Murder Most Strange

by Dell Shannon

  Echo Park wasn't that much of a park: call it eight or nine acres, and most of it the lake; and it didn't attract the custom it once had. There were boats to rent, little putt-putt motor boats with canvas tops, but such unsophisticated pursuits were no longer popular with the younger generation, and there wasn't much else there but a hamburger stand, pretty scenery around the edge of the lake.

  You couldn't drive into the park; he parked in a red zone along Echo Park Avenue and walked down. There were two squads in a red zone down from there, and down the little slope, past one of the cement paths leading into the park, were two uniformed men standing at the shore of the lake under a big pine tree.

  As he started toward them, he remembered that body in the lake, some while ago. An offbeat case. Occasionally they came along.

  The two uniformed men were Barrett and Zimmerman. It was probably Gomez's day off. "I don't know if you'll think we handled this right, Lieutenant," said Barrett, looking disturbed. "But we didn't want to call you out unless there was really something to it, you see, and so we did a little looking on our own. I called for a backup because—well, it could be something and then again it couldn't, see what I mean. But we both think now there damn well could be something to it. Look at this." He gestured. "The fellow who runs the boat concession spotted it, when he came to open up about ten A.M."

  Under the tree, on the largely bare earth where grass wouldn't spread in the deep shade, was a little collection of objects. There was a large green canvas tote bag, with a ball of green wool spilling out of its top, and a pair of white-framed sunglasses lay near the wool. A foot or so away from the bag was a half-knitted green sweater, with a pair of knitting needles still in it where the last stitches had been taken. All around the area in front of the bag, near to the solid thick trunk of the tree, were little scuffle marks in the bare earth; and on the bag itself was a large splotch of blood—a good deal of blood trailing out on the canvas in a series of little sprayed droplets from the largest splotch.

  "Now that's blood," said Barrett, "and not just from a nose-bleed or something. It kind of looks as if there'd been a struggle of some kind here, would you say?"

  "I might," said Mendoza, looking at the exhibits with interest.

  "Well, I tried not to disturb it, but I looked in the bag. There's just a handkerchief and some Life Savers in it, and there was this." He handed over a letter. It was in an envelope addressed to Miss Eileen Mooney at an address on Clinton Street. "It's just a little note from some girl thanking her for a birthday present, but the address—it's just up in the next block, and by that time Zimmerman was here so we both went up to look. No answer, and we talked to a neighbor, a Mrs. Lally. It's a four-unit place, this apartment is downstairs left, and this other downstairs tenant knows the girls. Sisters, Rose and Eileen Mooney—and she says Rose is at work but Eileen came down to the park this morning to sit and knit, about eight-thirty. She hasn't seen her come back. Well, in case the girl had been taken sick or something—I don't know if you think it was the right thing to do, but—I got in. I got a back window open, and the place is empty, nobody there. All clean and neat."

  "So this Eileen—" said Zimmerman. "That is blood, after all. And there isn't a soul down here, hasn't been while we've been here. It looks as if somebody could have, well, snatched

  her."

  "¡Ay de mi!" said Mendoza. "I'll agree with you, something certainly happened here, boys. And I'd like to know if that's human blood. And something about Eileen. Where does the sister work?"

  "Big restaurant up in Hollywood. By what the neighbor said they both work there, but different shifts." Barrett added the name.

  "What's the address on Clinton? All right. There just could be something damn serious here, and I think we'll find out. One of you call up a lab unit, hand this stuff over, and tell them I want an analysis on the blood pronto. I'll see the sister. You might go asking around"—there were narrow residential streets adjoining the park—"whether anybody heard anything, screams—you never know."

  "Okay," and Barrett started back to his squad.

  "I'm glad you don't think we jumped the gun," said Zimmerman uneasily.

  "No. Something happened here," repeated Mendoza, staring at the blood splotch soberly. "Maybe we got on it soon enough—we'll see. Call in anything you get to my office." He didn't lose time getting back to the Ferrari.

