Dear Irene ik-3 Page 18

  “So Thanatos is telling us that even if the victims have forgotten something — or forgotten him? — they are going to be punished all the same.”

  I nodded. “Nemesis is the goddess who represented divine vengeance.”

  “That leaves Cerberus,” he said. “The three-headed dog who guards the gates of Hades.”

  “I think Thanatos is telling me that our dogs aren’t going to stop him from getting to me.”

  He was silent. He seemed to be at a loss for words. It’s fairly remarkable to find John Walters in that state.

  “I’ll call Frank,” I said, and left his office.

  TALKING TO “MY sweetums” calmed me down. Frank appreciated the information, but didn’t have time to come by for the letter. He told me the department would send another detective to pick it up. He also said they would post someone at the airport and warn airport officials not to let anyone on our list get on a plane without talking to the LPPD first.

  I WENT DOWN to the morgue, which Wrigley has been trying (in vain) to get us to call the “library,” and asked for the reel for November 10, 1944. Since Devoe claimed that J.D. Anderson was a publicity hound, I hoped there would be a story about the transfer. With luck, there might also be some mention of the earlier child care center story.

  It took some searching, but sure enough, there was a small story about Mercury Aircraft transferring twenty-five war widows from the Los Angeles plant. Arrangements included housing and child care. “Each of these women was married to a man who made the greatest of sacrifices for this country. These women deserve our utmost care and concern,” J.D. was quoted as saying. No photos, no children’s names. The article closed by saying that Mercury was trying to help these women because they had faced special difficulties following the closure of the Olympus Child Care Center the previous spring.

  The previous spring. At least my search was narrowed down from “the war years.”

  I went back and asked the guy at the counter for March, April, May, and June of 1944. But no matter how much I grumbled or scowled, the assistant (I couldn’t bring myself to call him the librarian, but of course mortician isn’t the proper term, either) wouldn’t let me take more than seven reels at a time.

  I tried to keep my eyes from crossing as I scanned each page, afraid that the item was bound to be buried on a back page. After my fourth trip to the counter, some twenty issues into March, I suddenly came across something that made me shout “Eureka!” — startling the hell out of the assistant.

  WOMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER

  IN CHILD CARE CENTER TRAGEDY

  Pauline Grant, the child care worker who allegedly struck and killed an eight-year-old boy last week, has been taken into custody and will be charged with second-degree murder, a spokesman for the Los Angeles District Attorney said yesterday.

  Grant, who was supervising children playing at the Olympus Child Care Center, reportedly became infuriated when young Robert Robinson engaged in fisticuffs with her own child, who also attended the center. Grant is said to have given the Robinson child a blow which knocked him into a wall. The boy struck his head and lost consciousness. He was taken to Mercy Hospital, where he died shortly thereafter.

  The District Attorney notes that although the only witnesses to the event were other children, their accounts are consistent and are believed to be reliable.

  Olympus Child Care Center is owned and operated by Mercury Aircraft, and serves its workers. The center remains closed following the incident.

  Now I knew why we hadn’t heard from Robert Robinson: he had been dead for about fifty years. I couldn’t figure out why Maggie Robinson’s name was included among the transfers, though. Maybe she had another child. Or maybe J.D. Anderson felt sorry for her. I decided to ask Hobson Devoe about it; he might recall something more about her if I showed him the article.

  The article also said all of the witnesses had been children. I did some quick subtraction. At the time of Robert Robinson’s death, Alex Havens, Edna Blaylock, and Rosie Thayer would have been his same age — eight years old. Were they the witnesses?

  I briefly considered the possibility that Pauline Grant was Thanatos. But if her child was at the Olympus Center in 1944, by now she would probably be at least seventy years old. No woman — let alone a woman of seventy — had carried me from the couch to the bedroom that night.

  I wondered if her child was a boy. “Engaged infisticuffs.” Well, I did my share of fist-fighting in elementary school, but I had a professional attitude about being a tomboy.

