Felony File (18 page)

Mendoza went back to the office and got Bainbridge on
the phone. "Well, I thought you'd forgotten about it," said
Bainbridge. "Yes, I did the analyses. Stomach contents, beef,
sour cream, mushrooms, rice, lettuce, asparagus. The alcohol was
rum."

"As indicated," said Mendoza. "More
than one drink?"

"
Definitely. About the equivalent of three."

"
Thank you so much," said Mendoza.

Hackett, Palliser and Landers came in and Hackett
said, "The Coonses came through with the name and I called Yuma.
General consternation. They all drove over, and they'll be back some
time tomorrow, late. But we're not going to get anything from any of
the neighbors down there, Luis. Most of them at work all day. The
people on the other side of the Jackman house, we heard from a woman
across the street, own a deli up on Virgil. They were friendly with
the Jackmans, just casually, and I saw them, but they don't remember
anything unusual happening on Sunday and of course Monday they were
gone all day. I think anything we turn on this'll be from the lab."

"
Yes," said Mendoza sardonically. "All
we can logically infer is that X attended the public schools, as
indicated by his misspelling. I'm going home, boys." It was
five-thirty, and raining steadily.

As Mendoza stood up and reached for his hat, Sergeant
Lake's voice was raised in the hall outside.

"
Just a minute, ma'am, you can't—oh, damn—"

A pretty, little, elderly woman appeared in the
doorway. She was pink-cheeked, white-haired, beautifully groomed; she
came tripping in on stilt heels; she radiated warmth and joy. "Dear
Lieutenant Mendoza! Ah, you sweet brave man! I simply had to come—it
was providential that we had our regular meeting this afternoon and
we all agreed I must contact you—I am the secretary, of course—dear
Lieutenant, we have made you an honorary member unanimously—"

Mendoza took a step back and dropped his elegant
black Homburg.

"—
Of the West Hollywood Cat Lovers'
Association. We should all be so honored and delighted if you would
come and tell us all about your own dear kitties—I know you must
share your home with some lovely kittums. Such an inspiring picture,
we all agreed! Risking your life for a dear little kitty!"

Mendoza said icily, "As far as I am concerned,
madam, a cat lover is another cat. I am not interested—"

"And I simply had to bring you a copy of My
Book—" she pressed a little volume insistently into his hand.

"
Poems to my dear kitty pussums—I had just a
few copies printed for special friends—I do hope you'll like my
little efforts. And you must come to one of our meetings, my dear
man—"

"
I am not—"

She shook her finger at him merrily. "My card is
there, and we shall so look forward to seeing you at our next
meeting! I've marked the date for you—you'll find us all
friendly—don't be shy! Now I won't interrupt your busy schedule,
but do come!" She tripped out and down the hall.

Hackett began to laugh. He bent double, gasping.

Mendoza retrieved his hat. He put it on slowly,
pulling it just to the correct angle, and brushed his moustache back
and forth. Hackett subsided into his desk chair, giggling. He said,
"Tell 'em-about El Señor and his rye—sorry, just struck me
funny—"

Mendoza said distinctly, "God damn eternally the
man who invented cameras," and stalked out.

Mairi had gone out to the market and brought the
Times home that afternoon. "Well, for heaven's sake," said
Alison, "I wonder where they got the picture." They had
heard about Dan Whalen, the fire, and Merlin—largely on account of
Mendoza's suit jacket, which was past reclamation.
 
"
And wasn't it just like the man, never
mentioning what a terrible blaze it was—guidness to mercy, see all
the smoke there," said Mairi.

Alison suddenly dissolved into mirth.

"
Now the man might have been killed!" said
Mairi. "Well you know it!"

"
I know-only he wasn't- But Mairi, it isn't
Luis—not really a good picture of him—b-but it's exactly like an
old still of Valentino yearning at Vilma Banky or some other vamp—"
Alison went on giggling, looking at it.

The twins came home on the private school bus, and
rapidly became obstreperous, quarreling and noisy—it was raining
again and they couldn't go out to play. The trouble with babies,
thought Alison, was that they turned into children. She cuddled Luisa
Mary—a perfectly contented peaceful mite of life, quite easy to
cope with, but a couple of years from now ....

When the phone rang around five o'clock, the twins
were settled down having supper.

"
I'd have called before," said the slow
country drawl of Ken Kearney, "but I got hung up some.
Carburetor trouble on the way up here, so I was late getting in. But
I've got it fixed up O.K. What I wanted to tell you the ponies are
fine. just what we want. They belonged to this fellow's kids—Lew
Ford, he's got a spread here, very nice, herd of Herefords—and the
kids outgrew 'em. They're worth the money, a very nice pair, and I
clinched the deal. He'll be glad to keep them till next month. But
what else I'm calling about—you know what I said about some sheep.
Well, Ford says he knows a fellow a few miles north might have some
to sell—you know, it's mighty hard to find any sheep right around
L.A. I thought I might kill two birds with one stone—see what they
look like, and if they're O.K. I can rent a U-Haul and bring them
right down, put 'em up there."

"
But we're not moved in," said Alison.
"Would they be all right up there alone?"

Keamey's laugh was hearty. "Right as rain. We
just want 'em for eating down the weeds. I'll call you back, let you
know how much he wants."

Just as she put down the phone, she heard the
Ferrari, and rushed to tell Luis about that.

He said, "The sheep. And what next? And I
suppose you saw that—that photograph—"

"
No comment," said Alison. "Where on
earth did they get it?"

"
Never mind,"
said Mendoza. "I need a drink." But then, of course, the
twins discovered he was home and came running.

* * *

Hackett came home and Angel told him it was all
arranged. They'd definitely be moving at the end of the month, a
short escrow, and it would cost about seven hundred dollars. Hackett
was aghast, but she said they wouldn't move again for a long, long
time, if ever, and it was such a nice house.