  The restaurant where the Mooney sisters worked was a big one in the middle of Hollywood, almost opposite the Crossroads of the World shopping complex. It was a middle-priced place with a good reputation, not fancy, but very far from being a cheap joint. There was a square foyer where a cashier presided over a glass-cased counter displaying cigars, mints; the woman there was fat and gray-haired.

  He waited for a couple of departing customers to get out of the way, asked for Rose Mooney, showed the badge. "It's a little family trouble. Is there anywhere I could talk to her privately?"

  "I don't know." She looked around vaguely. "She's in the back dining room—through to the left."

  Mendoza went back there, to a large square room past a dark bar, and accosted the first waitress he saw, neat in black-and-white uniform. "I'm looking for Rose Mooney, could you—"

  "I'm Rose Mooney," she said. She was a small pert-looking young woman about twenty-five, with an uptilted nose and reddish-blond hair. She stared at the badge. "What's it about? Police—is something wrong with Eileen? What—"

  "Is there somewhere we can talk privately?"

  She said, "We're not supposed—I'm about due for a break—I guess we could—" She went and spoke to another waitress, led him to the last booth at the end of the room. "Now, nobody wants to worry you unless there's good reason," said Mendoza, "but you'd better know what showed up a while ago." He told her about the curious little jumble of evidence in the park, the blood; she listened, breathing quickly, leaning forward.

  “Oh, my God," she said. "But what could have— Yes, she went to the park—" She put both hands to her head, almost as if to hold it on. "Oh, my God. We usually work the day shift together, but Eileen's on the night shift just temporary, to oblige the manager—there's a girl off sick. So I've been leaving the car for her—not safe, taking the bus at night. I'm on eight to four, and she was on four to midnight. Just the last week. And since the weather's been so nice, she liked to walk down and sit in the park, mornings, and knit or read. She was going to this morning."

  "Your neighbor saw her go."

  "But what could have— Oh, God," she said suddenly, and drew a long shaky breath. "Oh, if she just hadn't had that fight with Randy! So senseless—I just thought, my God, it could be that awful Bartovic fellow! It could be—he'd been after her—"

  "Now calm down and tell me about it straight," said Mendoza sharply.

  "Oh, my God. She—she'd been going steady with Randy Penner a long while, he's a really nice guy, and crazy about her, but she had this stupid fight with him—last week—because he lost a hundred dollars at poker—and broke up with him. And this other one, Rudy Bartovic, he'd pestered her for a date before. I think she went out with him because she was still mad at Randy—it was last Friday night, her night off—but when she got home she said never again, she'd nearly gotten raped and he was mad she fought back—"

  "All right. Do you know where he lives?"

  "That's just it, why I thought of him, he lives right on the same block a couple of houses down—with his mother and a couple of younger brothers—and he could know about Eileen being in the park—could have seen her—"

  "Now, Miss Mooney. Just to be sure about this, I'd like you to let me drive you home so you can look to see if any of her clothes are missing. We have to be sure she hasn't gone somewhere of her own volition."

  "But where would she—why—"

  "We have to be sure." He waited while she saw the manager, got her handbag, and took her out to the Ferrari. On the way downtown he asked, "Can you give me a description of your sister?"

  "She—we look a
lot alike. She's five two, she weighs a hundred and ten, her hair's the same color as mine and her eyes a little greener. She's twenty-two," said Rose wretchedly.

  He parked on Clinton Street in front of the apartment.

  "Let's see if your car's here." It was, a middle-aged Datsun inside the locked garage. "She'd have her keys with her?"

  "Well, of course. She'd lock the place when she left."

  "You go and look at her clothes. I'll be back. Where does Bartovic live?" She pointed out the house a little way up the street.

  He walked up there and pushed the doorbell. After an interval the door opened and a shapelessly fat woman in a dirty housedress faced him. "Is Rudy Bartovic here?" She shook her head, and he showed her the badge. "Do you know where he is?"

  "Police," she said. "He's in some trouble again, maybe? But Mr. Reiner said he wouldn't do nothing if Rudy paid it back—" She looked frightened. "I'm afraid to cross him—you can't do nothing with him—he come home drunk again last night, and like to snap my head off this morning just 'cause I asked was he goin' to the employment agency—just slammed out—"

  "What time?" asked Mendoza peremptorily. "Does he have a car?"

