The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Detective O’Neill. I’m from the police department. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “You’re not in trouble. I only want to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “About your nephew, James Campbell.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know he’s dead, sir, I’d like to talk to you about him.” O’Neill paused, then added, “If you don’t mind.”

  After a long silence he heard four or five deadbolts being slid across the door from inside. When the door finally opened, a squat man wearing soiled jeans and a white undervest stood in the doorway with a tattooed arm held across the jamb. His face was the color of veal. He smelt foul.

  “You say you’re from the police?”

  O’Neill showed him his identification.

  Conrad Frazer smiled, revealing several missing teeth and black gums. “Sorry, you never know who’s going to come knocking, you know what I mean? You best come in. Close the door behind you.”

  The apartment was floored with cheap timber. A living area took up two-thirds of the space with a plate-stacked counter and iron sink in the corner acting as a kitchen. The furnishings were minimal; a stained couch was the centerpiece of the room, two varnished wood chairs—functional rather than decorative—were propped up against the wall and an upturned crate acted as a table. The wallpaper throughout was peeled and stained and the place smelt stale enough that he had to breathe through his mouth. He was trying to work out what the stench was when something came running out of the bedroom with an angry, high-pitched snarl.

  Cats.

  O’Neill looked around the room. There were cats hiding everywhere, camouflaged under the couch, huddled in corners, up on the windowsill by the sink. Thin, rangy, with visible ribs and bony legs. There must have been ten or eleven of them at least.

  “You have a lot of cats.”

  “Oh, yeah, these are my babies.” Frazer stroked a mottled ginger tabby cat sitting on the couch. “I love my kitties. Don’t I, Rover?”

  “You call the cat Rover?”

  “Yeah, why not?” he said defensively. “Rover’s as good a name as any for a cat.”

  Frazer went over to the kitchen counter and took a bottle of milk from the sink. Four other cats jumped up and ran toward the food bowl. When he turned the bottle upside down the curdled milk slid down the sides like yoghurt.

  “Here, Rover, come get dinner.” He looked at O’Neill and added, “They like it a little thick.”

  O’Neill studied Conrad Frazer as he stroked the cats one by one, rubbing the base of their spines with his short, pudgy fingers. He was probably fifty years old but could have passed for ten years older. His hair was thin and lank, his eyes small and bloodshot; when he stood still he planted his feet wide apart and swayed from side to side as if the room was moving.

  “Cigarette?” the man offered, reaching for a smoked butt-end.

  “No, thank you.”

  O’Neill felt something on his foot. He looked down and saw a cockroach crawling across his shoe. He flicked it away and shuddered under his coat.

  “Do you have much trouble with cockroaches, sir?”

  “Nah, not much. Cats eat ’em.” Frazer grinned, butt end in mouth, and took a seat on the upturned crate. “How do you like being police? I always wanted to be police when I was younger. Don’t know why I never did. Time just goes, don’t it?”

  “Have you lived here long, Mr. Frazer?”

  He shrugged. “Few years. Ten or so.”

  “And you work nearby?”

  “I worked out of San Pedro Harbor.”

  “Long way to go.”

  “I haven’t worked there for a while. You know how it is.”

  “Uh-uh. And forgive me for getting right to the point, but do you mind telling me a little more about your nephew, James Campbell?”

  “Jimmy? Oh, you know, not much to say. I guess he worked. Photographs, cameras. He always had them with him. Never would let me touch them, though. Said he’d take a picture of my babies sometime but he never did.”

  “How well did you know him? Personally, that is?”

  “He was my sister’s boy. My sister lived in Chicago ’til she and her fella died—some accident somewhere. Anyway, I came out for the oil they found here on the peninsula. Not that there was much. Sometime after, Jimmy wrote me a letter saying he wanted to come to California. He came down last year or so. Didn’t see a lot of him. Offered him this place to stay but he seemed pretty keen to move somewhere else.”

