Mildred Pierced (22 page)

I picked up the broken glass from the syringe Anthony had thrown at me and dropped it in the wastebasket.

Helter slept. I stood waiting till the nurse with the glasses came in and told me it was time to leave.

“You can come back tonight at seven,” she said. “Regular visiting hour.”

I thanked her and went through the door while she held it open. I followed her to the nursing station and started to talk, stall until Phil arrived.

“Are there many male nurses?” I asked her as she went around to the other side of the station and picked up a chart.

“A few,” she said. “They say there’ll be a lot more when the war ends. Medics.”

“You know Dr. Parry?” I asked.

“Emergency room,” she said with a slight look of distaste as she adjusted her glasses and wrote something in pencil on the chart.

“He’s seen me a couple of times,” I said, looking at the elevator.

“I see.” She glanced up at my flat nose and obviously injured arm.

“He was a war hero, you know?” I said.

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Did something to him. The war, I mean.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said.

“Makes some men bitter, you know?”

“I know,” she said, putting down the chart and picking up another. “I have to make my rounds now, Mr. Biggs.”

She had a clipboard in her right hand as she came back around the nurses’ station.

I was being told nicely to get the hell off her floor. I tried to think of something else to say.

“One more thing,” I said.

She paused, grasped the clipboard to her small breasts and looked at the supposedly distraught brother of one of her patients with clear signs of impatience.

“And that is?” she asked.

Before I had to come up with something, the elevator door opened and Phil stepped out, slacks, white shirt, blue zippered jacket with the hint of a holster bulging under his left arm.

He ignored me and addressed the nurse.

“I’m Detective Lieutenant Pevsner,” he said showing his badge. “I’m here to watch a Miss Martha Helter. She’s a material witness in a murder, and we don’t want her trying to get away.”

“She’s in no condition to go anywhere,” the nurse said.

Phil sighed and said, “I’m sure you’re right, but this isn’t my idea. My captain sent me, and so here I am.”

“Good-bye,” I told the nurse. “I’ll be back at seven.”

I heard Phil ask the nurse for a chair as the elevator doors closed.

“I saw your brother enter the hospital,” Gunther said as I got back in the car.

“I called him. Sax tried to kill Helter. Phil is going to watch her.”

“Then,” said Gunther, “where shall we go?”

It was a good question. We should go where Shelly was, if he was still alive—save him, nail Sax, save Joan Crawford’s reputation, and go back to Mrs. Plaut’s, where I could get undressed and lie on my mattress for a week or two.

“Wilshire Police Station,” I said.

Gunther looked at me, pursed his lips, and decided to say, “Is that wise?”

“Can’t go back to Mrs. Plaut’s. They’ll be watching for me there. Cops and probably Sax. Same for my office. Let’s go surprise Cawelti.”

“If you think that best.” Gunther started the car and made it clear that he did not agree.

At the Wilshire Station, I waved at Corso at the desk before Gunther and I went up the stairs to the squad room. Cawelti was leaning over a desk, his face about six inches from the detective sitting behind it. The detective’s name was Bywaters. He had about a dozen years in, and Cawelti wasn’t going to break through Bywaters’s bored expression.

The room was reasonably full. Typewriters clattering, people talking, a woman weeping, a skinny Mexican-looking guy in a zoot suit sitting on the wooden waiting bench swaying from side to side with a smile on his face, eyes closed, singing something in Spanish. A short, heavy Negro woman on the singing Mexican’s right clutched her bulging brown shopping bag and moved as far over as she could to avoid contact with him.

Cawelti looked our way, stopped in mid-expletive, caught the look of surprise and smiled.

Gunther was at least slightly out of place in most locations, but not here. People came into the squad room in all sizes, shapes, colors, and attitudes. He wasn’t even worth a second glance by people caught up in their own problems and the legal system.

“Been looking for you,” said Cawelti as he approached me, voice raised over the noise level. He ignored Gunther.

“I’ve been busy,” I said.

“I know. Come with me.”

I didn’t like his confident tone. I didn’t like his smile. But then again, I didn’t like him when he was being his usual boiling self, either.

