Exploit of Death

SIX

BY THE MIDDLE of Monday morning, Hackett and Higgins were talking to Joseph Alisio and his wife in their home. It was an old house in a once very fashionable area of Hollywood and still a good residential area, Outpost Drive. Some of the furniture looked like valuable antiques. Alisio was in the main executive office of a big chain of markets. He looked like his brother, a small man with a big nose and a bald head. His wife was a fat motherly-looking woman. They had both reacted to the news about Carlo with more incredulity than grief.

"There's just no sense to it at all," said Alisio, rubbing his naked bald head. "Of course we were upset when the hospital called last night. Carl had seemed to be a lot better the last week or so, but the doctor had told us it was just a temporary state of remission. But this-it doesn't seem possible. Anything that could happen in a hospital."

His wife said, "With so many there-"

"Just who had been to see him?" asked Higgins. "When did everybody leave?"

Alisio said promptly, "We got there about two o'clock and I think it was just after four we left, wasn't it, Amy?"

She nodded. "We were having some friends in for dinner. I'd left the roast on but there were still things to do. Ruby and Arthur came just after we got there. That's my nephew and his wife, and their daughter and her husband came just a while later. Then Randy and Rosa and Bill came-"

"That's my sister Rosa, Randy's mother-the Nicollettis-and then I think about three o'clock my brother Dan and his wife, Selma, and their two girls dropped by. It's a little drive for them from Long Beach, but we're a pretty close family-we thought a lot of Carl." Alisio took off his glasses to polish them with a handkerchief. "My God. A thing like this. Some lunatic-and in the hospital-it's just senseless. Dan and Selma hadn't got up the Sunday before, Carl was so glad to see them-and Randy. Randy was his favorite nephew. That's our sister Rosa's son. She's our youngest sister-baby of the family-and later on some old friends of Carl's came by, Jeanette and Paul De Angelo."

"You were all in and out of his room most of the afternoon?" asked Hackett.

"Yes, that's right. Just as usual. There wasn't space for more than three of four visitors at once. We'd go down to sit in the little lounge and then take turns going in to Carl."

"Did either of the other two patients ever have any visitors?"

"No, they never seem to. I guess they're so far gone they wouldn't realize if anyone was there or not. I don't know if they've got any families."

"But the other patients in the wing had visitors," said J Higgins.

"Oh, yes. There were people coming and going most of the time, but of course we didn't know any of them. There were people we'd seen there before, I suppose seeing patients who'd been there as long as Carl had, but we wouldn't know their names. But who in God's name would want to do a thing like that? I can't take it in. It's just insane. Just insane."

There had been nurses going around, naturally, and a couple of doctors, all the nurses and aides at the station in the hall. But Alisio was firm that the family were the only ones who had been in Carlo Alisio's room until they left.

"Who was the last to leave? Do you remember?" asked Hackett.

He said at once, "I think it would be either Randy or Rosa and Bill. They were still there when Amy and I left. Everybody else had gone. But, my God-how such a thing could've happened-it must've been some lunatic, doing a thing like that, but in a hospital with so many people around like Amy says-" He supplied names readily. Randy Nicolletti and his parents. His niece Ruby and her husband, Arthur Overman. The De Angelos-his brother Dan and his daughter, Kathy Penner.

"And we'll have to look at all the employees," said Higgins back in the car. "What a hell of a job, Art. We'll have to talk to all the family."

When they got back to the office to parcel out the names and addresses, Grace and Galeano had gone over to the hospital to start talking to the staff. This was going to pose some legwork with a vengeance. They would have to get the names of all the patients on that floor, try to find out who in their visitors had been, when they'd been there, and talk to everybody on the hospital staff with any reason to be in that wing. And this looked like the irrational thing, but a good many people with some mental quirk were walking around looking as sane as anybody else. That kind of thing wasn't always plain to see.