"
Yes," said Hackett. "Well, I hope we
don't have to get a loan from the bank."

When the night watch would be on he called in. "Matt?
I meant to leave you a note, but it slipped my mind. Look, would you
check on this Pete Jackson .... "
 

SEVEN

ON FRIDAY MORNING, with Glasser and Galeano off, the
night watch had left them a couple of things. That was one of the
annoyances of the job; new things were continually coming up to work,
while old cases waited to die natural deaths.

Piggott had found Pete Jackson at home; he was
waiting in jail to be questioned, but they could only hold him
twenty-four hours. There had been a new heist while Piggott was
taking him in; Schenke had just noted on the report laconically, "By
description, the blonde bomber again." It had been a liquor
store. There were witnesses coming in to make statements this
morning. There was also something more serious. Just before the night
watch closed down, a squad car had called in.

Moss reported coming across a nearly naked woman on
the street, lying half on the sidewalk, in the middle of a block on
Eleventh; she was unconscious and seriously injured. He'd got an
ambulance and she'd been taken to the emergency ward at the General.

Palliser and Landers went out on that, to see what
the hospital could tell them.

Conway, talking with Galeano yesterday, had got
interested in the Reynolds thing, and was looking over all the back
reports on it. That inquest was called for this morning; he and Wanda
would cover it.

One of the witnesses on the heist came in at
eight-fifteen, and Hackett started talking to him.

Mendoza passed on the gist of the Jackman killing to
Higgins. "We should be seeing the family some time this
afternoon." It was the better part of three hundred miles over
to Yuma. "They may be able to give us some lead." He was
formally very dapper in a dark suit; he would be sitting in on the
Hoffman inquest this morning.

"
That's offbeat all right," said Higgins.
"Somebody—and somebody way off his rocker—with a prejudice
against Catholics—"

"
But," said Mendoza, "why these
particular Catholics, George? At this particular time? There must be
a lot of Catholics to hand right around there—and a lot of other
places. That old couple were living restricted lives, Jackman not
driving anymore. They probably got  out very seldom, except with
the family. Who singled them out, and why? What triggered it?"

Sergeant Lake came in and said, "There's a
female just come in who says she knows something about the Jackmans.
Mrs. Anna Guttierez, lives down the block from them."

"
No me diga
,"
said Mendoza. "Fetch her in. Any news welcome."

She was in the forties, plump and still pretty, and
she didn't subject them to any Latin emotion, though she was
obviously distressed. There was no accent on her English; a good many
Mexican families had been here longer than some Anglos had; but her
choice of words said that she habitually spoke another tongue.

"
Mrs. Duvane phoned and told me," she said
without preamble. "About the Jackmans. The Duvanes live next
door—she said the police came to their delicatessen yesterday."

"
Oh, yes," said Mendoza.

"
I knew them." Her big dark eyes were
sorrowful.

"
It's a terrible thing. But she said you were
asking about Monday, and I saw them that day, I thought I must come
and tell you. So I called Mr. West and told him I will be late. I
work at the Goodwill office, but only three days each week."

"
What time on Monday?" asked Mendoza
interestedly.

"
It was about twelve-thirty. They were good old
people. I didn't tell you, I live across the street and down a
little. Not every time I go to the market, but sometimes, I would go
and ask if I could do any shopping for them—save them trouble.
That's why I went across on Monday. They said no, they would be
shopping the next day. But then—they were fine. Just like always."

"That's very helpful."

"
They had just been eating lunch, Mrs. Jackman
was washing the plates. They were fine. So if they were murdered that
day, it was later. I thought the police would wish to know."

"
We do indeed, we're
very grateful to you for coming in .... That pinpoints it very
nicely, doesn't it?" he said when she had gone out. "More
than we could have hoped for. They were just starting a meal when the
killer arrived, so that must have been dinner. The family will be
able to tell us what hours they kept. And I said off the top of my
mind, it wasn't an utter stranger, but it could well have been. The
back door was unlocked. They were elderly and slow. He could have
walked right in on them and got busy with the knife before they could
get up. I hope to God the lab has something—they always take their
time. We probably won't get an autopsy before Monday." He
stabbed out his cigarette, looked at this watch and swore. "I've
got to be at that inquest—not that there'll be anything to it.
Short and not so sweet." He got up and yanked down his cuffs,
reached for his hat.

* * *

At the hospital Palliser and Landers talked to a Dr.
Sanders, who was a veteran of the emergency ward but could still be
shocked. He hunched his shoulders and grimaced at them; he was a
young man with tired cynical eyes. "My God, talk about the city
jungle," he said. "What's been happening to that poor
damned girl—I just came in, but I talked to Aarons and the nurses,
and saw the chart. It looks as if she's been held prisoner somehow—"

"
What?" said Palliser, startled. "Our
report said she'd apparently been thrown out of a car after a
beating."

Sanders nodded. "She may have been, but it was
just the latest thing. By the condition of her wrists and ankles,
she's been bound with wire for long periods of time. She's been
tortured too—there are burns all over her, probably from
cigarettes, and some nasty razor cuts—not deep enough for serious
injury, just to inflict pain. She's been raped repeatedly, by all the
laceration, both normally and anal. The latest injuries are the most
serious—she's got both legs broken—one a compound
fracture—concussion, and severe deep wounds in both thighs and
buttocks. I understand one of your cars spotted her in the
street—well, she couldn't have been there five minutes or she'd
have been dead by the time the ambulance got there. The femoral
artery was severed and she'd lost half the blood in her body by the
time she was brought in."

"
My good God," said Landers. "I
suppose it's silly to ask if she's been conscious, identified
herself."