Mildred Pierced (13 page)

The cookies were damned good, and, in spite of the scratches on my face and arms and the possible tears in my jacket, I was feeling good. I seemed to be getting somewhere.

I had a few days left to find out who killed Mildred, save Shelly, and keep Joan Crawford’s name out of the papers.

With a little help from some friends, I might be able to do it.

I decided without doubt that chocolate chips were definitely my favorites, beating Mrs. Plaut’s teardrop mint and butterscotches by a length and a half.

O
N THE RADIO
heading back to the Farraday Building, I learned that David Dubinsky, president of the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, had union-labeled General George C. Marshall a tool of “a well-organized smear campaign against labor.” I also learned that Byron Nelson was favored to win the $12,500 Los Angeles Open, that the Russians were driving deeper into Poland, and another ten Japanese merchant ships had been sunk by United States subs.

It was late in the afternoon when I got back to my office. There was a sign on the door: “Dr. Minck will be indisposed for an as yet undetermined period of time. All calls to him will be taken by an answering service and responded to promptly.” It was signed “Violet Gonsenelli, Office Manager.”

I used my key and went in, leaving the note in place. I went through the reception area and Shelly’s chamber, flicked on the lights in my office, and found a note from Violet on my desk:

Call Miss Crawford as soon as you get in.

I’ll be in tomorrow.

I made the call. Crawford answered after five rings with a very wary “Yes?”

“Peters,” I said.

“I’ve had a threatening call,” she said. “A man, a few hours ago. He said that if I insisted on telling the police that I saw Dr. Minck kill his wife, I might wind up with a bolt in my heart.”

“I think I know who it was,” I said.

“That’s comforting,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “What can you do about it?”

“Could you recognize the voice if you heard it again?”

“Yes. Faces, voices, words are my profession.”

There was something a little stiff in the way she said it. Talk of her profession brought out the Joan Crawford in Joan Crawford.

“Are you making any progress?”

“Some.” I took Mildred’s crumpled list from my pocket and laid it as flat as I could in front of me.

“Please try to adopt a sense of urgency,” she said with a catch of emotion in her voice.

“I am.”

“Then try harder,” she countered, her voice now determined.

I told her what I had found and said, “You said that Mildred had her hand in her purse when she was shot?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I have anything more.” Then I hung up.

I called my brother at home. He answered the phone, and I asked if I could stop by.

“I’m taking the boys out for hamburgers,” he said. “Becky is here with Lucy. You want to meet us?”

I said I did. He told me where they were going. It wasn’t far from Phil’s in the valley.

“Hurry up,” he said. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.”

“Phil, what was in Mildred’s purse when she died?”

“Her purse?”

“Yeah.”

“Keys, a pack of Tareytons, a handkerchief, a wallet. I don’t remember what else and, frankly, Toby, I don’t give a shit.”

“Was there any money in the wallet?” I asked.

“About forty cents. We’re leaving.”

I met them at the Canyon Diner on Laurel at the foot of the Hollywood Hills in the San Fernando Valley. The Canyon had a neon sign, windows with venetian blinds open and a blackboard by the front door listing the specials of the day. It was the same restaurant my father used to take me and Phil to. He took Phil there right after my mother’s funeral when I was a baby. Later, when something was bothering him, something we knew was big but that he wouldn’t share with his sons, he took us to the Canyon.

It was dinnertime. The Canyon was reasonably full and noisy, and the smell of grease and onions filled the room and brought back flashes of the past that didn’t quite take form.

My father had a favorite booth next to the window where he could look out at the hills and do his best to keep up his end of the conversation about baseball or school problems.

Phil and his boys weren’t at that booth. Two men and a woman were talking and eating at my dad’s table. My brother and nephews were at the booth in front of it, Phil on one side, his sons across from him.

“Hi,” I said, sitting down next to Phil, who moved over just enough to let me in.

Nate and Dave, still in their funeral slacks, white shirts and ties, said, “Hi.”

The boys were drinking “famous” Canyon chocolate shakes. They were famous because the Canyon said they were, just like Napoleon’s Grill in Santa Monica claimed it made “the best omelets in the world.”