  “So you hadn’t seen him much before he died?”

  “Not since Christmas. He brought me a bowl for my babies. Not the type I would have chosen myself. I guess he didn’t know my tastes.”

  “But you knew him well enough to identify him.”

  There was a long pause. “I guess. I’m his uncle.”

  “And you were asked to identify his body?”

  “Yeah.”

  “By who?”

  Conrad Frazer stirred. He petted the tabby cat some more, picked it up, rubbed its face against his stubbled cheek until the cat squirmed and jumped away. “I don’t want to get into trouble.”

  “You’re not going to get into trouble.”

  “Well I don’t want to talk about it anymore. He was my nephew and he’s gone. What’s to say?”

  O’Neill tingled down one arm. Interviews and interrogations were not his strong point. He tried to sound assertive, knowing that if he attempted to seem threatening he’d fail.

  “Mr. Frazer, I’m looking out for your best interests. You’re not in any trouble here, that’s not what I’m after. But I want to know what happened. And it’ll be easier for the both of us if you tell me here and now. You don’t want to go down to the Bureau, do you?”

  Frazer wrung his hands and looked all around the room, anywhere but at O’Neill. “Well, it happened that these people came and they asked me to go see Jimmy’s body.”

  “And when the men came, did they show you identification, police badges?”

  He held up his hands. “No, I mean, they said they were here about identifying Jimmy. Said that I was going to be asked and I should say it was him.”

  “And then did they take you down to the Coroner’s Office?”

  “No, they left and then the police came.”

  “The police came after?”

  “Yeah, I mean a few hours later.”

  “You sure they were police? They had uniforms?”

  “They had uniforms and badges and took me in the car. Didn’t drive me back though, I had to catch a Red Car.”

  “So the people that came to your door first and told you to say the body was Jimmy weren’t police? They didn’t show you any badges?”

  Conrad Frazer scratched at his arms and looked back at his feet. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember.”

  “Think. Please, think.”

  He sighed, biting his lip and bending down to the floor. Two of the cats sidled over to him and licked his fingers. “They didn’t show me any badges,” he said after a moment. “I guess I don’t know where they were from. They didn’t tell me any of their names.”

  “And did they pay you?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “Did they pay you?” O’Neill repeated, more assertive now.

  “What’s it matter?”

  “You’re not in trouble, but I need to know. Did they pay you to say it was your nephew?”

  Frazer nodded. He spoke quietly. “Three hundred dollars.”

  “And the man you identified as James Campbell. Was he? Was he Jimmy?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment then began to speak. “He was all bloody. His face was all puffed up.”

  “Was he your nephew?”

  Frazer hesitated then said, “Probably was. So hard to tell.”

  “Was he Jimmy Campbell?” O’Neill asked again, his voice ever so slightl
y raised.

  “I didn’t know him well,” Frazer stuttered. “People’s faces aren’t always that easy to remember; people change.”

  O’Neill shouted, “Was he Jimmy? Was it your nephew?”

  Frazer bowed his head. He began to weep. “No,” he muttered almost inaudibly, “no, he wasn’t Jimmy.”

  “You said he was but he wasn’t your nephew.”

  Conrad Frazer was a broken man. O’Neill gave him a withering glance then turned to leave.

  “I mean, I was, pretty relieved,” Frazer explained, his voice choked. “I always liked Jimmy. Figured he’d just gone somewhere else. But I said it was him. I did what they told me to do.”

  O’Neill sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Thank you for telling me. That’s all I needed to know.”

  Frazer, ashen-faced, asked, “Am I in trouble? Please, I mean, I’m only trying to get by here, you know? I wasn’t trying to lie on purpose.”

  Without answering, O’Neill went to the door. He shook his head, took one final glance around the room then pulled back the bolts one by one.

  “You shouldn’t feed them milk,” he said in the doorway.

  Frazer looked at him through glazed eyes. “What?”