Landers looked at the list of names and addresses and sighed. "Have to talk to all the family. Somebody may have noticed something. The last ones to leave." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "The time seems a little tight. That doctor thought he'd probably been killed between four and four-thirty- "

"And just about then," said Higgins, "all the visitors were leaving and the nurses getting the patients ready to have dinner in an hour or so. Hell, anybody could've wandered into that room without being noticed, and it wouldn't have taken two minutes to kill the old man-"

"Well, you know, George," said Glasser ruminatively, "hospitals these days-there aren't the same standards there used to be. They hire a lot of their lower-echelon people from the immigrants coming in, people who don't know English-willing to take menial jobs at lower pay. Besides all the nurses and aides and orderlies, there'll be the cleanup people and kitchen staff-all sorts of people. I know the immigrants are supposed to be screened, but who knows what could slip through?"

"Lunatics," said Hackett. "Well, we'll sort out who saw him last, if they noticed anything. Anybody coming into the room or just outside when they left."

They divided up the names and started out. Hackett drew the Nicollettis and went down the hall to the men's room before he headed for the elevator. When he passed the door to Robbery-Homicide again, Sergeant Lake called his name and he turned in. "Iady asking to see you," said Lake.

Alongside the switchboard was a girl about twenty-two, a very pretty blond girl with a beautiful figure. She was smartly dressed in a blue sundress and high-heeled white sandals, with a big white handbag. She said, "I wanted to talk to the officer who arrested my husband. Is that you? I'm Stella Davies."

"That's right, Mrs. Davies. I'm Sergeant Hackett." He took her into the office and gave her the chair beside his desk.

She said drearily, "I wanted to ask you, you'd know about it, I guess. What Ricky might get."

"Well, it's a first count on him and he's got a good record. I don't know, but it's probable the D.A. would accept a plea bargain. He might get sent up for a year and get probation."

"I see," she said. "Thanks for telling me. Of course he was an awful fool for doing that, but I've got a sort of feeling it was partly my fault, too. I should've been alot more careful about expenses. Neither of us had ever had to budget very tight, if you see what I mean. I'd been giving Mother forty a week to help pay for groceries, but she owns the house and I wasn't used to paying rent, and neither was Ricky. And I guess we just thought we could go out and get whatever we wanted. I didn't have any idea those credit cards had gone so high, but it's just too easy to say charge it and give the account number." She accepted a cigarette I and a light apathetically. "I really didn't have to pay forty dollars for this dress."

"He told you how worried he'd been," said Hackett.

"I let him keep track of everything. I just hadn't any idea."

"Well, maybe it's been a lesson for both of you."

She said, emphatically, "It sure has been, Sergeant. And I guess I'll feel guilty the rest of my life. It's partly my fault Ricky'll be getting a prison record-but maybe it won't be so bad at that. I talked to his boss this morning, Mr. Willard, and he's always liked Ricky and he said he'll let him have the job back afterward. We'll both just try to use more sense and do better." She stood up. "Thanks, Sergeant. I'll be moving back in with Mother and try to save up all I can so we'll have a little backlog when he gets out, and we'll both watch it. And I'm going to get rid of those credit cards," she added vigorously. "They just make it too easy."

Hackett grinned to himself, following her out. Maybe it had been the necessary lesson for both of them. Sometimes the stupid kids grew up a little and got some sense.

MENDOZA AND LANDERS had talked to the Overmans in Pasadena and Dan Alisio and his family in Long Beach, stopped for lunch on the way back and found Mrs. Rosa Nicolletti at home in West Hollywood. They had some idea now who had been at the hospital at what time. Mrs. Nicolletti said her husband was at work, he owned a sporting goods store in Santa Monica. Joe had called to tell her what the police said about Carl and she just couldn't believe it, it must have been a crazy person. She was better-looking then her brothers, with graying black hair and a figure slightly too plump.

"What time did you leave the hospital?" asked Mendoza. "Was anyone else with your brother then?"

"Well, as I recall we left together. Bill and I and Randy. Mary's expecting a baby and she hasn't been feeling too good, the doctor says she has to take it easy, that's Randy's wife-so she didn't come. It was about a quarter past four, and they like all the visitors to be out by around four-thirty, they bring the dinners around a little after five. I think we left together. No, I'm wrong, but it came to the same thing-Randy left his cigarettes in Carl's room and went back to get them, and we all went down to the elevator together. Randy's all broken up about Carl. He was Carl's favorite nephew. They thought a lot of each other."