He moved around the desks and went to my brother’s office, opening it for us. We stepped in and he closed the door decisively.

The desk was clear. The walls were clear. A chair behind the desk. Two in front of it. There was a wooden crate near the door with a colorful sticker on the side with the painting of a dark-haired white-toothed red-lipped girl in a turban. She was holding an orange. Under her picture were the words “Florida Tender, Juicy Oranges from the Gibson Palmetto Groves.”

There were no oranges in the crate now, just a pile of papers, some small cardboard boxes, framed awards, and a photograph of Phil, his three kids, and Ruth looking up at me.

“Have a seat,” Cawelti said, brushing back his hair with both hands.

He got behind the desk and waited for Gunther and me to sit.

“This your office now?” I asked.

“Mine? No,” said Cawelti, looking around. “But, with Phil officially resigning effective the end of the month, I’d say the odds were good that I’ll be moving in here.”

“I wouldn’t do it till Phil’s officially gone,” I said.

He held up both hands. “Wouldn’t think of it. I didn’t pack up his stuff. Seidman came in and did it. You want to take the box with you?”

“No room in my car,” I said. “I’ll let Phil pick it up. He might want to say good-bye to you.”

“We’re going to give him a party.” Cawelti grinned, his hands folded on the desk. “I’m not sure when it will be, but I’ll be sure to be here for it, even chipped in a five for a retirement present.”

“You’re a saint,” I said.

“You want some coffee?” he asked me.

“No.”

“Little guy want some?”

“I don’t know, John,” I said. “Do you?”

He unfolded his hands and leaned back. I wasn’t going to get through to him. He had a rabbit or a snake in his pocket. He would let it out soon.

“Chair’s not comfortable,” he said. “A hard ass on a hard chair was all right for Phil, but I think the next person in here will bring his own chair.”

“I heard the commissioner is thinking of promoting Connie Jacobian from undercover to detective,” I said. “Heard the commissioner and mayor thought they could make some big publicity points by appointing the first female detective captain in a major American city.”

Cawelti’s smile dropped. The old look I had come to know and loathe came back for an instant and then disappeared.

“You’re yakking, Peters,” he said.

I shrugged.

“Got something for you,” he said reaching into the desk drawer and coming out with a gun. I recognized it. “Yours. Serial number checks with your registration. Know where we found it?”

“I reported it stolen,” I said.

Gunther interrupted, “I think I’d like a cup of coffee.”

“Wait.” Cawelti didn’t remove his eyes from my face. “You reported it stolen about an hour ago. It was found last night at a murder scene.”

“I didn’t notice it was gone till this morning. I called as soon as I checked my glove compartment and found it missing. Did someone get shot with it?”

“No,” he said. “But a kid died, the kid from the Survivors compound, Lewis Helter. Remember him? Blowgun.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“His mother’s in County Hospital,” he said. “Burns, concussion. Might die. Remember her, too?”

“His mother?”

“Martha Helter,” Cawelti said. “How could you forget your own sister, Mr. Biggs?”

He had me. The explanation was simple. The nursing station had been told to report on any visitors. The nurse with the glasses had probably called in my description before I had even left the hospital. It’s not hard to describe me. Flat nose, a few scars and a face that wouldn’t get me any leading-man roles.

I waited for him to say something about Phil being at the hospital. Since Phil was a cop and showed his identification, the nurse had probably not considered him to be someone whose presence needed to be reported. I didn’t enlighten Cawelti.

“No answer?” said Cawelti with obvious joy. “Then how about this? In the bombing that killed the kid and may yet kill the Helter woman, a man escaped, a man with a shotgun and a limp left arm. Any idea of who that might be?”

“A Nazi saboteur,” I said.

“An escapee from the state mental facility,” said Gunther.

“John Wayne,” I guessed.

“Hermann Goering,” said Gunther.

I was watching Cawelti. His face was almost the color of his hair. I knew I couldn’t have been identified with certainty by any of the witnesses from last night. I had been covered in thick soot.

“How’s your arm?” Cawelti asked.

“Which one?”

“The left arm,” he said. “Let’s see you lift it over your head.”