  "About eight o'clock, I guess. Yeah—he just traded a couple weeks ago for a different one, I don't know what—"

  * * *

  When Landers and Palliser came in at. one o'clock with a hot suspect for a heist, Mendoza was just putting down the phone. Hearing them, he came out and told them to stash the captive away a while. "You'd better hear about this thing. It just could be—it looks more like it the more we know—we've got an abduction and rape on our hands." He told them about Eileen. "Those patrolmen used their heads, but we were late on it, of course. This Bartovic sounds like a mean hombre. He's been working at a Shell station, and his ex-boss, Bill Reiner, says he lifted a hundred bucks from the register and he fired him. Says he's hot-tempered and lazy, he's glad to be shut of him, but he agreed not to charge him if Bartovic paid him back. He hasn't so far."

  "And right in the same neighborhood," said Palliser, "he could have seen the girl on her way to the park."

  "Exactamente. That place isn't crowded at any time, and at nine in the morning it'd be empty. Nobody around to hear her scream. He could have knocked her out, roughed her up a little, dragged her up to a car on the street. The sister says none of her clothes are missing. I got the lab on it fast, and they now tell us that is human blood."

  "Bartovic got a pedigree?" asked Landers.

  "A little one. Possession as a juvenile, attempted B. and E."

  "And my God, if he's high on something God knows what he might do to her," said Palliser.

  "I got the plate number from Sacramento just now—it's an old T-bird. There'll be an A.P.B. out on him in five minutes."

  Mendoza sat back and lit a cigarette with a little snap of his lighter. "Let's just hope we catch up to him fast."

  * * *

  About a quarter of two it occurred to Alison that the twins would be home presently, the school bus letting them off down the hill at the gate, and she might walk down to meet them. She'd been painting most of the day. She'd never had a real studio before, but the little room upstairs next to the master suite was really ideal space to keep an easel up and shelves for all the odds and ends. She looked at the canvas critically; she'd tried to get the view out over the hill, the twisting shapes of the old live oaks. On the whole she was fairly satisfied with it. She went down the hall. Just up by the head of the spiral staircase she glanced into the nursery. Luisa Mary was slumbering peacefully in her crib after lunch, and Mairi was sitting by the window knitting, her spectacles on the end of her nose. Downstairs, she had a glimpse of three of the cats—Bast, Nefertite and Sheba—in a complex tangle in Luis's armchair, sleeping off the morning's exercise. E1 Senor was brooding on top of the credenza in the entrance hall, his front paws folded in tightly.

  It was a lovely day, not too warm but sunny and blue-skied. Smiling to herself, Alison went out the front door, and was instantly greeted by a couple of cordial baas. She took one look and uttered a shriek.

  All the Five Graces, fat and woolly and busy, were feasting greedily on the new landscaping. One of them had nearly denuded an Italian cypress tree of its greenery as far up as a sheep could reach, two others were munching happily on hibiscus bushes and the other two were eating the lawn. Cedric was lying in the drive watching them.

  "Oh, my heavens!" wailed Alison, and ran at them waving her hands. They didn't budge, looked at her happily. "You!" she said to Cedric. "You're supposed to be a sheepdog! Oh!"

  She ran up the hill toward the old winery, calling for Ken. They both came out of the little apartment as she arrived, breathless: Kearney tall and loose-limbed, his little wife plumper than ever. "What's up?" asked Kearney.

  "The sheep—eating all that expensive—landscaping," panted Alison. "Those cypress trees—a hundred dollars apiece, and the lawn—"

  "Oh, dear," said Kate Kearney.

  He scratched his chin. "I did a little thinking about that—should've mentioned it maybe. But there's a good deal of ground here, plenty of wild growth. Thing is, this climate's a little new to me, the long dry spell. They were happy enough with all the wild stuff, but now the rains are over it's all dried up and naturally they'd hunt for anything fresh and green."

  "But we'll have to do something!"

  "Yes, reckon I'd better shoo 'em into the corral while I put up a wire-and-post fence all around the house to keep 'em away from that."

  "A wire-and-post fence—around my beautiful house!"