"Your brother didn't have any family of his own?"

"No, he and Annie never had any children. They were sorry about it. It was a shame because Carl did a little better than the rest of us, in a money way I mean. Not that he was awfully rich, but he built that drugstore into a good business, he was a pharmacist, you know, and I guess he had a nice savings account. He was always a great one to save and watch the pennies. Oh, dear God," she said suddenly. "We knew he was dying-he was the oldest of the family-the first to go. But to have it happen such a way-"

She told them where to find her son Randy. He worked at a big tax-accountant's office in Glendale. There they talked to him at his desk in a big communal office on the third floor of a new high-rise building. He was a good-looking dark young man about thirty, and he said wretchedly, "I feel terrible about Uncle Carl. I nearly didn't come to work. And when Dad called about noon-Oh, hell, I couldn't believe it-to think of-Well, that's right, I guess Mother and Dad and I were the last ones to leave. I went back after my cigarettes and came back out and-no, I didn't notice anybody in particular near the door. There were quite a few people in the hall, the elevator was crowded. Yes, Uncle Carl was alone in the room then, except for the other two patients."

What with all the driving, they'd spent the whole day finding out that much and it still looked shapeless. Anybody could have gone into that hospital room between four-fifteen and five o'clock when Alisio was found dead. They drove back downtown to Parker Center nearly in silence. When they came into the office, only Hackett was there, and he was on the phone. He was looking amused, and when he put the phone down minutes later he said, "The things that happen. That was that Peabody woman from the Social Services Department. You'll be interested to hear that when the Health Department went to look at Ben Leach's house they found a hundred and four thousand dollars in cash hidden away at the back of a closet."

" Maravilloso," said Mendoza. "So the county won't be paying for his board at a nursing home."

"The court will appoint a conservator and it'll probably take care of him the rest of his life. It's funny," said Hackett, starting to laugh again. "People-those young Davies. There doesn't seem to be any happy medium between the ones who throw it away and the misers. What have you picked up?"

"We've sorted out who saw him last," said Mendoza. "And damn it, it's still all up in the air. My next thought, we take a good look at the hospital staff-at backgrounds-something suggestive may show. Hell, there must be a couple of hundred people on that staff-more-and anybody in a uniform could saunter down that hall without anybody paying any attention-and we haven't talked to those nurses on this shift again. Damnation. We'll be doing some overtime tonight."

THE OFFBEAT 0NE at the hospital took up time. There were a lot of people to talk to, to question. Palliser was off on Monday, Grace on Tuesday. Even with Glasser back they were shorthanded. And with all the answers they got, it was still a shapeless thing. All the comings and goings-anybody at all could have gone in and smothered the old man. Nobody had seen anything, anybody out of the ordinary. It was just a lot of tiresome legwork for nothing.

Galeano and Higgins landed back at the office about three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon and found that the autopsy report on Rose Eberhart had just come in, and also a report from the lab. Galeano looked them over. She had, of course, died of a fractured skull, between six and midnight Friday night. They kicked it around a little and looked at the photographs.

"That table by the door," said Galeano. "There was just a smidgen of blood on it. She wouldn't have bled much when she fell."

"Got knocked down," amended Higgins. "By these shots, she was a good-sized woman and she must've hit with some force to do herself that much damage, Nick. What it adds up to is, with the open door, she was talking to somebody in the hall, somebody she wasn't going to let in, and the somebody knocked her over backwards. A sudden violent argument over something? And the only thing you've turned up about any little trouble she'd had lately was-"

"This Arvin woman. Not sounding like much of anything," said Galeano. "Some woman she'd worked with. Hadn't seen in a while, and ran into at the corner market."

"And no lead on locating her," said Higgins.

