONLY. LOST AND FOUND 9TH FLOOR. They got in, and he pushed the button for 8. The elevator rose smoothly and stopped; the door slid open. They were at the other end of the hall from the Personnel offices. Facing them, just slightly down to the left, was a double-doored elevator clearly marked 3; up the other way were signs along the hall: To ACCOUNTING—TO PERSONNEL.

  They looked at each other, and Conway uttered a wicked word. "So easy when you know."

  Landers shoved him back into the elevator. "They must, said everybody, have been hidden somewhere until just the right minute." He sent the elevator up to the ninth floor. The door opened on a rather dark corridor and a sign; LOST AND FOUND, with an arrow pointing ahead. They went halfway down the corridor, past doors with frosted glass tops labeled PURCHASING, MAIL, CATALOG. Across from the last was a door which opened horizontally across its middle; a man was in there with his back to them, whistling cheerfully. A sign tacked up beside the door read LOST AND FOUNND OPEN Mon.-Fm. 10-5, SAT. 10-7.

  The man turned. "Afternoon. You looking for something?"

  "I think," said Landers, "we've found it, thanks."

  Grace called the office at five o'clock to ask the result of the Hoffman hearing, and Lake told him. "I tried to call you about two o'clock."

  "Oh. We were," said Grace, "at the County Adoption Agency."

  "Any luck?" asked Lake. The Graces had one much-loved adopted baby, little Celia Anne, twenty-one months old, and were hoping to acquire another.

  "Not so far. All the red tape."

  * * *

  Mendoza came home, ruminating gently about Marion Stromberg. He garaged the car next to Alison's Facel-Vega (at least the new place had a larger garage with room for Mairi's car) and went in the back door. Cedric the sheepdog was slurping water from his bowl on the service-porch and looked up happily, waggling his rump. Nobody was in the kitchen, but various good smells indicated that dinner was on the way.

  In the living room, Alison was curled in her arm-chair perusing House Beautiful with difficulty, almost completely covered by all four cats in a complicated tangle. She sat up, scattering cats, and said, "I never heard the car—you're late, enamorado—"

  He just had time to kiss her before the twins came to pounce on him. "Daddy, Daddy, I was so good in school today I got a gole star from Miss Turtle—" Terry.

  "Thirkell," said Alison automatically.

  "That's nothin', Daddy, she's just teacher's fav'rite, she could get a gole star for nothin'—" Johnny.

  "Anything," said Alison.

  They had to tell him all about school, and demanded promises to be read to before bed. They hadn't quite out-grown Grimm; they could read for themselves now, but—Time! thought Mendoza. Yesterday they had been crawling babies. Suddenly, they were personalities. . . ."Now, my lambies," said Mairi from the door, "let your father have his dinner in peace, and a dram before."

  They'd have finished their suppers an hour ago. "Will you want to come see wee Luisa take her bottle? Time enough for stories later."

  "Ooooh, yes-" They were fascinated with the new one, and scrambled to follow her.

  "You can bring me some sherry," said Alison. "It'll take six minutes to do the ham in the microwave, and everything else is ready." Inevitably pursued by El Señor, Mendoza poured him his half-ounce of rye, got his own drink and the sherry, and went back to the living room.

  "Shut the door and come here quick," said Alison excitedly.

  "Mi corazón, I'm always willing, but wouldn't the bedroom be more—"

  "¡Imbécil!" said Alison with a giggle. "Listen, Luis—don't dare say a word, but Ken thinks he's found some suitable ponies." She had easily fallen into saying Ken and Kate; the twins had even begun to say Uncle Ken. The Kearneys had grandchildren of their own and liked the species. "It was in some ranchers' magazine, an ad. You know he's looked all around here, what stables there are, and hasn't found any for sale. But he called this afternoon and said these sound like the very thing. A pair of Welsh ponies, seven years old, used to children and gentle. It's a ranch up the other side of Santa Barbara, and he said if we want him to he'd call the man to hold them until he goes up to look at them. Of course I said yes. What we thought, they could stay there until we're moved, and Ken can bring them down for Christmas."

  "Mmh," said Mendoza, who by this time had settled in his armchair and pulled her comfortably into his lap. "And how much is the pair of ponies going to cost?"

  "Well, six hundred for the two of them. With saddles and bridles," added Alison hastily. "Ken said he'd drive up tomorrow and if they're as good as he thinks, he can clinch the deal."

  "Qué bien," said Mendoza.

  "So," said Alison, "now tell me about the Hoffman hearing?

  He did, absently. "Hoffman looks like hell. What his wife said—" He told her that, and she nodded soberly.

  "It must feel like—the most terrible kind of betrayal, Luis. If one of your children does something very wrong, it'd be on your shoulders too."

  "I hadn't thought of it like that, but maybe that's so, querida. An extension of oneself—hard to see them as separate personalities, is that what you—"

  "No," said Alison. "Not exactly. Don't you see, not just Sergeant Hoffman—all of them. How can they ever possibly trust anyone again?"

  "Yes, I see," said Mendoza. "I hadn't thought of it that way either."

  * * *

  Jeff Dillman, sitting in the dispatcher's slot down in Communications, automatically picked up the indicated phone and said, "Police Department, may I help you?"

  The clock on the wall clicked and the minute hand jumped to mark exactly ten o'clock.

  "Wi
ll you please send a squad to—" Also automatically Dillman scrawled down the address given, before his mind registered something a little queer about that: "squad"; the ordinary citizen asked baldly for cops.

  "Would you repeat that, sir? What's the complaint?"

  The address was repeated carefully. "The front door is unlocked. You will also please inform the night watch at Robbery-Homicide of this call. Immediately, please."

  "What?" said Dillman.

  "Do you have that address? Please repeat it."

  "Yes, sir, I've got it. What's the c—"

  "Thank you," said the very calm male voice, and broke the connection.

  That, Dillman thought, was queer. He got on the radio, consulting the big colored map of Central territory on the wall in front of him. By time and area, Moss in X-19 was closest, and he relayed the call crisply. Investigate unknown complaint.

  But, Robbery-Homicide?

  He thought about it, and a minute later called up there.

  * * *

  It had been a quiet night so far for Piggott and Schenke. Sometimes the day watch left them jobs to do, suspects to hunt for; but tonight they'd just been holding down the desks.

  When the call came up from Communications at ten-five, Piggott took it, noted down the address. "O.K., but what's it all about?" Communications didn't know. "What's with this, Bob? Funny—a citizen calling in on a regular line asking for us."

  Schenke said, "Say that address again. Just inside our territory, Silver Lake—most people would have called Hollywood. That address rings a bell. Let's go see."

  They got there at ten-twenty-five. Moss was just pulling up to the curb in the squad; he'd got caught in a traffic jam on Silver Lake Boulevard, an accident. There were lights on all over the house, a nice house with a steep terrace in front. The porch light was on, and the first thing they all noticed was the nameplate on the door: HOFFMAN.

  Everybody in LAPD knew that name.

  They went in and looked and Moss said, "Oh, Jesus Christ."