  “Your cats—you shouldn’t feed them milk. Milk is bad for them. Makes them sick.”

  “Are you crazy?” Frazer said, attempting a smile as he wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand. “Cats love milk.”

  Dolores Greer’s house was small but tidier than most on the street, the wooden clapboards freshly painted and the front garden well-tended. Florence Lloyd’s house stood alone opposite it. In only eight weeks the lawn had grown unkempt and there were crude drawings and swear words painted across the clapboards. The gutters were spilling over and the windows had been patched with plywood to protect the glass and discourage looters.

  There was a weathered Ford Flivver up on bricks on the Greer driveway, so Craine parked on the curbside. He was driving one of the unmarked squad cars from the Bureau’s motor pool, but the curtains in one of the neighboring houses still twitched. He felt snooping eyes watching him as he walked up the path toward her front door. He suspected Dolores Greer’s house didn’t usually have many visitors. Craine was evidently a rare find.

  He knocked at the door and took a step back. He noticed a black Pontiac turn into the road and pull up further down the street. Craine squinted against the sunlight. The driver was familiar to him. Red hair, a trim ginger beard. He had seen him before somewhere, he was sure of it. Before he could make out the license plates, the Pontiac abruptly turned in the road, accelerating back toward the junction it had come from.

  He considered returning to his car but he heard a bolt being pulled back from inside and an elderly woman in hair curlers cautiously opened the door.

  “Dolores Greer?”

  “Yes?”

  She was small and frail, with wide-rimmed spectacles that magnified her eyes. Craine showed her the tin badge. “Mrs. Greer? Lieutenant Craine from the police department. Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  “What about? I told them my car wasn’t registered. I don’t even drive it anymore.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few more questions about your tenant, Florence Lloyd.”

  She squinted at his identification.

  “Well she isn’t my tenant anymore now, is she? You best come in.”

  Inside the house was ordered and well arranged. Dolores Greer led him into a small parlor with an adjacent kitchen. Twin armchairs upholstered with floral prints overlooked the street. One of them had a doily on the headrest.

  He was offered one of the chairs but waved it away politely, content to stand. Craine took out his pad, finding a fresh page as the old lady busied herself in the kitchen brewing tea. Through the window he could see Lloyd’s house opposite. He glanced further down the street but there was no sign of the Pontiac.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea? I import it, you know.”

  “No thank you, Mrs. Greer.”

  She came back into the room and took a seat on the armchair nearest the window. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything new to tell you. That other young officer asked me an awful lot of questions.” She rolled her tongue around in her cheek as if searching for a missing piece of breakfast.

  “I understand Florence Lloyd rented the house from you, is that correct?”

  “Well, I own both places. My sister used to live in that one but she passed on and never married so I lease out the house.”

  “And for how long was Miss Lloyd your tenant?”

  “Oh, she must have been in there almost two years—two years this summer.”

  “And what was she like as a person, Mrs. Greer?

  “Well, she was a nice girl, I suppose, from what I knew of her. Always paid her rent on time, never asked much of me. Always rushing off this way and that for her work. She had a job, you see,” she said as if it was a rarity, which indeed it probably was, even in this part of town.

  “You know where she worked?”

  “Not sure where, exactly. One of those night restaurants. Out awful late some nights. Sometimes I’d see fellas coming out of her house. All hours they were, barely ever the same one though, I’ll tell you that much. Honestly—the youth these days.”

  “Did you meet any of these people? Could you give me any names?”

  “Not really,” she said, sipping her cup of tea. “Swanky-looking. Suits, dinner jackets. They seemed okay, so I didn’t mention anything. Quite enjoyed having a bit of glamour on the street. Should have seen the cars that came by in the mornings.”

  “How about James Campbell? Does the name ring any bells?”