"Well, I had a thought or two," said Galeano. "Jase always saying he's got a simple mind. I've got a fairly simple mind, too, and I thought of the phone book first. But if Eberhart hadn't seen her in a while and then met her again just recently, it could say that the woman had just moved into that area recently, too. A corner market, not a big supermart. It sounds like a place they'd both walk to. A local independent store-handy to where they both lived. And if she'd just moved, she wouldn't be in the phone book. She could also have an unlisted number. A lot of women living alone do."

"True," said Higgins. He massaged his jaw thoughtfully. "We can give it a try."

"That's what I thought," said Galeano. He looked in the phone book for Central L.A. and there were only five Arvins-four more who spelled it with a y. None lived any closer to the Echo Park area than Alhambra, City Terrace, Monterey Park, Lincoln Heights. He dialed the information operator, introduced himself, invited her to call back to verify that she was really talking to police.

"I'm looking for an Arvin- I'm not sure just how it's spelled. Somewhere in the downtown area. The number may have just been changed to that name or it may be unlisted. No, I don't have any first name."

"You don't want the ones listed in the Central book, sir?"

She sounded like an intelligent girl..

"Anything else you've got, please."

"Just a moment sir. There's an unlisted number, Linda Arvin, on Cadillac Avenue."

"I don't think that's it."

"A J. Arvin, Durango Avenue. Oliver Arvin, Langford Street-that's just been listed."

"Keep going," said Galeano.

"Myra Arvin, Santa Ynez Street-that's a new listing too. There's a D. Arvin on-"

"O.K., thanks. If I want that I'll get back to you." Galeano put the phone down.

"Bingo, maybe," he said told Higgins. "Santa Ynez. That's right in the middle of that area. Let's go take a look."

They took his Ford and after a little hunt found the address. Santa Ynez was an old narrow street in that old residential area, and the address was a small apartment house dating back to the twenties. In the little uncarpeted lobby, they found Myra Arvin listed, by the mailbox, in apartment 4-B, upstairs. They climbed worn old wooden stairs and found the door. It was the right front apartment. Galeano pushed the bell. In a moment the door was opened by a short stout woman with suspiciously black hair and snapping black eyes, a sallow complexion, innocent of any makeup. She was wearing a flowered cotton houserobe and ancient bedroom slippers. Galeano showed her the badge and she stared at it.

"And what would the police want with me?" she asked sharply.

"Do you know Mrs. Rose Eberhart, Mrs. Arvin?" asked Higgins.

Her mouth went tight and she looked very angry. "For the Lord's sake, has that damned woman sicked the police on me? That's just like her nerve! I don't know what the police would have to do with it, if anybody's got reason to call the police it was me, and I'm not sorry I knocked her down either. Her trying to tell me that lie about Bert! She had it coming. I'll never see that fifty bucks again, might as well forget it."

Galeano said gently, "I think you'd better let us in, ma'am." She marched across the room and plumped herself down on the couch, and Galeano and Higgins took the couple of chairs opposite. This was a typical furnished apartment, nondescript furniture, a T.V. in one corner, glimpse into a kitchen at one side, a bedroom at the other.

Galeano said, "Suppose you tell us your side of the story, Mrs. Arvin."

She lit a cigarette with an angry snap of the lighter. "I suppose she's claiming that I tried to rob her or swindle her or something. And I thought she was a nice woman when I first knew her. You bet I'll tell you my side of the story, and if I can't prove it, she can't prove that damn lie about Bert."

"When did you first know her, Mrs. Arvin?"

"When I had that job at McClintock's. I was only there six months, it was three years back. She worked there, too, I don't know if she still does." She was smoking rapidly. "Damn it, I was sorry for her then-the reason I loaned her the fifty. She was married to a drunk, she wanted shut of him, can't blame her for that-and she needed the money to hire a lawyer. She said it was just temporary till payday, and I let her have it. And she never paid it back. Well, I had reason enough for it going out of my mind for a while. Bert died of a heart attack about a month later-my husband-and it was a big shock to me. After the funeral I quit my job and moved up to Fresno to live with my son and his wife-them saying it was the sensible thing to do-all over me that snippy little girl was, and didn't I find out why, all they wanted was an unpaid housekeeper and baby-sitter!" She snorted. "I never did get on with that girl, anyway, don't understand what Roy sees in her." It was possible that there were quite a few people Myra Arvin would not get on with.