I grinned and threw my arm up toward the ceiling. It hurt like hell and I fought to keep from throwing up or passing out. I kept grinning and flexed my fingers.

“Feels fine,” I said.

“Take off your shirt and jacket,” Cawelti said.

I hesitated. Gunther said, “County police guidelines and Los Angeles Police Department regulations concur that without a warrant, the police cannot conduct an examination of a citizen unless there is sufficient cause to believe that he might be illegally armed. You will require a writ to get Mr. Peters to remove his shirt unless, of course, you wish to charge him with a crime.”

“Okay,” said Cawelti. “I’ll charge him, you little smart-ass son of a bitch.”

“With what?” asked Gunther.

“Obstructing justice. Resisting arrest. Suspicion of murder. Leaving the scene of a crime,” said Cawelti.

“The department has been sued twice in the last eight months for dubious arrests of citizens,” said Gunther. “In both instances, the cases were settled out of court with cash compensation and disciplinary action against the arresting officer.”

“How would you like to be stepped on like a bug?” Cawelti said, getting up from behind the desk.

“I would like very much for you to make the attempt in front of a witness,” said Gunther calmly.

“Am I under arrest, John?” I asked.

He hated when I called him “John” instead of “Detective Cawelti” or even just “Cawelti.” It was one of the small pleasures I had when I was with him.

“Get the hell out,” he said, sitting again.

“My gun.” I rose, along with Gunther.

“That stays. We’re still checking it out. You’re still a suspect and you’re staying one. And if you were thinking of leaving town, please, please do, so I can track down your ass and pen you like a baboon in Griffith Park Zoo.”

“It’s always good to talk to you, John,” I said.

“Wait,” he said as Gunther reached for the door. “Minck.”

“I’ll be straight with you, John,” I said. “I’m looking for him. I think someone helped break him out of jail to kill him, the someone who really killed Mildred Minck.”

“Bullshit. Minck killed her. We’ve got a witness.”

“I’ll give you a name,” I said.

“A name?”

“The person who got Shelly out of jail, the one who plans to kill him. Sax, James Fenimore Sax, founder of the Survivors for the Future. I think he’s a white-haired guy with a craggy tan face who uses the name ‘Anthony.’ ”

“Anthony what?” asked Cawelti.

“Don’t know,” I said. “I’ll tell you when I do.”

“Then Minck is dead?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s got something Sax wants, and as long as Shelly doesn’t tell him where it is, Shelly stays alive.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Peters?” Cawelti said, rounding the desk and taking a step toward us.

“Hope,” I said.

Gunther and I went through the door into the squad room, expecting the door behind us to open, but it didn’t. We said nothing till we got back on the street.

“All that stuff about police guidelines and lawsuits,” I said.

“I took some liberties with the stipulations of the law and the nature of certain complaints against the police,” he said with dignity as we got to the Crosley.

“You lied,” I said.

“Convincingly, I believe.”

“Very,” I said.

“How is your arm?”

We got in the car.

“Hurts,” I said.

“I shall drive you to Dr. Hodgdon’s,” he said. “There may have been some slow-working poison in that dart. The pygmies of Guam have an extract from the venom of the brown tree snake that can cause pain and very gradual paralysis.”

We were in traffic now.

“I appreciate the words of comfort,” I said.

“Reality must accompany comfort if the solace is to be of meaningful value,” he said. “Shall we stop for coffee and something to eat on the way?”

“Think I’ll live that long?” I asked.

“If it is the toxic venom of which I spoke, it will take some time before the effects are irreversible.”

“I’m comforted,” I said. “I’m in pain. I’m comforted and I’m hungry.”

We stopped at a bustling deli on Melrose and had the fifty-cent luncheon special. The coffee was good.

D
OC
H
ODGDON WAS
eighty. He had retired about ten years ago to read, play handball at the Downtown YMCA, where he regularly beat me, do some research, and write a book. The working title of the book was
Watch What You Eat.
The subtitle was
It Could Be Fatal.
He still saw an occasional patient in his office at home and had sewn me together from time to time.

“Infected,” he pronounced as I sat on his examining table. He inspected and touched the skin around my wound. “Not poisoned. This happened last night?”