City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  "Discreet don't get stories."

  "Your command of the language is inspiring," Pearl said. Kit couldn't stop a laugh from escaping her mouth.

  Turning again to Kit, Pearl said, "But the girls in the cribs don't have that opportunity. So they do not get the protection they most desperately need. Some, however, get more than others."

  She paused again for a sip of coffee. Kit saw from the glances exchanged between Pearl and Phelps that they both knew exactly what they were talking about.

  "Cards on the table, dear," Pearl said. "Certain beat cops offer the girls a little more time and attention, seeing to it they aren't taken advantage of by those they entertain and the like. In return, the girls may provide information about a crime, or sometimes an evening's diversion."

  Now Kit understood perfectly. She had heard about the corruption within the police department here, but now it had a specific face. An ugly one.

  "Dear," said Pearl, putting down her cup and placing a warm hand on Kit's own. "Do you think your man did it?"

  It was the same question Phelps had asked her, and which she had refused to answer directly. But this was different. Somehow she felt she could be open with Pearl Morton and that it would ultimately help solve the question that plagued her.

  "It seems that way," Kit said, dropping her head a little.

  "Ah," Pearl said. "I see."

  Kit looked up. "See?"

  "He's more than just a client."

  Amazed at her insight, Kit could only nod. She saw Phelps turn his head away.

  "You listen to me," Pearl said. "Don't give up on this until you've turned over every rock. You might find a cop underneath one. If there's a girl down there who has said anything to anyone, I'd put my money on Rita Alonzo. She's a bad one, she is, and you'll need to keep your wits about you. Start with her."

  "Thank you, Miss Morton."

  "It's Pearl."

  "Thank you. You were most kind to help me."

  "Nothing of it. I like you, Miss Shannon. And any friend of Earl's is a friend of mine. Come see me anytime."

  Kit swallowed, wondering if she would ever again venture into such a place.

  Clancy showed them to the front door, giving Tom a playful jab on the shoulder. It was evident from Tom's wince that Clancy Muldoon still packed a punch.

  Outside, the sun was blazing and bright, in stark contrast to the interior of Pearl Morton's establishment. The cab was waiting.

  "Shall I see you home?" Phelps asked.

  "No," said Kit. "I want to find that Rita Alonzo. Would you like to come along?"

  "Are you joking? I can't miss this."

  Kit put up her hand. "May I remind you, Mr. Phelps, that this is all to be confidential?"

  The reporter's expression was blank. "Let's say, then, that I have a personal interest." He helped Kit into the cab and to the driver said, "Alameda and Oro."

  Chapter Twenty

  THE CRIBS were rows of tight rooms set in nondescript brick buildings. First built for quick rooming for transients, they were now used almost exclusively by women for transactions in flesh—so explained Tom Phelps to Kit as the cab brought them to the neighborhood where Millie Ryan had met her killer.

  In the daylight, the street was oddly quiet. Kit saw little traffic, cab or foot, as if the area were waiting for a signal to come to life. That would come when darkness fell, Kit suspected.

  Phelps ordered the cab to stop at one of the squat edifices. Alighting, Kit noticed a woman sitting on the front steps of a crib. She was young, Kit sensed, but her face looked much older than her years. Her dress was wrinkled, and the petticoat lace that showed beneath the hem was dirty and slightly frayed.

  "I'm looking for Rita Alonzo," Phelps said to the girl. Kit was glad he was here. She would not have felt so confident alone.

  "You a copper?" the girl said with a scratchy voice.

  "That'll be the day," said Phelps.

  "What do you want her for? With your lady friend along, I don't think it's the usual."

  "I just want to talk to her, that's all."

  "Supposing she don't want to talk to you?" the girl asked.

  Without a moment's hesitation Phelps plucked a bill from his pocket and held it in front of the girl. "Suppose I make it worth your while?"

  Without a moment's pause, the girl snatched the bill and shoved it into the top of her dress. "Two doors down," said the girl. "But don't tell her I told you."

  Phelps turned to Kit. "Let's go."

