Dear Irene (23 page)

“Thank God Mr. Davis didn’t fly his plane before I read my mail.”

“Yeah. Thanatos’ luck may be changing. I can’t tell you how good it feels to be beating this bastard at his own game.” He didn’t have to tell me; I could hear it in his voice.

“By the way, I’ve got good news, too.” I told him about Pauline Grant and what I had learned. “Let’s compare notes again tonight. For now, I’ll have to transfer you to Mark Baker so you can tell him about what happened at the airport — they’ll have my head on a platter if I try to cover the story myself.”

I transferred the call and then made appointments to talk to Justin Davis, Don Edgerton, and Howard Parker. It was going to take up most of the rest of the day, but I didn’t want to delay seeing them. I’d be meeting with each of them later in the afternoon.

I had a sense of drawing closer to my quarry. I remembered my old beagle, Blanche, and how she’d bay when she caught a scent. If I hadn’t been certain that my coworkers would peg me as an up-and-coming Zucchini Man, I probably would have bayed right there in the newsroom.

I had a couple of hours before my first interview, so I used the time to write a piece on the possible connection between Thanatos’ activities and the Olympus Child Care Center case. I read it through a couple of times and filed it long before deadline.

I looked at my copy of Thanatos’ last letter and smiled.

“Your fate is linked to mine, all right, Thanatos. But you won’t believe what old Cassandra here envisions for your destiny.”

Aah-whooooooooo.

A
T
J
OHN’S INSISTENCE
, Mark Baker came with me for the interviews. I wasn’t unhappy about it; I enjoy Mark’s company. Mark had a lot of work to do, but figured that talking to these three men fit in with most of it. Mark is tall and broad-shouldered, so to avoid resting his chin on his knees in my Karmann Ghia, he offered to drive.

As we made our way across town to our first stop, Howard Parker’s house, I filled Mark in on what I had learned from the microfilm.

“Did I ever tell you that my mother worked in one of those aircraft plants?”

“No, you didn’t. For Mercury?”

“No. She worked for Lockheed. She worked there for years, just retired not too long ago. She started out on wing assembly. Being able to work in a factory was a big change for her; she had cleaned houses before that. She always said that if that war work hadn’t come along, she’d just be one more black woman working in a rich white gal’s kitchen. War plants paid a lot more than maid’s work, needless to say. Made a big difference to our family.”

“Did your dad work there, too?”

“No, he was in the military during the war years. After that, he went to work for the
California Eagle.
The
Eagle
and the
Sentinel
were L.A.’s African-American newspapers in those days. So now you know why I ended up studying journalism.”

A
S WE DROVE
down Howard Parker’s street, Mark nodded toward a car parked near a jacaranda tree, about two doors down from Parker’s house. “Gee, two guys in suits sitting in a Plymouth on a weekday afternoon. Don’t suppose they could be the law, do you?”

“You know those guys as well as I do. Reed Collins and Vince Adams. They go drinking with you at Banyon’s on Friday nights.”

He laughed.

When we pulled up in front of the house, Detective Collins got out of the car and walked up to greet us. “Hello, Irene. This guy have any ID?”

“You’d like to forget who I am, Reed,” Mark said. “Like you want to forget that Kings game. So much for honest cops.”

“Baker, you wound me.” Reed reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then handed Mark a ten-dollar bill.

“Mr. Baker,” I said in mock-horror, “are you going to accept a gambling payoff from an officer of the law right here on a public sidewalk?”

“Absolutely.”

“To hell with that,” Reed said, walking away. “Ask him why he bet against the Kings.”

At my narrowed gaze, Mark shrugged and said, “Edmonton had Grant Fuhr in goal. I can never bring myself to bet against him.”

I have to admit that Mark’s bet was not too iffy. Fuhr’s goal tending often made the opposing team wonder why they bothered to put on their skates.

H
OWARD
P
ARKER WAS
a tall, thin man; he was so skinny, you had to wonder what the hell his belt was resting on. But his big brown eyes and easy smile gave him a pleasant face, and his handshake was firm.