  “Oh yes, he was the young man who used to come by a lot. Florence introduced me once. They knew each other from Chicago—that’s where Florence was from and she said he was her boyfriend. Well, I hope he didn’t know about all those other men. I mean, honestly.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Greer, that’s very helpful. Can I ask you, have you been into the house since the shooting?”

  “Yes, a few times. Someone needed to clean up. I’d like it rented out by the end of the summer.”

  “When you went in, did you notice anything? Anything moved or misplaced?”

  “There were clothes everywhere, furniture torn apart. That refrigerator was pulled away from the wall; I only put it in last year. Then I went into the bedroom.” She paused at the thought of it and her voice softened to a whisper: “My lord, what a mess it was in.” Her hands trembled and she took a long sip of tea before recomposing herself.

  “Could you tell if anything was missing?”

  “I wouldn’t really know. I’m not sure. Most of the furniture belonged to my sister. Anyhow, the police came and took some of it. I boxed most of the rest and threw it out. No point in keeping it now. Can’t say I could tell if anything was missing.”

  “Did you look in every room?”

  “Every room but the basement.”

  “Basement?”

  “That’s what I said. Door in the floor somewhere, I forget which room. Never went down there. My sister neither, but I know it’s there. Pretty big it is too. Good for storage. Seemed to be a big deal for Florence—that I had one, I mean. Few months back she and that Jimmy kept on asking about it. Said she was willing to pay extra to have it cleared out so she could use it all to herself.”

  “Mrs. Greer, I’d like to have a look around the house if you don’t mind.”

  “I turned the electric off. It’s dark over there—I got boards over the windows. Don’t you want to wait until I’ve had a chance to clean up a little? It’ll be much nicer in a few weeks’ time.”

  “I’d rather have a look now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, okay, I guess.”

  “Do you have a key?”

  “’Course I have a key,” Mrs. Greer said, her eyebrows knitting together. “Why wouldn’t I have a key?”

  Craine stood o
utside Florence Lloyd’s house with his hands buried in his jacket pockets, the high afternoon sun burning the back of his neck. With the threat of earthquakes, most houses in Southern California had shallow, slab-on-grade foundations that didn’t have basements. This house was a rarity in Los Angeles. So why would Lloyd be so keen to use the basement? And what might she be hiding in it that the shooter had wanted so much?

  He skirted around the edges of the house but couldn’t find any cellar windows or visible steps down to a basement floor. There was a small stool outside Florence’s window but there wasn’t a bulkhead door anywhere on the outside of the house. Behind him, the neighbors watched on, anxiously waiting to see if their house was next on the search list. He should hurry; his car was unmarked and he didn’t want anyone calling the police.

  Heading back to the front porch, he fished in his pockets for the set of keys the old lady had given him. The first and second key didn’t fit; the third turned smoothly in the keyhole. The door swung open and Craine stepped into the hall.

  Bare floors, the walls wiped down and broken glass swept up. He tried the light switch instinctively before he remembered Mrs. Greer had cut the power. Except for the light creeping beneath the boarded windows, it was dark beyond the hallway and Craine swept the rooms with a small flashlight he’d taken from the car.

  There were four rooms in the house including the bathroom but only four doorways, meaning that the only access to the cellar would be through a hatch in the floor somewhere. Craine investigated the house, moving through the corridor, looking for hinges or grooves cut into the floorboards.

  He started in the kitchen: the counters were wiped down; the canned food had been collected and taken away—probably by Mrs. Greer for her own use. Craine stood for a long moment in the center of the room, turning slowly with the flashlight held by his temple. The black and white linoleum flooring had started to peel at the corners but for the most part it was glued firm and he couldn’t see any sign of a cellar door in the floor.

  The living room was the length of the house with a low, beamed ceiling and bare, hardwood flooring. After examining the floorboards minutely, he looked over the large moquette sofa: the upholstery had been cut open and fistfuls of stuffing removed. He bent down to look underneath but he couldn’t see any hinges or signs of a trapdoor between the base legs.