Murder Most Strange (9 page)

"Fine," said Mendoza.

"But," said Alison uneasily, "Ken says
eventually we'll have to get a horse."

"
¡No me diga! ¿Para qué
es esta?
Why a horse? They won't be six until
August."

"Well, it's fine right now, but they're not
going to be satisfied forever just riding around the ring, Luis. As
they get more experienced they're going to want to take the ponies up
in the hills, and of course Ken will have to go with them. He says
just a quiet old nag of some sort, it needn't cost much. And he can
add on room in the stable if he can get the lumber.

"
¡Por Dios!
"
said Mendoza.

"He still hasn't located anybody to shear the
sheep, he's been asking all the vets around. After all, nobody keeps
sheep in L.A."

"Nobody but us, fools that we are."

"And, Luis, do you know that those ponies have
finished another ten bales of hay? And the price it's gone to—"

Mendoza regarded her with cynical amusement. "Don't
say it, one thing leading to—"

"Well, it seems to."

"
Hay
,"
said Mendoza. "Sheep. A horse. My God, what next?"

* * *

The night watch didn't get a call until nine o'clock,
and then the desk called up an attempted homicide. Conway and Piggott
went out on it.

It was a small apartment building on Marview Street,
and Patrolman Bill Moss was waiting for them. "Where the hell
are the paramedics? I called fifteen minutes ago—the girl's lost
some blood."

"What's it look like?" asked Conway.

"Rape and stabbing. The roommate just came home
and found her. Marcia Currier—the victim, I mean. The roommate's
Evelyn Frost. She was at the beach with her boy friend all day. She
says somebody must have broken in, but there's no sign of it—"

"Oh, wait for it," said Conway. "Where?"

"Apartment D upstairs.”

They took the stairs fast. Apartment D was at the end
of the upper hall; the door was open. In the middle of a small,
brightly furnished living room there was a girl crumpled on the floor
with a lot of blood around her, and another girl bending over her
crying. She was a pretty, dark girl; the one on the floor was blond.
She looked up wildly. "Where's the ambulance? Are you-"

"Police. It'll be along. What do you know about
this, is it Miss Frost?"

"Yes, yes—nothing—I just found her—oh,
Marcia darling—I can't imagine—we're both careful about keeping
doors locked, and she'd never let a stranger in—he must have broken
in—"

"Has she said anything at all, has she been
conscious since you found her?"

"Yes, but it didn't mean anyth— She was
t-trying to get up when I came in, she said my name— Where's the
ambulance?"

"Anything else?"

She brushed back her hair, straightening up. "I
don't think she was all the way conscious, didn't know what she
was—Queer, she said something like Jekyll and Hyde—"

"Oh, my sweet Christ!" said Conway
disgustedly. "Dapper Dan. That's right, it's Sunday." And
then the paramedics arrived, and took the girl out in a hurry, and
the Frost girl went with them.

Piggott looked at the bloodstains lugubriously. "Like
the children of Israel," he said.

"What the hell?"

"Bricks without straw. He's hit, let's see, this
is the ninth time, and the lab's never picked up a trace of him on
any of them."

"There's always a first time. I'll get a unit
out." Conway started back downstairs to the squad.

Piggott looked around
sadly. The devil, these days, was getting out and around and
accomplishing too much.

* * *

Monday was Palliser's day off. This would be a big
day for Nick Galeano, who hadn't shown up yesterday at all; and it
remained to be seen how many of the men at Robbery-Homicide, who'd
worked with him for a good many years, could snatch the time to
attend the wedding.

Hackett had just finished telling Mendoza about
Parmenter when the hospital called to tell them that Ken Price had
died during the night. One more homicide to work. Hackett looked grim
as he put the phone down and passed that on. Higgins, Grace, Glasser,
Landers had hung around to hear about the new one. "Bal1istics
said the slug was a thirty-eight, a Colt of some sort. Did that
pharmacist make any mug shots, George?”

