Dear Irene (22 page)

He hesitated again, then began speaking in a low, confiding voice, as if he were dishing the dirt on the bride at a wedding reception. “There was a very strange and sad incident at that day care center. A little boy died. I don’t remember all of the details, but as I recall, one of the workers at the center was blamed for the boy’s death. The center was closed.”

“You don’t remember anything about the person who was blamed?” Frank asked. “Was it a man? A woman?”

“A woman, I believe. Yes. There was a big trial.” His brows drew together again. “I’m sorry, it’s so long ago. I was so busy after they closed that center, I didn’t follow all of that very closely, I’m afraid.”

“What happened to all the children who were being cared for at the Olympus Center?”

“Now, that part I remember. I handled most of that. The company offered to transfer a few of the mothers and their children down here, and to help them get settled in Las Piernas. As I recall, J.D. offered that only to the war widows, not every woman who had a child there. Most of the other women were forced to make other arrangements. But he had a soft spot for the widows. The first women he hired were Pearl Harbor widows. He got great press out of that — but I wouldn’t want to disparage his motives.”

“So these twenty-five came down here, to Las Piernas?”

“Yes. I was in charge of helping them to find housing down here, which wasn’t easy, I can tell you.”

“How
did
you manage that?” I asked. “I’ve always heard that housing was scarce around here then.”

“Oh, it was. Very much so. But as I said, Mercury Aircraft had a tremendous amount of power in Southern California in those days, and we got it all worked out. J.D. wasn’t above pressuring officials for favors when he needed them. And as I said, he also knew how to milk the publicity value of a good deed, and he made the most of what we were doing for these women.”

We started comparing his list to ours. We had six exact matches to the names of mothers on our list, including the mothers of the three victims:

• Josephine Blaylock
  
• Bertha Thayer
  
• Gertrude Havens
  
• Peggy Davis
  
• Amanda Edgerton
  
• Louisa Parker
  

Most of the others didn’t match in one of two ways. If a woman was on Devoe’s list, and not ours, her child’s (or children’s) current age would not be fifty-four. If she was on ours, but not Devoe’s, a check of the Mercury records revealed that she was not transferred with the Olympus group.

There was one exception. A woman named Maggie Robinson had transferred with the Olympus group. Her only child, Robert Robinson, would be fifty-four, but hadn’t called the police or the newspaper.

“Maybe he didn’t scare as easily as the others,” I said.

“Maybe.” Frank was concentrating on writing down social security numbers; although it would take a little time, with that information, he could probably find any of the women who were still alive. “This information is almost fifty years old. Robinson could have moved out of the area. He could have died when he was forty. There are lots of possibilities.”

I looked over his shoulder and noticed that even if they didn’t match the list, Frank noted the women’s social security numbers. “We don’t want to be too cocky about this connection through the Olympus Child Care Center,” he said. “Things could change. Maybe his next victim will be someone younger or older than fifty-four.”

W
E THANKED
H
OBSON
Devoe and let him guide us out of the building.

“You’ll have to come back and visit the museum sometime,” he said as we were leaving.

“I’d like that,” I told him. “And someday I’d like to sit down with you and Austin Woods and eavesdrop while you reminisce about Las Piernas.”

He laughed. “You’d fall asleep faster than Austin does at that old desk of his.”

“One other thing,” Frank said, “if you don’t mind my asking, is there a story behind your name?”

“Devoe?” The old man smiled mischievously. “Oh, you must mean Hobson. Well, yes. I am my parents’ youngest child. They had six girls before me. When my mother went into labor with me, my father told her he wanted a boy this time. She said he could have Hobson’s choice.”

I
LOOKED OVER
my notes as we walked to the car, reading off the names of the seven women who were on both lists.

“You still have some time this morning?” I asked.

Frank looked at his watch. “Not much. I want to get something set up for keeping an eye on anyone he might be after. And I’ve got an appointment with the Coast Guard about Havens’ boat. They thought they might have more information for me today.”