"When I remembered the money, I wrote Rose at the restaurant, I didn't know her address, but I never got an answer, and I know she must've got the letter. I was mad about it but there wasn't anything I could do up there, and I don't know why I stuck it out as long as I did, but I finally had it with that girl and her two spoiled brats, and I came back down here a couple of weeks ago-found this apartment got a job at Denny's-the one on Santa Monica, I'm on the night shift-and when I got settled I was going up to McClintock's, see if Rose was still there, only I ran right into her at that little market on the corner. I didn't know she lived around here. So I asked her about the fifty and she tried to put over this damn lie. She said she paid it back, she gave it to Bert when he came to pick me up one night at the restaurant. She said I was back getting my coat, and Bert thanked her and put it in his pocket. I ask you!"

"You didn't believe her?" asked Galeano. I

"Listen," she said, "I was married to Bert Arvin for thirty-two years. You think I didn't have him trained to hand over all the money to me? He wasn't just so smart about handling money and I'm a good manager, I always handled all the money. He wouldn't have held it out on me. And anyway, she knew he was dead and couldn't speak up for himself-just a plain lie to get out of paying me back."

"You went. to see her about it again last Friday night?" asked Higgins.

"I sure did. I'd already had a couple of arguments with her. I'd looked up her address and found she lived just a couple of blocks away. I could use that money-just moving back here like I said-and I wasn't going to let her get away with it. I don't know what she told you, but I went there and she wouldn't let me in. She stood in the door and argued with me-said she wasn't going to pay the money twice-and I just got mad. I saw there wasn't one damn thing I could do about it, I couldn't prove she never paid Bert, but I know she hadn't. And finally I just gave her a shove, I was damn mad, and I guess I caught her off balance and she fell down-and I can't say I'm sorry. I haven't been near her since. I don't care what she told you."

"She didn't tell us anything, Mrs. Arvin," said Higgins.

"She's dead. She hit her head when she fell down and fractured her skull."

She stared at him with mouth open, and her complexion went muddy gray. "You mean when I pushed her-you mean-Oh, my God-my God-I never meant to hurt her any way-Oh, my God."

Galeano said, "I'm afraid you'll have to come downtown with us."

"You're arresting me for murder-for killing her? I never meant-"

"Well, it won't amount to that," said Higgins. The charge would probably be involuntary manslaughter and she wouldn't serve much time.

"Oh, my God," she said dully. "Can I go get dressed? I can't go anywhere like this." They didn't think she'd try to cut her throat, alone in the bathroom; she wasn't the type, so they let her go.

Galeano lit a cigarette. "The poor henpecked husband," he said. "Seeing a chance to keep a little cash for himself."

"I wonder what he did with it," said Higgins.

"Maybe blew it on a more congenial female," said Galeano.

They were never to know that two and a half years ago Mrs. Amelia Brown, moving into a cheaper apartment on West Adams Street, had with surprise and gratification discovered two twenties and a ten in an envelope at the back of the closet shelf in the bedroom. She had decided not to mention it to the manager. It was her business. It had meant a few little extra luxuries that month, and a really nice birthday present for her oldest granddaughter.

GALLEANO GOT Home to the little house in Studio City at six-thirty. It had been murderously hot again today. He looked at the house as he turned into the drive and thought again that it could stand a coat of paint, but with the baby coming-maybe next year they could afford it. Marta hadn't heard him drive in. She was in the backyard, sitting on the grass playing with the little gray tabby kitten she'd got from the people down the street. He stood for a moment looking at her fondly, his darling Marta, with the tawny blond hair and dark eyes. She wasn't showing the baby much; it was due in March. She had on a green sundress and she was laughing down at the kitten. It would be funny if the baby should arrive on their first wedding anniversary. It was going to be Anthony for his father or Christine for her mother.

"Nick, I did not hear you come in." She scrambled up and came running to him and he kissed her soundly. "I was just thinking, I wish I could afford a better house for us."