"Nary a one, but you can't take it for granted
he would. When people are scared and nervous they don't always see
straight. He liked a couple of the pictures the computers turned up,
said that was the type—big, brawny, and mean. One Leonard
Osterberg, Ernest Docker, both counts of heists and violence. We
haven't dropped on them yet, but Osterberg's former P.A. officer gave
us a lead on him."

"And now this damned rapist pulling another one.
I wonder how the girl is."

"I called when I saw Matt's report," said
Mendoza. "She'll be all right. We can probably talk to her
sometime today."

"And we know what she's going to tell us,"
said Landers disgustedly.

"That Coffman woman's coming in to make a
statement," said Hackett. "We ought to have a look around
Parmenter's store, see if any leads show there. I wonder if he hired
any help. And we ought to get the autopsy report on Cooper today—"

"Also anonymous," said Mendoza. "We
seem to be getting them."

"We never talked to her boy friend."

"You have to wait for
the Coffman woman. I'll do that," said Mendoza, "and the
rest of you have places to go.
Vamos and buena
suerte
.”

* * *

"Look, I'm damn sorry about it but I don't know
one damn thing about it," said Jerry Wall.

"So you won't mind answering a few questions,"
said Mendoza placidly. He had found Wall at the garage on Vermont
where he worked, and Wall had reluctantly taken him into the
closet-sized cluttered office of the owner.

"Listen, I didn't even know about it till I went
to pick up Marion on Friday night, this woman in the next apartment
says she's dead! Look, it doesn't look so good, the fuzz come asking
me questions—Mr. No1an's due back from the bank anytime—"

"Anybody can be acquainted with a suicide,"
said Mendoza, getting out a cigarette.

Wall looked at him uncertainly. He was rather
obviously good-looking, a husky six-footer with overlong sandy-blond
hair, a boyish face that ended in a narrow weak jaw. Mendoza put him
around thirty-two or -three, but he looked younger: only the faint
lines at eye corner and mouth gave him away. Like Landers, thought
Mendoza amusedly, forever being told he didn't look old enough for a
detective; but that was a matter of shape and structure, and there
was nothing weak about Tom's long jaw. "Did she kill herself?"
asked Wall. "That woman didn't know much."

"Why, were you expecting her to be murdered?"
asked Mendoza, trickling smoke through his nostrils.

"We1l, for God's sake, no! How should I know
what happened?"

"You were the steady boy friend, you'd know how
she'd been feeling lately."

"She never said anything— Only for a whi1e,"
he said sullenly. He hadn't sat down, leaned against the wall; his
white T-shirt clung to his broad torso. "She had some other
ones."

"At the moment I'm interested in you. Where did
you get together to make out?"

"Listen, it wasn't nothing like that, Marion was
a nice girl—I—we really hadn't been goin' together very long—"

"Oh, now, come on," said Mendoza. "Give
us the credit for some sense, Wall. I'm not going to swallow a tale
that you took her out to a movie and bought her an ice-cream soda and
kissed her good night at the door. Nobody's accusing you of anything,
I just want the facts."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" said Wall roughly.
"So all right, all right, there wasn't anything in it, see?
Neither of us wanted to get hooked up again—at least I was lucky
not to come in for the alimony, I could show the judge Marie was a
lush and a tramp—but like you say, we wasn't kids, for God's sake.
It didn't mean one damn thing, see? Like—like—" he cast
around in his mind, and said ingenuously, "Like—one for the
road. Just the good time."

Mendoza eyed him thoughtfully, understanding that to
perfection. The careless good time. No, it wouldn't have mattered
much to either of them; and that, of course, was what was basically
wrong with it. There had been a time when Luis Mendoza had subscribed
to that simple philosophy too; only a fortuitous set of
circumstances—and another rapist—had put more understanding in
him.

"Yes," he said, and stabbed out his
cigarette. “Did you use her place?"

"My God, no. I was getting fed up, it was a damn
nuisance, see. She was always so goddamned nervous about her ex, on
account of the alimony and the support for the kid. She was scared
he'd get a private eye on her, get the kid away so he wouldn't have
to pay her. I told her it was silly, he couldn't afford nothing like
that—but she wouldn't let me come to her place except to pick her
up—and she wouldn't go in my place either—"

"Back of the car," said Mendoza.

