Streets of Death - Dell Shannon (4 page)

They did. Just in the last month, enough juveniles
had been reported missing to this office to build up those files into
a thick stack, and they had to be glanced at one by one, the
description scanned briefly to weed it out. Palliser and Glasser took
a lunch break, ran into Galeano and Conway at Federico’s on North
Broadway, and heard about the off-beat case Carey had just handed
them. Glasser went down to S.I.D. when they got back to base, to see
if they’d come up with anything, and Palliser went back to the
files. It was after two-thirty when he came up with a recently filed
report that rang bells.

Reported missing to the Fresno police, Sandra
Moseley, aged fifteen, five-two, a hundred and five, blonde and blue:
scar inside left arm, appendectomy scar; reported by mother, Mrs.
Anita Moseley. She was thought to have been with another girl,
Stephanie Peacock, also fifteen, also missing.

"Kids," thought Palliser. He went back up
to Robbery-Homicide and got on the phone to the Fresno department. A
Captain Almont said he’d get in touch with Mrs. Moseley. "It
looks pretty definite, it’s this Moseley girl dead down there?"

"Well, we’d like a positive identification,
but there’s the ring and the scar. No autopsy yet, but it looks
pretty certain for Murder One."

"Hell of a thing," said Almont. "We’ll
get in touch with the mother and get back to you."

"Thanks very much," said Palliser. He
wondered momentarily what had happened to the other girl--if they had
been together. He wondered what he was going to do about Trina. The
obedience club secretary had given him the name of a book to get.

Glasser came back and said
S.I.D. hadn’t picked up any latents or any other physical evidence
at the scene. She’d probably been killed elsewhere and brought
there just before the fire was set. "Well, we’ve probably got
her identified, at least," said Palliser absently.

* * *

Galeano and Conway had been deflected onto the
supposed hit-run, which everybody had comfortably supposed would get
buried in Pending. Landers had gone to cover the inquest.

At least they had no sooner been informed that it
wasn’t a hit-run than they got an I.D. for him. Traffic had come
across the body about midnight on Monday, in the middle of Valencia
Avenue up from Venice Boulevard; there hadn’t been any I.D. on it,
so the lab had collected his prints next morning to run through. Ten
minutes after Bainbridge had called Mendoza, the routine report came
in. His prints were in their records; he had a small pedigree from a
while back. He was Robert Chard, now thirty-nine. He’d been picked
up for auto theft as a juvenile, for attempted assault just after
he’d turned legally adult, and had one count of B. and E. after
that. He’d never served any time at all, and apparently had never
been in trouble since.

The latest address was sixteen years out of date, but
it was a place to start. Longwood Avenue. You had to go by routine
even when it looked unproductive. Not feeling very hopeful, Galeano
tried that address, which was an old frame house in need of paint,
and turned up a Mrs. Holly, a thirtyish slattern who said she was
Robert Chard’s sister.

"Why you looking for Bob? He hasn’t been in
any trouble for a long time, nor he won’t be either, under the
thumb of that bitch he married. You cops tryin’ to make out he done
something?"

"No, ma’am," said Galeano politely. "We’d
like to get his body identified. He’s dead."

"Well, for God’s sake," she said mildly.
"Bob? Is that so? Was it an accident?"

"We’re not sure," said Galeano. "When
did you see him last?"

"Gee, I’d hafta think. The last years, since
he got married, rest of the family hardly ever saw him at all. That
bitch, she used to be scared he’d spend money on presents for Ma,
and he kinda got out of the habit of coming--of course Ma died last
year-- Well, I could tell you where they were living, last I knew,
but I don’t know if they still lived there. It was Constance
Street. My God, think of Bob dead--damn, I s’pose I got to get in
touch with her, I oughta go to the funeral."

If you didn’t get rich at a cop’s job, Galeano
reflected, you had a box seat at the eternal spectacle of human
nature in action.