  Alison was outraged. "But it would look horrible!”

  "Well, a nice white picket fence-"

  "Around a Spanish ranch house?" said Alison crossly. "The only thing that would look right at all is a cement-block wall. Pierced cement blocks or something."

  "Well, now," said Kearney, "that'd take a while to put up and cost quite a bit."

  "I know, I know!" said Alison.

  "You'd better let me put up a wire-and-post fence just temporary till you get the wall bui1t," said Kearney. Alison marched down the hill to meet the twins, fuming, with Cedric bouncing ahead of her. She scowled at his fat woolly rump "Sheepdog, my foot!" she muttered.

  * * *

  When Hackett came in at five-thirty he heard about Eileen with interest. "There's just no line on Parmenter at all, Luis. No sign of any friends or acquaintances even. On second thought it occurred to me if he was pushing pills, he wouldn't let the orders show on his books—anyway, they look perfectly ordinary. I talked to the business people along there, and they just knew him by sight."

  "Yes, he seems to have kept himself to himself, as they say," said Mendoza.

  "What about the hot suspect John was after? I ran into him at lunch and he said they'd just gotten a new address for him."

  "Yes, they picked him up. He had an alibi," said Mendoza.

  "He was at his sister's wedding reception with about forty other people."

  Hackett swore tiredly and got up.

  Mendoza went home to hear all about the depredations of the sheep and the necessity for an expensive new concrete wall around the house.

  * * *

  The middle of the week was usually slow for the night watch; tonight they'd have been just as glad to be busy. They'd heard about Eileen, and they were worried about her. The squad on that beat was alerted to check the Bartovic house every so often, but there hadn't been a sign of him yet, and the A.P.B. hadn't turned him up anywhere else.

  About ten o'clock Conway went down to Communications and borrowed a radio so they could monitor the Traffic calls. If he did show up they'd know it right away.

  But nothing happened until eleven-thirty when the desk called up a heist. "All right, we're on it," said Conway to the phone. "Where'd you say? The—what the hell? Yes, okay."

  The address was the Music Center over on Grand, and it was, of course, the man with the Doberman again. Bill Moss had hung around after he'd called in.


  The victims were Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Muller, and they were annoyed and angry. He was a big fat man in expensive clothes, a prosperous-looking stockbroker; he mentioned his firm name at once, as if underlining that a man of such eminence shouldn't have such things happen. She was younger, with blue-tinted hair and a diamond necklace. They'd attended a concert here, and it had ended rather early but they'd run into some old friends and stayed talking in the lobby. So when all four of them came out, there was hardly anyone else in the parking lot, most cars gone, and the friends' car was parked nearer the exit. And when they got up to their own car, they'd heard somebody following them—

  "I couldn't have been more scared of a gun," said the woman, shuddering. "I'm just terrified of those dogs, and that one looked as savage as a wild beast—"

  "How much did he get, Mr. Muller?" asked Conway.

  "Nearly seventy dollars, damn it. At least he gave me back my wallet." And of course neither of them could offer any description.

  "Didn't he ask for your jewelry, Mrs. Muller?" She was wearing quite a lot of it, obviously valuable.

  "If he had, I'd have handed it over, but no, he didn't."

  "Outrageous," said Muller. "I'd like to know what you're going to do about it."

  But it was a rhetorical question, and Conway didn't tell him there wasn't much they could do about it. It was a new and offbeat caper, and just no way to chase it down at all. The Mullers got into their car and drove off, and Bill Moss began to laugh.

  "It's not really funny," said Conway.

  "I guess not. But that's a weird one—and it's a damn funny thing how so many people are scared of the Dobes, when they'd walk up to something twice as big and say Nice doggie. Dogs are dogs, after all, and you can't generalize about breeds much. From going through the special course for working with the dogs we've got, I've acquired a theory about it. It's all on account of their ears being cropped."

  "How's that again?"

  "The Dobes. They get their ears cropped, the flap cut off. It's been outlawed in England, and I wish they'd outlaw it here. But it's a funny thing, you see a Dobe with its natural ears, it's just a nice big friendly-looking dog."