Phil was looking out the window, trying to see what my father had been looking for or at when we were boys.

The waitress came over, and I said, “I’ll have a Pepsi. You order your dinner yet?” I asked.

“They ordered,” the skinny waitress said giving me a look that said she might not understand that someone had died, but knew that grief was sitting around the table.

“Got liver and onions?” I asked.

“Always,” she said. “Anything else?”

I said “no,” and she headed back toward the kitchen.

People were talking all around us. Older couples, families, a younger couple at the counter. Music was playing, but softly, a trumpet.

“Harry James,” I said. “‘I’ll Get By.’”

No response other than a slight nod from Nate. No one was looking at me now. The announcer came on and the radio and I thought I caught him saying “Harry James.”

“Betty Grable’s going to have a baby,” I said. “Harry James’s wife. Read it in the
Times.
”

Phil made a sound that suggested he knew I had said something and that some response might be expected.

“Liver and onions,” Nate said, making it clear that he wasn’t looking forward to my dinner being served.

“It’s great stuff,” I said.

“What’s it taste like?” asked Nate.

“Chicken,” I said.

“You told me salmon tastes like chicken,” Nate said.

“Rattlesnake, too. Standard safe answer. Everything tastes like chicken, but chicken, when it’s done right, tastes like lobster.”

Nate smiled. The smile disappeared fast.

“Dad’s quitting,” said Dave.

“He doesn’t want to be a policeman anymore,” Nate added.

“I think it’s because—” Dave began and trailed off.

“Your mother?” I asked.

Dave shrugged. So did Nate.

“Phil?”

“What?”

His eyes were still focused somewhere in the distance, out the window.

“Kids say you’re quitting.”

Phil nodded, just enough, if you were watching closely and knew him well, to understand that he was saying yes.

I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded, too.

“Remember our father sitting here, looking out the window, never telling us what was going on?” Phil said after a deep sigh.

“Yeah.”

“I told myself I wasn’t going to do that with any kids I had,” said Phil. “They know what I’m thinking. If I go back, I’m going to hurt someone, some bad guy with a bad attitude. I’m going to say to myself, ‘Why is this guy alive and Ruth dead?’ Then I’m … I’ve got my twenty years in, a pension.”

The boys looked at me pleadingly. Phil had no hobbies, no interests other than catching bad guys, trying to clean the streets of Los Angeles with a toothpick. He didn’t play golf or tennis. He didn’t play poker or bridge. I had a thought. I didn’t want to spend too much time considering it. I might change my mind.

“Have any plans?” I asked.

This time he shook his head.

“How about coming in with me?” I asked.

He took his eyes from the not-very-distant hills and turned his bulky body toward me. Our eyes met.

“Come in with you?”

“Peters and Pevsner, Private Investigators. You could get a license in less than a week.”

“I’d wind up killing you,” he said.

Now, this was a hopeful answer. It meant he was giving the suggestion some consideration.

“Pevsner and Peters? Work with me on the billing.”

“Sam Spade Detective Agency,” Nate said. “Like on the radio.”

“Not someone’s name,” Dave said. “Something tough you know you can count on to get it done.”

“Two Aces Detective Agency,” Nate tried.

Phil was still looking at me. We both blinked.

“P & P Detective Agency,” Dave said. “Or International Private Investigations, or Reliable Detective Agency …”

“… or World’s Finest,” Nate said enthusiastically.

I had no idea what I was offering or what it would mean if Phil agreed. It was clear that the boys liked the idea of their father being a private investigator at least as much as they liked his being a cop. It was clear that they wanted him to be something.

“Think about it,” I said.

The waitress brought our food. The boys were both having cheeseburgers and french fries. Phil was having what looked like a chicken sandwich with a side of coleslaw. My liver and onions came with gravy-drenched mashed potatoes.

We ate in silence for a few minutes.

“We should talk about Mom,” Nate said around a mouthful of sandwich.

Neither Phil nor Dave responded.

“That what you want to do, Nate?” I asked, cutting my liver.