  "Come back anytime," the girl said to Phelps. "Without your lady friend."

  Kit felt her look of contempt and it jarred her with its intensity. She issued a silent prayer for the girl, and then for herself.

  Phelps stopped at the door—light wood, unpainted—and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder.

  "Go away!" shouted a voice from within.

  Once more Phelps pounded.

  "I strangle you!" the voice said. Then the door swung open. A brown-skinned woman glared outward, a robe thrown carelessly around her, her black hair a tangled mess. Her eyes were flashing with anger.

  "What is this?" she said.

  "You are Rita Alonzo?"

  "You are who?"

  "My name's Phelps. And this is Miss Shannon."

  The woman squinted at Kit. "So?"

  "We'd like to talk to you."

  "I no talk to nobody."

  "You will talk to us."

  A look of fear flashed in Rita's eyes. The eyes of someone who has known beatings at the hands of men, Kit thought immediately.

  "Go," she said.

  "No," said Phelps, and he immediately pushed his way inside. Kit, feeling awkward, followed.

  "Hey!" Rita shouted. She slammed the door shut.

  The small, windowless room was without decoration. A four-legged table with some dingy dishware on it stood by one wall next to two plain wooden chairs. Against the opposite wall was a bed that was too big for a room of this size, with mussed linens on top of it.

  "You can no come in!" Rita said.

  "We're in," said Phelps. "You want to call a cop?"

  "I do that! You will be surprise!" The moment she said it her expression changed, as if she had let something slip out she wished she could have back.

  "Now listen," Phelps said. "We know you're the witness."

  Kit tried to keep her face passive. They knew nothing of the kind. But Phelps was obviously playing a bluff.

  Rita didn't answer at first, her dark eyes studying Phelps. "You know nothing," she said finally.

  "No?" said Phelps. "Miss Shannon here works for Earl Rogers."

  The name meant something to Rita, who looked Kit up and down. "So?"

  "He can play pretty rough if he wants to," Phelps said. "It's easy now or hard later. Your choice."

  For a long moment she thought about it. "What you want?"

  "Just a few questions from Miss Shannon."

  She looked at Kit. "What question?"

  Kit cleared her throat. "What did you tell the police you saw on the night of August tenth?"

  "I already tell police," she said.

  "Tell me."

  "I see him, that man. I see him good."

  "What man?"

  Rita laughed. "You know."

  "Can you describe the man you saw?"

  "Sí."

  Kit waited for her to do so. Rita only stared at her.

  "Now, look . . ." Phelps said, taking a step toward Rita.

  Kit put her hand up and stopped him. "It's all right," Kit said. "Let me go on."

  With a shrug, Phelps stepped back. Kit said to Rita, "Where were you when you saw him?"

  Rita inclined her head toward the door. "Out. There."

  "Show me."

  Looking more confident now, Rita turned and opened her door. She pointed to the front step. "There."

  "And where was the man you saw?"

  Rita pointed across the dirt street to a door that might have been a mirror image of he
rs.

  "Did he run away?" Kit asked.

  Rita nodded.

  "Which direction?"

  The woman pointed up the street, toward the Los Angeles River.

  "If he ran," said Kit, "then you wouldn't have seen him for very long, right?"

  "He stop at first, look right at me."

  "For how long?"

  "Long enough."

  Kit noticed Phelps writing something on his pad. Then to Rita: "What time was it?"

  "I no know. I no have clock. Night."

  "Well, then, it was dark, wasn't it?"

  With a slight smile, as if this was something of a game, Rita said, "No. The moon, it was full."

  "You sure of that?"

  "You say I lie?"

  Kit put her hand in the air. "No. I just want you to tell me if you are absolutely sure about the moon."

  Rita whirled on Kit. "I no talk to you no more. Get out."

  "You listen," Phelps said.

  "No," Kit said quickly. "We'll go now."

  The reporter considered Kit with a stunned expression. "But—"

  "Let's go," Kit said. Then to Rita, "We're sorry to have disturbed you. Thank you for your time."