"I was fed up. Look, Marion was a nice enough
girl but she wasn't the only one around, see? And for God's sake, I
don't know what happened to her. Last time I saw her was at the
coffee shop Wednesday, she looked just like usual, I said I'd pick
her up Friday night."

"And where were you Thursday night?"
Mendoza didn't think it mattered.

"For God's sake. It was a kind of rough day, I
was beat. I shot a little pool down the block, and I had dinner at a
joint and went home and went to bed."

Mendoza had lost interest
in him three minutes ago. He stood up.

* * *

He got to the church in good time; it was St.
Joseph's up on Vermont. There wasn't much of a crowd, maybe
twenty-five people; Nick would have relations, but the bride didn't
have any family in this country. Palliser and his Roberta were there,
in a pew opposite; they hadn't noticed Mendoza yet, and he sat back
thinking about that old case when he'd half suspected Roberta of a
rather complicated murder. They were a distinguished—looking pair,
both tall, dark and handsome.

Hackett slid into the pew beside him just as the
organ music changed and the bride appeared. Landers and Grace had
gone down the side aisle at the same time.

It was a simple low mass, without more music or much
ritual. He hadn't seen the bride since he'd seriously suspected her
of murdering her first husband. He hadn't remembered that she was
such a good-looking girl: loose-waved tawny-blond hair, the warm dark
eyes, a milky complexion. She was wearing a simple beige dress. And
stocky dark Galeano, that staid bachelor, even managed to look the
romantic bridegroom, in a formal dark suit. The blinding smile they
exchanged at the end of the ceremony maybe meant more than the
ritual. And when the reception line formed outside, there was a
cluster of pretty plump dark women around bride and groom—Galeano's
mother and sisters.

The Pallisers had gotten there first, and the bride
was talking animatedly to Roberta when Mendoza offered
congratulations to Galeano. "Marta," he said, and she
turned quickly.  "All the best wishes, Mrs. Ga1eano."

Her dark eyes held a smile. "Lieutenant Mendoza,
who was so convinced I had murdered my poor husband. Thank you."

"You'd better not murder this one," said
Mendoza. "We're shorthanded as it is."

She laughed. "I promise you will have him back
in two little weeks—and with the five pounds lost he has gained! I
will take care of him for you."

Mendoza moved on, and a minute later on the way to
the parking lot Glasser caught up to him and said, "Another
confirmed bachelor caught in the trap."

"You're just a cynic, Henry."
 

FOUR

When Higgins and Landers had gotten to the
Independent Pharmacy on Alvarado that morning, they had found a woman
peering in the front window, looking at the Closed sign on the door.
Getting out the keys he had from Hackett, Higgins said, "I'm
sorry, ma'am, the store won't be open today."

"Oh," she said. "I wondered why Mr.
Parmenter wasn't here, it's after nine. Is he sick? Who are you?"

"I'm sorry to tell you he's died. Did you know
him, ma'am?" Higgins unlocked the door.

"Died! Well, for goodness' sake," she said
mildly. She was a dumpy, dowdy woman in the forties, with lank brown
hair, a homely plain face. "So I guess I'm out of a job."

"You worked here?"

"Just since last week. It must have been awful
sudden, he seemed all right on Saturday."

Higgins produced the badge and brought her in, to
save time letting her think it had been an accident of some kind. Her
name was Amelia Bowler and she said she'd answered an ad in the Times
last Tuesday, there'd been a number to call, and Mr. Parmenter had
hired her right away when he told her the address and she came. "He
said the other clerk he'd had had left all of a sudden and he needed
somebody. I was glad to get the job even if it didn't pay much, we
can use the extra money since my husband's been sick and off work."
She looked around the shabby old store regretfully. "And an easy
job, just waiting on people. I'm sure sorry to hear about Mr.
Parmenter—he was kind of quiet and a little crabby, but you got to
take people as you find them."