I flipped back to the names of people who had called into the paper or the police. “Don Edgerton, Howard Parker and Justin Davis. Those match up with the Mercury records for children’s names. Plus this Robert Robinson.”

“I’ll see what I can do to track him down.”

“I’ll go to the morgue when I get back to the paper, Frank. I want to see if I can dig up some stories about this incident at the child care center.”

“Good. I need to talk to the other three soon, though. I think we’re going to need to divide the paper’s interests from the department’s on this one. What if Pete and I talk to them, and you interview them on your own, provided they’re willing to talk to the paper?”

I considered objecting, but some intuition told me that it was more important to find out what had happened at the Olympus Child Care Center. I went along with his suggestion because I had a strong feeling that the key to understanding Thanatos was probably waiting for me back at the paper.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was waiting for me.

Dear Cassandra,
Did you enjoy the Christmas present? Truly, I am sorry that I cannot continue to demonstrate my power, but there is a purpose to which I must remain faithful. You have tempted me, and I have allowed myself to be distracted — but no more! Only when Nemesis is satisfied will I pursue my own heart’s desire.
Time has softened the heads of my tormentors. There are so few left for me. They drink from the River Lethe, but justice is due all the same.
Do you feel it, Cassandra? Yes, I know you do. Our time together draws near, and you are a little afraid. Your feeble attempts to protect yourself amuse me. Cerberus will be no obstacle. One cannot escape one’s destiny. I am yours.
Icarus will be the next to die.
Your beloved,
Thanatos

“Postmarked from the airport,” I said absently to John. I was trying to force myself to calm down by studying notes he had scrawled on the dryboard near his desk. I had been standing there for several minutes, but to this day, I can’t tell you what any of them said about plans for the next edition of the
Express.
John cleared his throat as he finished reading the letter, and I turned to face him.

“The airport, huh?” he said. “I guess that makes sense for Icarus. Better call your sweetums and tell him to advise the folks on your list not to get on any airplanes.”

I ignored the gibe and told him I’d call Frank.

“The River Lethe,” he said, frowning. “Something to do with the dead, right?”

“Yes. The river of forgetfulness. The shades drink from it before passing into the kingdom of the dead.”

“Hades?”

“Or Tartarus, depending on who’s telling the tale. Drinking from Lethe brought a kind of oblivion, made those who drank from it forget all that they were before they died.”

“So Thanatos is telling us that even if the victims have forgotten something — or forgotten him? — they are going to be punished all the same.”

I nodded. “Nemesis is the goddess who represented divine vengeance.”

“That leaves Cerberus,” he said. “The three-headed dog who guards the gates of Hades.”

“I think Thanatos is telling me that our dogs aren’t going to stop him from getting to me.”

He was silent. He seemed to be at a loss for words. It’s fairly remarkable to find John Walters in that state.

“I’ll call Frank,” I said, and left his office.

T
ALKING TO
“
MY
sweetums” calmed me down. Frank appreciated the information, but didn’t have time to come by for the letter. He told me the department would send another detective to pick it up. He also said they would post someone at the airport and warn airport officials not to let anyone on our list get on a plane without talking to the LPPD first.

I
WENT DOWN
to the morgue, which Wrigley has been trying (in vain) to get us to call the “library,” and asked for the reel for November 10, 1944. Since Devoe claimed that J.D. Anderson was a publicity hound, I hoped there would be a story about the transfer. With luck, there might also be some mention of the earlier child care center story.

It took some searching, but sure enough, there was a small story about Mercury Aircraft transferring twenty-five war widows from the Los Angeles plant. Arrangements included housing and child care. “Each of these women was married to a man who made the greatest of sacrifices for this country. These women deserve our utmost care and concern,” J.D. was quoted as saying. No photos, no children’s names. The article closed by saying that Mercury was trying to help these women because they had faced special difficulties following the closure of the Olympus Child Care Center the previous spring.