She laughed. "But you do not know how rich it makes me feel to own a whole house, with a nice yard to make a garden?" She'd never lose her little German accent. She'd had a rough time for a while-her first husband killing himself, and losing the baby. He hoped he could make it all up to her from now on. "You look tired, Liebchen. Come in and sit down, I have dinner nearly ready."

That night about eight-thirty, Patrolman Manuel Gonzales was peacefully cruising on his regular tour in Hollywood. He'd turned on to Vermont for the second time and presently came to the L.A.C.C. campus. Several of the buildings were lit up-for evening classes probably, he thought-and there were cars in the parking lot. Just doing the routine, he turned in and drove around there. He had nine A.P.B.'s posted on the squad's dashboard, plate numbers to look for. He didn't know why the front-office boys were after them, it could be anything from a stolen car to a heist suspect to murder. But that wasn't his business. He drove slowly around the lot, looking casually at plate numbers, and suddenly, down at the end of the lot, he spotted one. He braked and checked the number with the posted A.P.B. They matched. A two-year-old Chrysler Newport, navy-blue, and

IT WAS SCHENKE'S night off. Piggott and Conway got sent out once, early, to a heist at a pharmacy on Sixth. There wasn't a decent description of the heister to be had, the owner was the only witness and he was too shook to say what color the man had been. They came back to the office and Piggott started to type the report. And then Hollywood Division called to say that the A.P.B. had turned up a car they wanted. Neither of them knew much about Edna Holzer, but enough to know that it probably wouldn't be any use to stake out the car and wait for somebody to come back, the car belonged to a missing woman. Conway called the police garage and asked for somebody to go up there and tow it in for lab examination. He supposed there wasn't any hurry about that and didn't bother to call the skeleton night crew at the lab.

Piggott hadn't finished the report when they got another call to another heist. There were five witnesses to this one and all good witnesses. It was a liquor store and both owners had been there with three old friends, just about to start a friendly game of draw in the back office after the store was closed. They were all older men who had seen military service and didn't scare easily. They hadn't wanted anybody to get hurt so they hadn't put up a fight, and the owners had only left enough cash in the register to start with change tomorrow; he'd only got about twenty bucks. But they all described him graphically. A Negro about twenty-five, six feet, small mustache, dark pants and yellow shirt, no discernible accent. They all agreed on the gun-a revolver, either a. 38 or. 45, probably a Colt.

"This will give the day watch some legwork," said Piggott. On a lot of the recent heists, there wasn't much to do. When there was a good description, there was. They looked in Records for men who matched the description, went and looked for them, brought them in for questioning. It could be tedious and largely futile, but once in a while they hit a jackpot.

The phone rang and Conway picked it up. "Say, where have you been? I've been trying to get you for an hour. This is Slattery down at the garage."

"We've been on a call. Did that car get brought in?"

"Well, that's what I'm calling about. I went up to Hollywood to get it, and you might have warned me, for God's sake, you gave me the hell of a shock. I mean, for God's sake, I've seen bodies before-I was two years in 'Nam-but I wasn't expecting it."

"A body?" said Conway.

"Yeah, in the back seat of this Chrysler. It's a woman."

"Well, surprise, surprise," said Conway. "I suppose the Hollywood man just checked the plate. Just leave it alone, I'll see if I can get the lab out." He called and somebody named Steiner said through a yawn that they'd get on it. "You want the works-pictures and all? O.K. You boys do pick the goddamndest time to find corpses."

"I TOLD YOU so," said Carey. He and Mendoza stood in the cold room down at the morgue looking at the body in its tray. Edna Holzer had probably been an attractive woman, but you wouldn't know it now. She'd been stripped and her clothes sent up to the lab, and nothing had been done to the body pending the autopsy. There were ugly cyanosed stains on her throat and shoulders and her face was twisted into a grimace.

"And I don't need an autopsy to know she was strangled," added Carey. "Knocked around a little first. The doctors will say if she's been raped."