A grandfather’s clock chimed three o’clock as he ushered us into his living room. The furnishings were highly polished and old-fashioned. Lots of dark wood and soft fabric. Family photographs — Parker with a smiling, robust-looking woman; high school graduation pictures of two boys who appeared to be twins — covered a mantelpiece over a brick fireplace which had been painted white. But the house was quiet, as if none of these other people were home. There was a combination of neatness and stillness that gave it a museum-like quality, amplifying the ticking of the clock and the sounds of cupboards being opened as Parker busied himself in the kitchen.

He came back out bearing a large silver tray ladened with a plate of store-bought cookies and three delicate china cups filled with coffee. He was nervous, and the cups rattled a little as he handed them to us. “Since my wife passed on, I’m afraid I don’t get to play the host very often,” he said, finally taking a seat. The overstuffed chair he sat in seemed to be in direct contrast with his own body shape.

A widower’s house. Relatively recent and beloved, I thought. Mark was already gently asking the question.

“About eight months ago,” Parker said. “Heart trouble.” He was a little misty-eyed for a moment.

We expressed our condolences, and took turns getting him to talk a little about himself. He told us that he was a retired math teacher. “I’ve lived in Las Piernas since the day my mother transferred down here. I graduated from high school here, went to college here, met my wife here — worked here almost all my life. My twin boys were born and raised here. They decided to go away to college, though. I think they were half afraid they’d never leave Las Piernas if they didn’t do it to go to school. But they stayed together — they’re both at Cal, up in Berkeley.”

“Mr. Parker, do you recall an incident at the Olympus Child Care Center, when a child about your age was injured?” I asked.

“Injured! He died. Of course I remember it. I was eight years old. Wait a minute — do you think all of this killing has something to do with that?”

“Can you think of any reason that it might?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s just that the child care center had something to do with Mercury Aircraft. And when the kid who was hurt died, we all got sent down here.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“No, no. I was on the other side of the playground. But some of the other kids were right there — started screaming. That brought the rest of us running. Ambulance came and took him away. Robbie. That was his name. He died later.”

“You knew Robbie?”

He made a face. “Yes. I suppose you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I don’t have any fond memories of Robbie. He was a bully. A little bigger than the rest of us and mean. I was just as skinny then as I am now, and Robbie used to pick on us all the time.”

“Us?” Mark asked.

“Oh, any of us that he could intimidate. Jimmy, me, other kids. I don’t remember their names. Only Jimmy. What happened to Jimmy scared me so much, I had nightmares about it for years as a kid.”

“What happened to Jimmy?” I asked. “I thought Robbie was the one who was killed.”

He made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, Robbie was the one who was killed. But at the time, we all just thought he had a nasty crack on his head. He went into a coma and died, but that was later. It was the first time I had ever heard of anyone going into a coma, so I guess that part did scare me. I just saw him lying on the ground, all pale and quiet before the ambulance came, but he was still alive then.”

“So who is Jimmy?” Mark asked.

“Jimmy Grant. We were friends. His mother was the one they arrested. That’s what scared me. It was just an accident, and all of a sudden, they took Mrs. Grant away and then they took Jimmy. As a kid, I remember being worried that someone would take my mother away, too. I was scared to death of it. I never saw Mrs. Grant or Jimmy after that. Next thing I know, the child care center is closed, and we moved.”

I tried to imagine the impact those events would have had on Howard Parker as a young boy — a young boy who had already lost his father. To a child his age, the thought of losing his mother would be terrifying. Perhaps it would be terrifying to any child — I remember being inconsolable after seeing
Bambi,
years before my own mother died.

“Did you know Jimmy’s mother, Pauline Grant?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Vaguely. I don’t really remember her as much as Jimmy.”

“Did you ever hear from Jimmy after you moved here?” Mark asked.

“No, I have no idea what became of him. I don’t even know who took him in. His relatives, I suppose.”

“Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, none that I remember.”

“Is your mother still living?” I asked.

Parker smiled. “Yes, she’s still here in Las Piernas. She’ll probably be able to tell you more than I can.” He gave us her name and number.

