The Patrolman - 16

 

 

16.

 

 

 

'Officer Lacey?'

The simple yes he had whispered into the telephone was full of hope. But the voice on the other end offered none.

'Hold for Lieutenant Flowers.'

The caller clicked off. The rising sun cast an angelic glow through the house. He looked down the hallway. Evie's heavy breathing came through her bedroom door. Checking his wristwatch, he saw it was a quarter to seven. Lacey and Carruthers were supposed to be meeting with Flowers in an hour. Had something happened since yesterday? His mind started to race through the possibilities. No jumping to conclusions. Let’s hear what he has to say first. Wait. But still, he couldn't ignore the dread building like a pit in his stomach.

After an age of waiting, there was someone else on the line. 'Lacey?'

'Sir.'

'Forget our eight o'clock,' he said. 'Meet me at the Farmers' Market in an hour. I'll call Carruthers.'

'Yes, sir.'

‘There’s been another one’ he said.

 

 

'What'll you have?' the geezer said.

Du-Par's was empty except for Lacey, the short-order cook, and a waitress refilling napkins. Knives and forks were already arranged on the rows of red leather dining booths. The waitress tried looking busy and didn't do a good job of it.

Without reading the menu, Lacey ordered one short stack with maple syrup, a spare plate, and a cup of coffee.

'Okay. But we're limited to two refills here, son.'

'Not a problem.'

The breakfast came to $0.80 and one ration stamp. The short-order cook left him. He still had 15 minutes until he met Flowers. When he got off the bus at 3rd & Fairfax, he remembered what they used to say in the Army. Eat when you can, because you never know when you'll next get the chance. He found an ashtray and lit a Lucky Strike. He hadn't slept well. He hoped it might clear his head. The morning's Los Angeles Tribune was sitting on the counter, so he picked it up.

The feature story was on the Zoot Suit Riots, but a column on the right caught his eye. "L.A.P.D. Foul-Up Forms Bunker Hill Lynch Mob". It was a two-inch column with Veronica Welles' byline on it. Like always, his favorite crime reporter had put two and two together and came up with five. It read that an incident involving a troubled mechanic had escalated the violence downtown. She was right that the kid in question was lying in Central Morgue. The rest was, of course, fiction. There was no mention of the Bronson Canyon murder. But if Welles thought there was something more to the story she'd dig the rest up. Either way, Flowers would be sore.

The short-order cook set his breakfast down.

It came up with a pitcher of syrup. Which he poured on the spare plate like Evie taught him to. He dropped a pancake in it, swirled it around, and ate. Each hot cake was the size of a dinner plate. Not too thick. Cooked with fresh butter. Every bite was a comfort, a taste of the good times in his life. It was worth the ration stamp. He sank another coffee and a brown convertible pulled up outside.

'How are you, Cap?'

'I've been better,' he said. 'Come, let's walk and talk.' They headed east on 3rd and walked two blocks north to the empty lot behind the Farmer's Market. 'All I'll say is that I get the Times, Herald-Express, and the Tribune delivered to my house every morning.'

Lacey looked at him, waiting for it.

'And I read them in that order.'

‘Yes, sir. It won’t happen again.’

 

 

Some little leaguers found her on the way to practice.

They lost yesterday and wanted to be ready for a big game next weekend. Their fathers lagged a little further behind them when they saw a pink shape in the bushes.

Nobody knew who screamed first.

One of the fathers pulled the kids away. The other called Wilshire Police Station. It went out over the radio by 06:32 a.m., Sunday 6/6/43. Dead body found behind the Farmer's Market. The watch commander at Wilshire had heard about the Bronson Canyon Park murder. He found Flowers in the directory and rang his home number. Same M.O., different jurisdiction.

It was turning into a circus. Spectators gathered. Nothing like this ever happens around here, the people said. The little leaguers got taken home in black-and-whites. Plainclothesmen flashed their badges and ducked under the cordon. Lacey and Flowers followed. Lensmen taking pictures of the the body got hauled out on their asses and their film confiscated. A couple got away. The story might still make the morning editions.

The crime scene looked staged.

Someone asked what the Bronson Canyon Park killing looked like and Lacey told the group. Everyone agreed that this was done on purpose. The girl had died somewhere else and got brought here. Her necklace had torn, the pearls scattered in the dirt. The white beads glinting in the light. Placed like breadcrumbs from the side facing the road right up to the body. The killer wanted them to find her. The girl was younger than Figueroa-Villa. Around 19 years old. Again, lying on her front, arms bent up over her head. She had on a sleeveless pink dress. The nylon stocking that killed her was still wrapped around her neck. It looked messier, disorganized. A blow fly circled her bare shoulder, uncertain. The smell of overturned earth mixed with the stale blood, dried and darkened in the creases on her neck.  