  Kit grabbed Phelps' arm and led him back to their cab. As soon as they were in and on their way, Phelps said, "What did you do that for? We had her. I could have strong-armed her into more."

  "That's just it," Kit said. "I got what Mr. Rogers needed. There's no need to antagonize her. We won't want her angry when she testifies."

  "Why not? Seems fine to me."

  "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Mr. Phelps."

  He looked at her. "You are some woman." The way he said the words should have alerted Kit, but it was too late. His arms were suddenly around her, strong arms, and he pressed his mouth on hers. At first she was too stunned to move, but when he kept his lips on her mouth, she turned her head away and pushed with her arms. His grip loosened only a little.

  "No," she said.

  "Come on, now," Phelps said. "You need me." Once more he kissed her. This time Kit slapped at his face.

  "Hey, what gives?" Phelps said. "I helped you."

  "Stop this cab!" Kit said.

  The cabbie pulled the reigns and the cab came to a halt. Kit pushed opne the door and got out. She liked Phelps, but certainly not that way. "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Forget it," Phelps said, then he ordered the cabbie to move. The wheels kicked up a cloud of dust into Kit's face.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE LATE AFTERNOON CROWD at The Imperial was settling in to early dinner conversations. Kit noticed again that the place carried the atmosphere of a premiere social scene. She thought of Aunt Freddy then, wanting to be here with her, to hear her laugh again—even if it was at Kit's own foibles.

  Instead, she was here with Earl Rogers, who had called this an official meeting. He wanted a complete briefing on her interview of Rita Alonzo. She was gratified at his trust in her, but then he did two things that made her uncomfortable.

  The first was that he said nothing to her about what she had done. He merely grunted as he wrote notes on a paper.

  The second thing was that he had the waiter bring him a full bottle of whiskey from the bar and leave it with a glass.

  She had noticed—it was hard not to—that as the Fox trial drew closer, Rogers seemed to drink more. Was it because of some insecurity? Bill Jory had told her Rogers was terrified of losing, that he would do anything to win.

  Jory told her of one of Rogers' early cases, when he was young and unknown and was up against a wily old prosecutor named C. C. McComas. McComas was good, and Rogers thought he might be losing the case. But he noticed something interesting. McComas would often come late to court for the afternoon session, smelling of liquor.

  With a little investigating, Jory found out McComas liked to take an afternoon slug or two in a nearby watering hole, then repair to his office for a short nap.

  So when the day for closing arguments arrived, Earl Rogers accidentally-on-purpose showed up at the same saloon, told McComas how much he admired his trial work and kept buying him drinks. McComas reveled in telling Rogers some war stories, then realized he needed to get to his office before the afternoon session began.

  But McComas didn't show up at one o'clock. At one-fifteen the impatient judge ordered the prosecution to argue to the jury. A young, nervous deputy district attorney had to stand and try to make a convincing address. He failed.

  Rogers' closing was masterful. And short. Just after the judge ordered the jury to their deliberations, McComas stormed into the courtroom. It took him only a moment to see what had happened. He went immediately to Earl Rogers.

  "That was a dirty trick, Earl," he said.

  "But C. C.," Earl replied, "you tell some good stories."

  Rogers' client was acquitted.

  Now, as Rogers scribbled notes in the restaurant, Kit wondered what he might pull during the upcoming trial.

  Earl looked up, poured himself some whiskey, drank it down, and said, "If you want to be a trial lawyer, it's time you learned a few things."

  Now he was the teacher. It was exactly what Kit wanted, but what would he teach? Not how to pump opponents with drink, she hoped.

  "What is the most important part of a trial?" Rogers asked, as if it were a test.

  Kit thought a moment. "I should think the cross-examination of witnesses."

  "It's good that you think that," Rogers answered, pouring himself more whiskey. "Your answer is not correct, but it is close."

  Kit watched as he took the drink, longing to say something to him.

  "Then what is the correct answer?" said Kit.

  "It is the selection of the jury. Even the most brilliant courtroom attorney cannot overcome the prejudices of the wrong men sitting in the box."