“Yeah. She’s dead, but I don’t want to stop talking about her. I’m scared I’ll forget her if we make it something we can’t talk about.”

“Give it a few days,” I suggested.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But we gotta say something about something.”

“Phil, why was Mildred’s hand in her purse?” I asked.

“Who knows? Maybe she was reaching for the handkerchief,” he said.

“Or she had something she was about to give to Shelly, but she didn’t get the chance.”

“There was nothing in the purse but what I told you. Period.”

“Where was the car?” I tried again.

“Whose car?” Phil asked without interest in either my questions or the chicken sandwich.

“Mildred’s. You found her keys in her purse. What about the car?”

“No car. We looked. Car was in the driveway of her house.”

“Then how did she get to the park?” I asked.

“Red Car, taxi … who knows? What’s the difference?”

“You said there was no money in her purse,” I reminded him.

“Forty cents. Are you suggesting the patrolman who found the body went through Mildred Minck’s purse? The cop’s name is Andrew Nimowski. Catholic with a conscience. I’ve known him ten years. His record’s cleaner than the Pope’s, a lot cleaner.”

“Okay, Nimowski didn’t take any money from the purse. Then maybe someone drove her to the park.”

“Maybe,” he agreed indifferently.

“How did she know where Shelly was? Shelly didn’t tell her.”

“She followed him.” Dave’s eyes were alive with interest.

“Why?” I asked. “Why not just call him and set up a meeting or go to the office? Why follow him just to surprise him in the park?”

“Is that the way private detectives think?” Nate asked.

“Sometimes.” I worked on my liver and onions.

“Has anyone ever followed you?” Dave asked.

“Look out the window, in the parking lot next to the paint store across the street, but don’t stare. A green Ford sedan with dark windows.”

“Yeah, so?” asked Nate.

“They’re following me.”

“Why?” asked Dave with open skepticism.

“Trying to scare me off helping Dr. Minck,” I said. “I think one of the people in that car may have been the one who shot at me with a blowgun in the grocery store yesterday.”

“Blowgun?” Dave let me know I had gone too far.

But his brother was taken in by the truth.

“What happened?” Nate asked.

“I got soaked in peach syrup.”

“You’re funny,” Nate went back to work on his burger.

“I know,” I said. “They want me on the radio,
Can You Top This?
”

“Senator Ford,” said Dave.

“Harry Hershfield,” Nate added.

“Joe Laurie, Junior,” I said.

We all looked at Phil. He was surrounded by a conspiracy of uncle and nephews.

“… and Peter Donald,” Phil finally said.

“And Uncle Toby,” Nate said with a laugh. “Tell us a joke.”

“I don’t do jokes,” I said. “I’m just naturally, spontaneously funny. Like your father.”

Both boys smiled now. Dave sputtered. Phil shook his head the way he always did when he thought I was acting like a kid. Then he looked at the green Ford across the street. I saw something in his face, something I had seen before, many times before. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a firm shove. I was ready for it. I got up and out of his way. Phil headed for the door.

“Wait here,” I told the boys and went after my brother who was already out of the door and stepping into the street with only a nod in either direction to check the traffic.

I ran, but traffic and Phil’s head start got him to the green Ford with me about fifteen yards behind him. Phil reached for the door and opened it. I could see the driver. He was one of the two goons, the last of the Mohicans, Uncas and Chingachgook, who had been with Lawrence Timerjack at Mildred’s funeral.

Phil reached in and pulled the bigger of the two men out of the driver’s seat. The man was at least ten years younger and twenty pounds heavier than my brother, but he was no match for the anger that exploded from Phil.

The passenger-side door opened quickly as Phil, hands clenched into the lapels of the man’s jacket, slammed the man against the car.

The second guy, the one with the bushy mustache, came out of the car and hurried around it. He looked determined. I got to the car in time to intercept him. He threw a low left toward my stomach. It was not only low, it was slow. I went back, taking little of the impact.

Phil bounced the man he was holding hard against the car. The man slumped and Phil turned his attention to the guy who had swung at me. Phil went with a short, hard punch to the second man’s nose. I could hear the nose break.