We talked with him awhile about the three victims, none of whom he remembered clearly. We asked about other ideas he might have on Thanatos’ motives, but he had no suggestions. We gave him our cards and thanked him. After waving good-bye to Reed and Vince, we made our way to Justin Davis’s house.

“If he’s telling the truth,” Mark said, “Parker doesn’t seem to have been a witness to Pauline Grant hurting Robbie Robinson.”

“No. But at least we learned the name of Pauline’s son.”

“Oh, we learned a lot. But I was just thinking that Howard Parker may not be a target, since he couldn’t have been one of the ones that testified.”

“Only two of them testified, Edna Blaylock and Alex Havens. But even though Rosie Thayer didn’t take the witness stand, she was killed. And he tried to kill the guy we’re on our way to see. So who knows what Thanatos is using for his criteria,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re right. And besides, Thanatos said they drank from Lethe, so maybe Parker just doesn’t remember what role he might have played in it himself.”

“Let’s hope that Justin Davis has a little clearer memory of it all.”

J
USTIN
D
AVIS LIVED
in Mason Terrace, a gated community on the cliffs above the beach. The development was built in the early 1980s, a subdivision of what had once been a single parcel owned by one of Las Piernas’s older families. There were only fifteen houses in the entire development, but they were so huge that they still ended up being somewhat crowded together. The gatehouse had lost its human gatekeeper long ago, replaced by a fancy electronic security system. We entered a code that Davis had given us when we set up the appointment; he had told us it could only be used once. We were buzzed through a double set of gates. The gates were apparently designed to prevent a second car from riding through on another car’s tail without clearance.

He had one of the choice lots, a little larger than most, on the staggered row that lined the cliff. The stark, white stucco house was built on lines drawn by an architect who apparently forgot to carry anything more than a T square that day. There was a patrol car out in front of it, which I’m sure must have thrilled the neighbors. The officers on duty seemed to be expecting us, and merely waved to us as we walked up the front steps.

The front door was white and unadorned except for a fancy electronic lock — one that had both a key-card slot and number pad on it. We were searching for the doorbell when Justin Davis himself opened the door.

“Hidden video camera?” I asked.

“Yes, and a pressure-sensitive doormat,” he said. “Please come in.” He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. He had that kind of lean, muscular sleekness that comes only to those who work at it, and that kind of grace in motion that belongs only to those who are born with it. He was dressed in a gray sweater and jeans, but made them look as if they would be acceptable attire at a coronation.

Except for a small scar on his cheek, his face was not remarkable, but neither was he plain nor unattractive. He had pale gray eyes and thick, straight black hair, which was cut in a conservative style. He either hadn’t acquired any gray hair yet or his hairdresser knew some neat tricks to make a dye job look natural.

He took our coats and hung them on a metal object that I assumed to be an advanced form of hall tree, but it could have been artwork pressed into doing double duty.

High ceilings, skylights, and tall windows gave the house an open and airy feeling. The inside was as white and bare as the outside. A painting here, a vase there, were all that would break up the starkness of white walls, ceilings and carpet. As a result, my eyes were immediately drawn to these few objects. I found myself anticipating the paintings as soon as I saw the edge of a frame, ready to savor any kind of respite from the blankness that governed the rest of the house.

But soon we rounded (not literally, since it seemed nothing was round in that house) a corner and came into a room that made me feel a certain appreciation for the spare decoration that had gone before. A wall of windows facing the Pacific gave Justin Davis an incomparable ocean view. The sun was just finishing its business day, and the rich sunset colors displayed beyond Davis’s windows and balcony were stunning. The Pacific and sky combined to make a natural mural.

We declined his offer of a drink. He seated us on a low white couch at one end of the room, near a fireplace. A fire was burning behind a glass screen, somehow as removed from us as the ocean, but warm and fragrant.

Davis poured himself a scotch on the rocks and took a seat across from us, in a chair that matched the couch. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and low. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you, Miss Kelly. If you hadn’t contacted the police about that letter today, I wouldn’t be here to welcome you.”