  "How does one prevent that from happening?"

  "As the poet said, 'The proper study of mankind is man.' The more the trial lawyer knows of human nature, the better equipped he'll be to select jurymen. To the ordinary observer, a man is just a man. But to the student of life and human beings, every pose and movement and opinion is another clue as to who they really are."

  Kit was silent as Rogers finished his whiskey. Please stop, she thought.

  Roger set down the empty glass. "When representing an accused, you want jurors who will side with the underdog. I always keep Irishmen."

  "And well you should," said Kit.

  "Irishmen are emotional, kindly, sympathetic. An Englishman is not so good as an Irishman, but he has come through a long tradition of individual rights. The German is not so keen about individual rights except where they concern his own way of life. Still, he wants to do what is right and is not afraid."

  "Fascinating."

  "It gets better." Rogers poured another drink. "Catholics are generally emotional. They love music and art. Keep them. But if a Presbyterian enters the jury box, get rid of him as soon as possible. He's as cold as the grave. He believes in John Calvin and eternal punishment."

  "I see."

  "Baptists are more hopeless than Presbyterians. They think that the real home of all outsiders is Sheol, and you do not want them on the jury. The sooner they leave the better."

  Rogers tossed back his whiskey.

  "The Methodists are worth considering. They are nearer the soil. They are not half bad, even though they will not take a drink." Rogers laughed sardonically as he finished his own libation.

  "Beware of Lutherans," he continued. "They are almost always sure to convict. Your Lutheran learns about sinning and punishment from the preacher and dares not doubt. A person who disobeys must be sent to hell."

  Rogers paused at the last word and poured still more drink for himself.

  "As to Unitarians, Universalists, and agnostics, don't ask them too many questions. Keep them. Especially agnostics. And never ever pick a temperance man. He knows your client would not have been indicted unless he were a drinker, and
anyone who drinks is guilty of something."

  Rogers drank and fell silent. He looked for a long time into his empty glass.

  Finally Kit could stand it no longer. "Earl," she said, surprising herself by using his first name. He looked up at her, his eyes glassy. "May I speak plainly?"

  "Sure," he said quietly.

  "I know how it hurt me inside when I lost my father. I know how it must have hurt you when you lost yours. And I know there are times in our lives when we face crossroads. And we choose one way or another. . . ." She paused.

  "Go ahead, Kit. You have my permission."

  Kit breathed in deeply. She recalled what Bill Jory had told her about Rogers' reaction to his father's death. "When your father died, you lost an anchor. Perhaps you felt that God was to blame."

  "And so?"

  "You turned to drink."

  His eyes widened, revealing more redness and perhaps a flash of anger—Kit could not tell. How dare she talk to her employer this way! But she couldn't deny the urge she felt to do so.

  Rogers relaxed his expression. "You have what it takes, kid."

  "What, sir?"

  "That insight we were talking about. You pegged me. You've got a gift."

  "Have you ever thought of stopping?" Kit asked.

  Rogers looked down at the table, a lost expression on his face. Then he slowly shook his head. "It's too late for me. I've made a pact with John Barleycorn."

  "It's not too late!" Kit said. "With God all things are possible."

  Rogers said, "I've lost my belief in God, Kit. It died with my father."

  "But—"

  Rogers stopped her by putting his hand on hers. "Let's not speak of it." He corked the whiskey bottle. "I won't drink in your presence again."

  Kit, her heart going out to him, nodded.

  "And thank you," he said. Then he saw something over her shoulder, and his expression became one of surprise.

  "Well, I'll be," he said.

  "What is it?" Kit said.

  "Mr. Heath Sloate just sat down to dine."

  Kit whirled around. At the other end of the room she saw the unmistakable profile of Heath Sloate across the table from . . . Aunt Freddy!

  "Come on," Rogers said, standing up. "Let's go say hello."

  "No, I couldn't!" Kit said. She wanted to see Aunt Freddy, to throw her arms around her, but she knew it would cause the thing Aunt Freddy hated most in the world—a scene. And how could she tolerate even being near Heath Sloate?