Nobody was home at the address on Constance, an old
cracker-box duplex. A nameplate next to the doorbell had a
hand-printed slip in it that said CHARD, so at least this was the
right place. Funny, maybe nobody had missed him yet. Or maybe nobody
cared whether he came home or not. Galeano tried the neighbors, and
found only one home, a deaf elderly man who told him that Mis’
Chard worked someplace uptown, and he didn’t take any notice when
she usually came home.

Better leave a note for the night watch to contact
her, thought Galeano.

He was still intrigued by the empty wheelchair in
that tale Carey had spun them, and he wanted to talk to that blonde,
start asking questions around on that; but what with all the legwork,
it was the middle of the afternoon and he still had to type out a
report on this.

He got home about six-thirty, to his neat small
bachelor apartment on Edgemont up in Hollywood, rummaged in the
freezer and put a TV dinner in the oven, and sat down with the Herald
over a glass of the cheap red wine he liked. His mother and sisters
had given up years ago deviling him to find a nice girl and get
married; at thirty-six, Galeano had settled into comfortable
bachelorhood.

That was a fishy little
story of Carey’s, he thought idly. It would be interesting to know
what really had happened there, just how Edwin Fleming had managed to
melt into thin air, leaving his empty wheelchair behind. Galeano
thought that blonde couldn’t be quite so dumb as Carey thought.

* * *

Mendoza was greeted exuberantly by the twins as he
came in the back door, and Mrs. MacTaggart rescued him.

"Your father’ll come to see you in your baths,
my lambs, right now you’l1 let him have some peace and quiet."
She led them off firmly.

He found Alison, surrounded by the four cats Bast,
Sheba, Nefertite and El Señor, stretched out on the sectional in the
front room, with Cedric curled up on the floor beside them. "Hello,
amado
," said
Alison. "I’m sorry I was cross this morning, but this is
turning out to be quite a project. No, I don’t want any dinner--I
had some bouillon a while ago, Máiri bullied it down me--but she’s
getting something for you. And if you’re going to have a drink
first, you can bring me just a little creme de menthe to settle my
insides." She looked wan.

At his first touch on the cupboard door where the
liquor was kept, El Señor appeared, his Siamese mask-in-reverse
wearing a hopeful look. Mendoza poured him half an ounce of rye in a
saucer and took his own drink and Alison’s back to the living room.

"You know, Luis," she said, half sitting up
to take the glass, "we’ll have to think about a new house.
Just as I was saying last night. Because there are only four bedrooms
here, and with the baby we’ll need five. And besides--"

"One thing," said Mendoza, "leading to
another.
Pues qué
."
The twins had been, not without protest, graduated to separate rooms.

"And it did seem like a lot of space at first,
two lots," said Alison, sipping, "but it isn’t really
enough room for Cedric--he needs more exercise. And I’ve been
thinking, it’d be nice to be--you know--a little farther out, on an
acre or even more--it isn’t as if you haven’t got the money."

"Delusions of grandeur," said Mendoza.

"Well, we might as well enjoy it while we can. I
think I feel better," said Alison. "Give me a cigarette,
darling. You might tell Máiri I could take some mushroom soup."

The phone rang down the hall and he went to answer
it, passing E1 Señor thoughtfully licking his whiskers.

"Mendoza."

It was the main desk at headquarters; the night watch
wasn’t on yet, upstairs. Central Receiving had just called in the
information that Father O’Brien had died an hour ago. "Thanks
so much," said Mendoza.

So the pretty boys had a
homicide to their credit now. And still not a smell of a lead as to
where to look for them.

* * *

Just before Palliser left the office, Fresno called
back. Mrs. Moseley had been contacted and would come down to L.A.
tomorrow to look at the body.

"The report we had, they thought there was
another girl with the Moseley girl," said Almont. "You just
found the one?"

"We think. Just her so far," said Palliser.
"Thanks, we’ll be expecting her."

"
No trouble. These kids. Poor woman sounded all
broken up."