Lacey noticed some grazing on her knees, more like carpet burns than concrete or dirt. Working girl? It didn't matter. The guy needed stopping. The girl got her driver's license in Detroit, Michigan. Her name was Carmelita Sabella and Lacey was right about the age.

The County Coroner's hearse backed up. Biggs and another man got out of it. Everyone shook hands.

The other man was Ray Pinker. He was a balding Nebraskan in his mid-thirties. The Chief Forensic Technician. Lacey had heard the stories. Captain Donahoe, who ran L.A.P.D.'s homicide detail, wouldn't work a case if Pinker hadn't gone over the crime scene first. He had built the Scientific Investigation Division from nothing into the country's top forensics unit. The F.B.I. begged Pinker to come and work for them every Christmas. Lacey looked at him. You'd never guess this quiet, bespectacled man was the Department's Sherlock Holmes. Pinker said the blood typing tests on the first stocking got shifted to high priority. They would have the results back by the end of watch.

A skinny patrolman approached, moving with a kind of nervous energy. He made his way through each group of cops, asking them a question, and each time he got the same response. A headshake. Lacey's group stood to be the one he was looking for.

'Morning fellas,' he said. 'I'm looking for a guy called, Lacey?'

All eyes fell on him. 'Right here,' he said.

'Would you mind following me, detective? I got a phone call for you.'

'I'm not a detective.'

The patrolman took him to a payphone on the corner of Lindenhurst.

'Officer Lacey speaking.'

'Shame about the mechanic.'

'Who is this?' he said.

'You know.'

'What do you want?'

'A thank-you would be nice. You'd have never got there without my help.'

'Lucky me,' he said.

'I called Wilshire and told them about the connection to Bronson Canyon.'

'Why?'

'Because you get it, don't you? You get what I'm going for. The picture I'm painting?'

Lacey cut him off. 'No, I don't get you. As far as I can tell, you're like everyone else in this town. Bursting at the seams to feel seen.'

The killer said nothing.

'Tell me, her pearl necklace. Was that something you put here for my benefit?'

'You're the detective, work it out.'

He listened to the empty dial tone for the second time that morning. How did the killer know he was here? Lacey slammed the phone. Parked cars were everywhere. Diners, apartments. The call could've come from any one of the buildings he was looking at. He spun around until he got dizzy. The killer was here. Watching them. Watching him.

When he was confident the guy wouldn't show himself, he returned to the group and pulled Flowers aside. Flowers said to keep the phone calls between the two of them and Carruthers.  whenever he showed his face. Don Figueroa-Villa and the Police Commission were expecting daily reports. 'If we don't solve this, it ain’t only your job on the line' he said. ‘I needed Carruthers here an hour ago, get someone to drive you over to his apartment.'

 

 

The driver took Fairfax north to Sunset Boulevard and went east. He pushed the speedometer up to 60. Hollywood traffic moved at its normal pace, but that wasn't their problem. They rode Code 3 to the Coronet Apartments. He saw why Carruthers looked down all the time.

A stone's throw from the building was the Chicago Confetti Club - Bugsy Siegel's joint. No amount of velvet could hide the smell of trouble.

The Coronet Apartments looked like they belonged on a different stretch of Sunset. A reminder of the boulevard's golden years. It was the kind of place where hope came to get lost. Lacey went up the front stairs, through a Spanish courtyard with a fountain, and inside. He rode the elevator to the top and knocked at apartment 412. There was no answer so he tried again.

'Hold your horses.'

The door swung open to show Carruthers in an undershirt and braces with a flannel pressed to his face.

'Rough night?'

He waved Lacey inside and padded over to the couch. He sat on the end of it and took turns with his coffee and cigarette. He removed the flannel and Lacey saw that his eye was purple. 

'What did you get up to?'

'Got caught Downtown,' he said. 'Have fun pouring the pork to the Hartsfield dame?'

Lacey didn't blink, holding his ground. 'Time of my life.'

He laughed. It was the first time he saw him laugh. It didn't crack his face in two. 'That's the spirit, kid. What time is it?'

'11 o'clock.'

'Damn,' he said. 'What'd Flowers say?'

'He wants us at the Farmer's Market. There's been another one.'

‘The same guy?'

Lacey told him about the girl, why he thought it looked staged, and the phone call. Carruthers listened and smoked the cigarette down to the filter and lit another.

'Why's he calling you?'

'He's been watching us,' Lacey said. 'He knew about Flores. Said I know what picture he's painting.'

'Picture of what?'

'The girls, they're part of it. He wants us to see something in them. But I don't know what.'

'I'll grab my coat.'

The phone rang and Carruthers answered it. Judging from his hunched shoulders, it was Flowers. There might've been a grilling for a good minute or two, but then he started to talk. He frowned with thought, then his eyes lit up.

'They found her ration book,' he said. 'Sabella's apartment's off Hollywood & Ivar. Let me put something on.'