"And not very long after she left the hospital on Saturday night," said Mendoza. "There wouldn't have been much traffic at that hour along the couple of blocks before she'd hit the freeway, but-"

"But," said Carey, "woman driving alone at night, it would've been dark for about half an hour, she'd automatically keep the car doors locked. Even if she caught a light, how could anybody have jumped her'? I suppose he could've been waiting in the parking lot-grabbed her when she came back to the car. It's about the only way it could've happened. She wasn't planning to stop anywhere between there and home."

"?Condenacion! " said Mendoza, brushing violently at his mustache. "We've got a hell of a lot too much on hand already, with that damned hospital staff to delve into, and another homicide, and that new heist. All we need is something like this. Of course, the lab might pick up something on the car. Well, no rest for the wicked, as Art says. We'll have to work it."

They drove up to Del Mar Avenue in Hollywood in the Ferrari. The Holzer house was a comfortable old Spanish place with a manicured lawn in front. Frances Holzer was home and Carey broke the news to her.

She was a pretty girl about twenty-five with brown hair, a fair complexion, and hazel eyes. She had looked a little haggard already, and she broke down and wept for quite a while. They gave her time. Finally, she sat up and blew her nose and said in a shaking voice, "I knew she was dead-I just knew it. I knew she had to be when she didn't come home. I said to her when she left that night, I wished she wouldn't go, I said she could go on Sunday-in daylight. That's right downtown-that hospital. Not a good part of town. But she said there was that deposition to do in the morning, and she wanted to wash her hair in the afternoon. Maybe I had a premonition. I just couldn't go to work all week, I called in sick. I knew she'd never come home again."

"Would she have had much money with her, Miss Holzer?" asked Mendoza.

"No, just a few dollars. But all her credit cards-I did have enough sense to call and put a stop on those. Just in case-in case-"

Mendoza made a mental note to find out which cards they were, ask the central clearing office to notify them on the outside chance that somebody might try to use those accounts.

"Oh, my God, I've got to call Mona-my sister. They've been just frantic too, but they live in Bakersfield and couldn't come-they'll have to now."

"Was she careful about keeping the car doors locked?" asked Carey.

She gave them a wild look and began to cry again. "But that's why I'd been so worried about her going out alone at night-I begged her not to go-she said, the freeway nearly all the way-"

They gave her another minute while she sobbed. "What do you mean, Miss Holzer?" asked Mendoza.

"The l-l-lock on the right front door was b-b-broken. They had to send for a part. It wasn't going to be fixed until next week. Oh, my God, I'd better call Mona right away-"

Mendoza and Carey looked at each other. Such a simple explanation when you knew.

ON WEDNESDAY, just before noon, the autopsy and lab report on Verna Coffey arrived at about the same time. Palliser was alone in the Robbery-Homicide office. He'd been delegated to write the latest report on the Alisio case. It was Hackett's day off and everybody else was over at the hospital.

There wasn't much in the autopsy report. She'd been beaten to death and, from the lab report, apparently by the hammer left beside her. There was blood, hair, and brain tissue on that. There hadn't been any readable prints on the hammer, but they had picked up quite a few around the little apartment. Most of them were hers. There were nine others belonging to three different people, probably, unknown to Records-very likely the rest of the Coffey family. And somebody ought to get their prints for comparison. There had also been two good prints identified as those of Toby Wells-record appended. Palliser sat up in surprise, but when he had read the attached Xerox copy, his interest faded a little. It wasn't much of a pedigree-an arrest for theft from an expensive men's clothing store a couple of years back. Disposition, goods paid for and the court ordered a year's probation. The only reason he'd been printed and got into Records was that it was a technical felony, theft of goods valued at more than a hundred dollars. It was natural enough that his prints should be there. He was Verna Coffey's grandson. They had been picked up from the side of the washbowl in the bathroom, and the family had all been there the Sunday before the murder. They could easily have stayed there for six days without getting smudged. But they'd talk to him and find out where he'd been that Friday night.

The phone rang and he picked it up, still looking at the report.

"Robbery-Homicide, Sergeant Palliser."

