Dear Irene, Page 18

  There was one exception. A woman named Maggie Robinson had transferred with the Olympus group. Her only child, Robert Robinson, would be fifty-four, but hadn’t called the police or the newspaper.

  “Maybe he didn’t scare as easily as the others,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Frank was concentrating on writing down social security numbers; although it would take a little time, with that information, he could probably find any of the women who were still alive. “This information is almost fifty years old. Robinson could have moved out of the area. He could have died when he was forty. There are lots of possibilities.”

  I looked over his shoulder and noticed that even if they didn’t match the list, Frank noted the women’s social security numbers. “We don’t want to be too cocky about this connection through the Olympus Child Care Center,” he said. “Things could change. Maybe his next victim will be someone younger or older than fifty-four.”

  * * *

  WE THANKED HOBSON Devoe and let him guide us out of the building.

  “You’ll have to come back and visit the museum sometime,” he said as we were leaving.

  “I’d like that,” I told him. “And someday I’d like to sit down with you and Austin Woods and eavesdrop while you reminisce about Las Piernas.”

  He laughed. “You’d fall asleep faster than Austin does at that old desk of his.”

  “One other thing,” Frank said, “if you don’t mind my asking, is there a story behind your name?”

  “Devoe?” The old man smiled mischievously. “Oh, you must mean Hobson. Well, yes. I am my parents’ youngest child. They had six girls before me. When my mother went into labor with me, my father told her he wanted a boy this time. She said he could have Hobson’s choice.”

  * * *

  I LOOKED OVER my notes as we walked to the car, reading off the names of the seven women who were on both lists.

  “You still have some time this morning?” I asked.

  Frank looked at his watch. “Not much. I want to get something set up for keeping an eye on anyone he might be after. And I’ve got an appointment with the Coast Guard about Havens’ boat. They thought they might have more information for me today.”

  I flipped back to the names of people who had called into the paper or the police. “Don Edgerton, Howard Parker and Justin Davis. Those match up with the Mercury records for children’s names. Plus this Robert Robinson.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to track him down.”

  “I’ll go to the morgue when I get back to the paper, Frank. I want to see if I can dig up some stories about this incident at the child care center.”

  “Good. I need to talk to the other three soon, though. I think we’re going to need to divide the paper’s interests from the department’s on this one. What if Pete and I talk to them, and you interview them on your own, provided they’re willing to talk to the paper?”

  I considered objecting, but some intuition told me that it was more important to find out what had happened at the Olympus Child Care Center. I went along with his suggestion because I had a strong feeling that the key to understanding Thanatos was probably waiting for me back at the paper.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that was waiting for me.

  19

  Dear Cassandra,

  Did you enjoy the Christmas present? Truly, I am sorry that I cannot continue to demonstrate my power, but there is a purpose to which I must remain faithful. You have tempted me, and I have allowed myself to be distracted—but no more! Only when Nemesis is satisfied will I pursue my own heart’s desire.

  Time has softened the heads of my tormentors. There are so few left for me. They drink from the River Lethe, but justice is due all the same.

  Do you feel it, Cassandra? Yes, I know you do. Our time together draws near, and you are a little afraid. Your feeble attempts to protect yourself amuse me. Cerberus will be no obstacle. One cannot escape one’s destiny. I am yours.

  Icarus will be the next to die.

  Your beloved,

  Thanatos

  “Postmarked from the airport,” I said absently to John. I was trying to force myself to calm down by studying notes he had scrawled on the dryboard near his desk. I had been standing there for several minutes, but to this day, I can’t tell you what any of them said about plans for the next edition of the Express. John cleared his throat as he finished reading the letter, and I turned to face him.

  “The airport, huh?” he said. “I guess that makes sense for Icarus. Better call your sweetums and tell him to advise the folks on your list not to get on any airplanes.”

  I ignored the gibe and told him I’d call Frank.

  “The River Lethe,” he said, frowning. “Something to do with the dead, right?”

  “Yes. The river of forgetfulness. The shades drink from it before passing into the kingdom of the dead.”

  “Hades?”

  “Or Tartarus, depending on who’s telling the tale. Drinking from Lethe brought a kind of oblivion, made those who drank from it forget all that they were before they died.”

  “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 Car
e 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 in fisticuffs.” 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 goaltending 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—Parke
r 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?”