  I had to look through a hell of a lot of microfilm, but I eventually found other articles. I learned that Pauline Grant had pleaded not guilty, and repeatedly denied that she had intended to kill the Robinson boy. Only Alex Havens and Edna Blaylock had taken the stand, but apparently they made calm and unflustered witnesses.

  As for Pauline Grant, she was sentenced to ten years in prison for manslaughter.

  I made copies of all the articles that tied in. Much to the relief of Mr. Seven-Reels-at-a-Time, I left the morgue.

  I had a terrific headache from looking at bright screens in a dark room by the time I walked back to my desk, but it didn’t last long. I had a feeling that ran right down to the marrow of my bones: I was getting closer to discovering Thanatos’ identity.

  I called Hobson Devoe and asked him about Maggie Robinson.

  “I don’t really remember her,” he said. “As I told you, I didn’t meet all of the women. I tend to remember only the ones who stayed with Mercury for a while. Maggie Robinson. Maggie Robinson.” He repeated the name a few times, as if chanting it would bring some image of her back to mind. “Her boy was the one who died, you say? A pity I can’t recall the details. But I’ll take another look at the records.”

  I thanked him and hung up. The phone wasn’t in the cradle two minutes when Frank called.

  “Good news,” he said. “I think we’ve finally frustrated Thanatos. Turns out Justin Davis has a small plane and was planning to go flying today. We stopped him and had someone look the plane over. Someone had tampered with it. I haven’t got all the details yet, but apparently it was rigged so that he would have crashed soon after becoming airborne.”

  “Thank God Mr. Davis didn’t fly his plane before I read my mail.”

  “Yeah. Thanatos’ luck may be changing. I can’t tell you how good it feels to be beating this bastard at his own game.” He didn’t have to tell me; I could hear it in his voice.

  “By the way, I’ve got good news, too.” I told him about Pauline Grant and what I had learned. “Let’s compare notes again tonight. For now, I’ll have to transfer you to Mark Baker so you can tell him about what happened at the airport — they’ll have my head on a platter if I try to cover the story myself.”

  I transferred the call and then made appointments to talk to Justin Davis, Don Edgerton, and Howard Parker. It was going to take up most of the rest of the day, but I didn’t want to delay seeing them. I’d be meeting with each of them later in the afternoon.

  I had a sense of drawing closer to my quarry. I remembered my old beagle, Blanche, and how she’d bay when she caught a scent. If I hadn’t been certain that my coworkers would peg me as an up-and-coming Zucchini Man, I probably would have bayed right there in the newsroom.

  I had a couple of hours before my first interview, so I used the time to write a piece on the possible connection between Thanatos’ activities and the Olympus Child Care Center case. I read it through a couple of times and filed it long before deadline.

  I looked at my copy of Thanatos’ last letter and smiled.

  “Your fate is linked to mine, all right, Thanatos. But you won’t believe what old Cassandra here envisions for your destiny.”

  Aah-whooooooooo.

  20

  AT JOHN’S INSISTENCE, Mark Baker came with me for the interviews. I wasn’t unhappy about it; I enjoy Mark’s company. Mark had a lot of work to do, but figured that talking to these three men fit in with most of it. Mark
is tall and broad-shouldered, so to avoid resting his chin on his knees in my Karmann Ghia, he offered to drive.

  As we made our way across town to our first stop, Howard Parker’s house, I filled Mark in on what I had learned from the microfilm.

  “Did I ever tell you that my mother worked in one of those aircraft plants?”

  “No, you didn’t. For Mercury?”

  “No. She worked for Lockheed. She worked there for years, just retired not too long ago. She started out on wing assembly. Being able to work in a factory was a big change for her; she had cleaned houses before that. She always said that if that war work hadn’t come along, she’d just be one more black woman working in a rich white gal’s kitchen. War plants paid a lot more than maid’s work, needless to say. Made a big difference to our family.”