"Say," said Duke at the lab. "Did you get that report yet? Good. I meant to put a note in with it. We've been kind of busy and it slipped my mind. I'll tell you what, Palliser, if you ever pick up a good solid suspect on this Coffey homicide, you bring all his shoes along to us. We'll maybe give you some beautiful scientific evidence."

"Shoes," said Palliser blankly. "Why?"

Duke laughed. "Just don't forget it. We all have our professional secrets, Palliser."

On Thursday afternoon, the tedious checking into backgrounds of all the employees at the hospital turned up something interesting, and Grace and Galeano brought it to Mendoza rather with the air of two well-trained retrievers fetching in a bird that had been lost in the underbrush.

"?Vaya por Dios! " said Mendoza, looking at the record. One Alfredo Diaz, employed as a chef in the hospital kitchen, had turned out to be a former mental patient at the Norwalk State Hospital. He had been released after a couple of years there, three years ago. One of the doctors on the hospital board had got him the job. "We just talked to that one," said Grace, "and he nearly bit our heads off."

"Time is money, Jase. We interrupted his schedule," said Galeano. "All these people are growing a prejudice for the damn suspicious fuzz, Lieutenant. They were excited over the murder, but when we came nosing around suspecting that somebody at the hospital did it-"

"Medical people," said Grace, "are all temperamental. Supposed to be all efficient and scientific but they're so used to being in charge of everything they're apt to have a tantrum when they're not-if you take me." Grace might know. His father was the chief of the Gynecology Department at the General Hospital.

"Well, mental patients come all kinds like other people," said Mendoza. "One of the chefs-"

"I know," said Galeano. "That's the little stumbling block. He says he was in the basement kitchen fixing the dinners with everybody else. He never goes up to the wards-wasn't interested in the patients, and there seems to have been about forty other people there, but that cancels itself out in a way. If he was gone for fifteen minutes-said he was back in the john-would anybody have noticed?"

"What in hell is one like that doing on a hospital staff?"

"The doctor we riled-a Dr. Ackerwood-told us he'd got him the job as a favor for a friend of his, one of the psychiatrists at Norwalk-a Dr. Silverman."

"I'm not," said Mendoza, "constitutionally disposed to believe automatically anything a psychiatrist says, boys. I think at least half of them are a little bit touched themselves. But I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to hear what Silverman has to say about Diaz."

He saw Silverman on Friday morning at his private office out on Chapman Avenue in Fullerton, and was, grudgingly, favorably impressed. Silverman was fat, bald, friendly and not given to the six=dollar words.

"Well, the man has a low-normal I.Q., Lieutenant. He's a mildly schizoid personality, but I never detected any tendency to violence in the three years I was treating him. He had a great lack of self-confidence-understandable with his mentality, but it took the effect of suicidal impulses rather than outward aggression. As I had rather expected, when we found him a job he could perform satisfactorily, a mechanical job he could do by routine, he responded quite well. He's made a good adjustment." Silverman was academically interested in the homicide. "I don't know anything about it, Lieutenant, except what you've just told me, but from my experience with aberrations, I might hazard a guess that you should look for someone with a fixation about death-perhaps," he reflected, "a much-indulged son who had lost a beloved mother. I find it interesting, you know, that it is an Italian family. I presume Catholic. Yes. The er-symbolism. But I really think you needn't suspect Diaz. I never detected any violence there-any incipient aggression."

AND MENDOZA felt a little foolish about it-a little self-conscious. But he told the morgue to send Juliette up to Forest Lawn. God knew he could afford to pay for a simple funeral, but he wasn't sure why he felt obligated, and he thought vaguely as he had thought about another corpse a year or so ago, She fell among thieves. He wondered if Juliette had been Catholic; it was probable. He talked to Father Damian at St. Patrick's in Burbank, and the priest was sensible and practical. He held a brief graveside service. Alison attended that

"I know it's just a ceremony, but somehow I felt I ought to go"-and Mairi was there. Mairi was a very orthodox, traditional Catholic of the old school and for some reason she felt sentimental about Juliette. She said darkly, "‘Dying as a stranger in a strange land-and if you ask me, even if we don't know the ins and outs of it, that grandfather of hers must be a wicked old rogue."