Palliser stopped at a big bookstore in Hollywood on
his way home and asked for a copy of
The
Kennel Club Obedience Manual
. He handed over
seven bucks for it and had it under his arm when he unlocked the
driveway gate and slid through it. A solid object weighing some
seventy pounds immediately hit him amidships like a bomb, and he said
breathlessly, "Down, girl!" But she impeded every step to
the back door and into the kitchen, giving him to understand what a
hard day she’d had guarding the family every alert minute, all for
love of him. In the kitchen, she rose up lovingly at Roberta and
nearly knocked her over. She was, no question, going to be a very
large German shepherd; only nine months now and still growing.

"We’ll have to do something about training
her, John," said Roberta severely.

"I know, I know. I’ve
got a book," said Palliser, and then discovered that Trina had
it instead, chewing the cover like a bone. He rescued it hastily and
hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

* * *

Piggott and Schenke came on night watch at the same
time and shared an elevator. It was Shogart’s night off. Piggott
didn’t mind doing a tour of night watch, except that it interfered
with choir practice and Prudence didn’t like it, but he’d have a
chance to shift back in three months. Schenke had been on night watch
so long he’d come to prefer it.

Galeano had left them a note to call this Mrs. Chard,
tell her her husband was dead. Schenke tried the number and got a
busy signal. They’d try again.

At seven-thirty they got a call from Traffic, a new
body. Looking, said Traffic, like Murder One. "The citizens keep
us busy, Matt," said Schenke.

"Or Satan does," said Piggott. They were on
the way out when the phone buzzed again, and he went back to pick it
up. "Robbery-Homicide, Detective Piggott."

"Oh--is Sergeant Palliser there? That’s the
name I was told to--"

"Sergeant Palliser’s on day watch, ma’am.
Can I help you?" The woman sounded upset.

"I--yes, I suppose. It’s just to let him
know--that is, whoever’s concerned--I’m Mrs. Moseley. In Fresno.
They think--the police here said--you think you’ve found my
daughter there. D-dead. I was to come-- But just now-- just a while
ago--the Peacocks called me--"

"You want me to give this to Sergeant Palliser?"
asked Piggott patiently.

"Yes, if you would. We were sure they were
together, Sandra and Stephanie. Ran away together. And Mrs. Peacock
just c-called to say--they’ve heard from Stephanie. They’re
driving down there to meet her, she wants to come home, and I’m
coming with them. Because if Stephanie’s all right, maybe it’s
all a mistake and the dead girl isn’t Sandra--but--"

"I’ll pass it on to Palliser, ma’am."
Piggott hadn’t heard anything about the dead girl; he scrawled that
down as she hung up with a gasp, and put the note on Palliser’s
desk.

The address for the new body was Orchard Street, a
little backwater of old single houses, a few duplexes, past Virgil.
The black and white was in front of one of the singles, a little
white frame house looking shabby. The uniformed men were talking to a
paunchy shaken-looking man at the curb.

"These are the detectives, Mr. Buford. Mr.
Piggott, Mr. Schenke. You tell it all to them. It’s inside,"
added one of the Traffic men. "Looks like a B. and E. and
assault for robbery. Maybe somebody didn’t expect him to be home."

"That’s why I got worried," said the
paunchy man.

"Dick usually was home--he’s a great homebody,
and he was between jobs, see, I told you that, he’s in construction
and they can’t work this weather, but it didn’t matter to Dick,
he’s got savings, makes good money, and besides he don’t buy much
for himself--he just lost his wife last year and it kind of took the
heart out of him, they hadn’t any kids, and I used to call him
three, four times a week, just to talk--oh, I didn’t tell you
fellows, Dick’s my brother--I’m Robert--we were always kind of
close--and I couldn’t raise him on the phone no way, the last three
days, and I got worried about it, maybe he was sick or something,
because he’s not one for going out much, maybe once a month he’ll
go up to a neighborhood bar for a couple of beers, but not
regular--and I said to my wife, I got to find out if anything’s
wrong, and I drove up right after work. I live way out past Thousand
Oaks and it was murder on the freeway but I--" He stopped,
gulped, and said, "Murder! Dick! But who’d murder Dick? A
quiet fellow like Dick! It don’t make sense!"