  “Did your dad work there, too?”

  “No, he was in the military during the war years. After that, he went to work for the California Eagle. The Eagle and the Sentinel were L.A.’s African-American newspapers in those days. So now you know why I ended up studying journalism.”

  AS WE DROVE down Howard Parker’s street, Mark nodded toward a car parked near a jacaranda tree, about two doors down from Parker’s house. “Gee, two guys in suits sitting in a Plymouth on a weekday afternoon. Don’t suppose they could be the law, do you?”

  “You know those guys as well as I do. Reed Collins and Vince Adams. They go drinking with you at Banyon’s on Friday nights.”

  He laughed.

  When we pulled up in front of the house, Detective Collins got out of the car and walked up to greet us. “Hello, Irene. This guy have any ID?”

  “You’d like to forget who I am, Reed,” Mark said. “Like you want to forget that Kings game. So much for honest cops.”

  “Baker, you wound me.” Reed reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then handed Mark a ten-dollar bill.

  “Mr. Baker,” I said in mock-horror, “are you going to accept a gambling payoff from an officer of the law right here on a public sidewalk?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “To hell with that,” Reed said, walking away. “Ask him why he bet against the Kings.”

  At my narrowed gaze, Mark shrugged and said, “Edmonton had Grant Fuhr in goal. I can never bring myself to bet against him.”

  I have to admit that Mark’s bet was not too iffy. Fuhr’s goal tending often made the opposing team wonder why they bothered to put on their skates.

  HOWARD PARKER WAS a tall, thin man; he was so skinny, you had to wonder what the hell his belt was resting on. But his big brown eyes and easy smile gave him a pleasant face, and his handshake was firm.

  A grandfather’s clock chimed three o’clock as he ushered us into his living room. The furnishings were highly polished and old-fashioned. Lots of dark wood and soft fabric. Family photographs — Parker with a smiling, robust-looking woman; high school graduation pictures of two boys who appeared to be twins — covered a mantelpiece over a brick fireplace which had been painted white. But the house was quiet, as if none of these other people were home. There was a combination of neatness and stillness that gave it a museum-like quality, amplifying the ticking of the clock and the sounds of cupboards being opened as Parker busied himself in the kitchen.

  He came back out bearing a large silver tray ladened with a plate of store-bought cookies and three delicate china cups filled with coffee. He was nervous, and the cups rattled a little as he handed them to us. “Since my wife passed on, I’m afraid I don’t get to play the host very often,” he said, finally taking a seat. The overstuffed chair he sat in seemed to be in direct contrast with his own body shape.

  A widower’s house. Relatively recent and beloved, I thought. Mark was already gently asking the question.

  “About eight months ago,” Parker said. “Heart trouble.” He was a little misty-eyed for a moment.

  We expressed our condolences, and took turns getting him to talk a little about himself. He told us that he was a retired math teacher. “I’ve lived in Las Piernas since the day my mother transferred down here. I graduated from high school here, went to college here, met my wife here — worked here almost all my life. My twin boys were born and raised here. They decided to go away to college, though. I think they were half afraid they’d never leave Las Piernas if they didn’t do it to go to school. But they stayed together — they’re both at Cal, up in Berkeley.”

  “Mr. Parker, do you recall an incident at the Olympus Child Care Center, when a child about your age was injured?” I asked.

  “Injured! He died. Of course I remember it. I was eight years old. Wait a minute — do you think all of this killing has something to do with that?”

  “Can you think of any reason that it might?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s just that the child care center had something to do with Mercury Aircraft. And when the kid who was hurt died, we all got sent down here.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  “No, no. I was on the other side of the playground. But some of the other kids were right there — started screaming. That brought the rest of us running. Ambulance came and took him away. Robbie. That was his name. He died later.”

  “You knew Robbie?”

  He made a face. “Yes. I suppose you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I don’t have any fond memories of Robbie. He was a bully. A little bigger than the rest of us and mean. I was just as skinny then as I am now, and Robbie used to pick on us all the time.”