The previous spring. At least my search was narrowed down from “the war years.”

I went back and asked the guy at the counter for March, April, May, and June of 1944. But no matter how much I grumbled or scowled, the assistant (I couldn’t bring myself to call him the librarian, but of course mortician isn’t the proper term, either) wouldn’t let me take more than seven reels at a time.

I tried to keep my eyes from crossing as I scanned each page, afraid that the item was bound to be buried on a back page. After my fourth trip to the counter, some twenty issues into March, I suddenly came across something that made me shout “Eureka!” — startling the hell out of the assistant.

W
OMAN
C
HARGED WITH
M
URDER
IN
C
HILD
C
ARE
C
ENTER
T
RAGEDY

Pauline Grant, the child care worker who allegedly struck and killed an eight-year-old boy last week, has been taken into custody and will be charged with second-degree murder, a spokesman for the Los Angeles District Attorney said yesterday.
Grant, who was supervising children playing at the Olympus Child Care Center, reportedly became infuriated when young Robert Robinson engaged in fisticuffs with her own child, who also attended the center. Grant is said to have given the Robinson child a blow which knocked him into a wall. The boy struck his head and lost consciousness. He was taken to Mercy Hospital, where he died shortly thereafter.
The District Attorney notes that although the only witnesses to the event were other children, their accounts are consistent and are believed to be reliable.
Olympus Child Care Center is owned and operated by Mercury Aircraft, and serves its workers. The center remains closed following the incident.

Now I knew why we hadn’t heard from Robert Robinson: he had been dead for about fifty years. I couldn’t figure out why Maggie Robinson’s name was included among the transfers, though. Maybe she had another child. Or maybe J.D. Anderson felt sorry for her. I decided to ask Hobson Devoe about it; he might recall something more about her if I showed him the article.

The article also said all of the witnesses had been children. I did some quick subtraction. At the time of Robert Robinson’s death, Alex Havens, Edna Blaylock, and Rosie Thayer would have been his same age — eight years old. Were they the witnesses?

I briefly considered the possibility that Pauline Grant was Thanatos. But if her child was at the Olympus Center in 1944, by now she would probably be at least seventy years old. No woman — let alone a woman of seventy — had carried me from the couch to the bedroom that night.

I wondered if her child was a boy. “Engaged infisticuffs.” Well, I did my share of fist-fighting in elementary school, but I had a professional attitude about being a tomboy.

I had to look through a hell of a lot of microfilm, but I eventually found other articles. I learned that Pauline Grant had pleaded not guilty, and repeatedly denied that she had intended to kill the Robinson boy. Only Alex Havens and Edna Blaylock had taken the stand, but apparently they made calm and unflustered witnesses.

As for Pauline Grant, she was sentenced to ten years in prison for manslaughter.

I made copies of all the articles that tied in. Much to the relief of Mr. Seven-Reels-at-a-Time, I left the morgue.

I had a terrific headache from looking at bright screens in a dark room by the time I walked back to my desk, but it didn’t last long. I had a feeling that ran right down to the marrow of my bones: I was getting closer to discovering Thanatos’ identity.

I called Hobson Devoe and asked him about Maggie Robinson.

“I don’t really remember her,” he said. “As I told you, I didn’t meet all of the women. I tend to remember only the ones who stayed with Mercury for a while. Maggie Robinson. Maggie Robinson.” He repeated the name a few times, as if chanting it would bring some image of her back to mind. “Her boy was the one who died, you say? A pity I can’t recall the details. But I’ll take another look at the records.”

I thanked him and hung up. The phone wasn’t in the cradle two minutes when Frank called.

“Good news,” he said. “I think we’ve finally frustrated Thanatos. Turns out Justin Davis has a small plane and was planning to go flying today. We stopped him and had someone look the plane over. Someone had tampered with it. I haven’t got all the details yet, but apparently it was rigged so that he would have crashed soon after becoming airborne.”