  “Us?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, any of us that he could intimidate. Jimmy, me, other kids. I don’t remember their names. Only Jimmy. What happened to Jimmy scared me so much, I had nightmares about it for years as a kid.”

  “What happened to Jimmy?” I asked. “I thought Robbie was the one who was killed.”

  He made a gesture of impatience. “Yes, Robbie was the one who was killed. But at the time, we all just thought he had a nasty crack on his head. He went into a coma and died, but that was later. It was the first time I had ever heard of anyone going into a coma, so I guess that part did scare me. I just saw him lying on the ground, all pale and quiet before the ambulance came, but he was still alive then.”

  “So who is Jimmy?” Mark asked.

  “Jimmy Grant. We were friends. His mother was the one they arrested. That’s what scared me. It was just an accident, and all of a sudden, they took Mrs. Grant away and then they took Jimmy. As a kid, I remember being worried that someone would take my mother away, too. I was scared to death of it. I never saw Mrs. Grant or Jimmy after that. Next thing I know, the child care center is closed, and we moved.”

  I tried to imagine the impact those events would have had on Howard Parker as a young boy — a young boy who had already lost his father. To a child his age, the thought of losing his mother would be terrifying. Perhaps it would be terrifying to any child — I remember being inconsolable after seeing Bambi, years before my own mother died.

  “Did you know Jimmy’s mother, Pauline Grant?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Vaguely. I don’t really remember her as much as Jimmy.”

  “Did you ever hear from Jimmy after you moved here?” Mark asked.

  “No, I have no idea what became of him. I don’t even know who took him in. His relatives, I suppose.”

  “Did he have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, none that I remember.”

  “Is your mother still living?” I asked.

  Parker smiled. “Yes, she’s still here in Las Piernas. She’ll probably be able to tell you more than I can.” He gave us her name and number.

  We talked with him awhile about the three victims, none of whom he remembered clearly. We asked about other ideas he might have on Thanatos’ motives, but he had no suggestions. We gave him our cards and thanked him. After waving good-bye to Reed and Vince, we made our way to Justin Davis’s house.

  “If he’s telling the truth,” Mark said, “Parker doesn’t seem to h
ave been a witness to Pauline Grant hurting Robbie Robinson.”

  “No. But at least we learned the name of Pauline’s son.”

  “Oh, we learned a lot. But I was just thinking that Howard Parker may not be a target, since he couldn’t have been one of the ones that testified.”

  “Only two of them testified, Edna Blaylock and Alex Havens. But even though Rosie Thayer didn’t take the witness stand, she was killed. And he tried to kill the guy we’re on our way to see. So who knows what Thanatos is using for his criteria,” I said.

  “Yeah, you’re right. And besides, Thanatos said they drank from Lethe, so maybe Parker just doesn’t remember what role he might have played in it himself.”

  “Let’s hope that Justin Davis has a little clearer memory of it all.”

  21

  JUSTIN DAVIS LIVED in Mason Terrace, a gated community on the cliffs above the beach. The development was built in the early 1980s, a subdivision of what had once been a single parcel owned by one of Las Piernas’s older families. There were only fifteen houses in the entire development, but they were so huge that they still ended up being somewhat crowded together. The gatehouse had lost its human gatekeeper long ago, replaced by a fancy electronic security system. We entered a code that Davis had given us when we set up the appointment; he had told us it could only be used once. We were buzzed through a double set of gates. The gates were apparently designed to prevent a second car from riding through on another car’s tail without clearance.

  He had one of the choice lots, a little larger than most, on the staggered row that lined the cliff. The stark, white stucco house was built on lines drawn by an architect who apparently forgot to carry anything more than a T square that day. There was a patrol car out in front of it, which I’m sure must have thrilled the neighbors. The officers on duty seemed to be expecting us, and merely waved to us as we walked up the front steps.