Mark of Murder

FIFTEEN

Mendoza called Wilcox Street and set up an immediate date with Sergeant Nesbitt at the County Jail. Damn it, this turned the whole case upside down. The facts that Nestor had been an abortionist, had been cheating on his wife, didn't matter a damn; he hadn't been murdered for a personal reason; it had been just what it looked like, the break-in, the burglars finding him there, using the gun in panicky impulse. So the Nestor thing hadn't anything to do with the assauly on Art; he hadn't stumbled onto the personal killer there because there wasn't one. And there wasn't any way he could have stumbled onto these actual killers, either.

So, a hundred to one, the assault on Art had been the outside thing too. Because, to hell with the train wreck, Mendoza didn't see one like the Slasher setting up that faked accident-elementarily faked as it had been. If Art had stumbled onto the Slasher that night, the Slasher would probably have just yanked out his homemade knife and

… And, buying the detective-story plot, they'd wasted three days on that. Where to look now? Nowhere. They hadn't a clue as to where or when the first assault on Art had happened.

He said to Sergeant Lake, "If I'm not back when Mrs. Sheldon comes in, ask her to wait, will you?" He went downstairs to the lot and headed the Ferrari for North Broadway.

Wait a minute. Were there any leads? Even small ones. It could have been the way he'd outlined it to Palliser, a little gang of juvenile louts drifting the streets, jumping Art on impulse. In that case, a very small chance indeed that they could ever be identified, charged. But-the terminus a quo. He was all right when he left Mrs. Nestor's apartment on Kenmore. He'd meant perhaps to see the Elgers, see the Corliss woman, see the desk clerk, but they didn't know where he'd actually headed from Mrs. Nestor's. But Mendoza thought that Margaret Corliss was leveling with him now, and she'd denied again that Art had been to see her that night. All right. Mendoza was thinking again about Cliff Elger. None of these people had had anything to do with taking Nestor off, and it looked pretty farfetched that any of the rest of them could have had anything to do with the assault on Art; but Cliff Elger? That big boy, bigger than Art, who had the hair-trigger temper? Could he have got so mad at something Art said-about his wife, probably-that he struck that first violent blow, and found himself stuck with a badly injured cop? And with the reputation to preserve… Art attacked in the street. His heels scraping a blacktop street as he fell-but he hadn't fallen onto the blacktop, or there'd have been the same traces of asphalt and so on in the wound.

"I'm a fool," said Mendoza to himself suddenly, braking for a light. It was, when you thought about it, obvious. Whoever had struck that blow. Art standing at the curb or in the street-he could see it-car keys in his hand, ready to walk round the car to the driver's door. Either he'd been already facing someone, talking, or someone had spoken to him and he'd turned. And the blow struck-the violent blow-and he had fallen backward, feet sliding out from under him, and gone down hard on the broad, flat expanse of the car trunk. There wouldn't have been traces on the car, after the accident; he'd been wearing a hat.

That said a little more, but it wasn't any lead to who. Cliff Elger, roaring mad at something Art had said, following him down to the street, getting madder when he couldn't rouse Art's temper in return… Maybe. Normandie was a blacktop street.

So was the street Madge Corliss' apartment was on. So were a lot of streets-including Third and the side streets around there. Wait a minute again. If that little build-up about how it happened was so, didn't it say probably that the car had been parked along the curb, not diagonally? And that wasn't much help either, because on most streets in L.A. and Hollywood the street parking wasn't diagonal. You got that in a lot of towns around-Glendale, Pasadena, Beverly Hills-but not much here.

"Hell," said Mendoza, and parked, pocketed the keys, and walked up to the jail.

Sergeant Nesbitt was waiting for him at the top of the steps. "Lieutenant Mendoza? Nesbitt." He was a square, solid man about forty, with a square stolid face. "I understand you're going to claim my young punks on a murder rap. Well, glad to oblige. They're all under eighteen, though, you won't be getting the gas chamber for them."

"What's the story?" They went inside.

"Well, we've been having quite a little wave of break-ins up in my stamping ground. Drugstores, independent markets, dress shops, and so on. The cheaper stores. where the buildings are old and the locks not so good, you know. It's been mostly petty stuff, we figured it was juveniles-not much cash, and stuff they wouldn't get much for- I think myself some of it was stolen to give away to their girl friends, make them look big. You know. Cigarettes, liquor, clothes from the dress shops, and so on. Well, Saturday night a squad car touring out on Fountain spotted what looked like a flashlight in the rear of this drugstore on a corner, took a closer look, found the back door forced, and picked these three up in the stock room. They had an old Model A Ford sitting by the back door, half full of stuff they'd already piled in it." Nesbitt rummaged and produced his notebook. "One Michael Wills, Joe Lopez, George Kellerman. They're all from down around your part of town, and they've all been in a little trouble before. Wills was picked up and warned once for carrying a switchblade, and the other two have one count each of Grand Theft Auto-little joy riding, you know. Probation. Wills and Kellerman are seventeen, Lopez sixteen."

"Well, they've got into big trouble this time,” said Mendoza. "Who had the. 22?"

"Wills. I'd say he's the ringleader."

"O.K., let's go in and look at them."

Nesbitt told the desk man whom they wanted to see; in a few minutes they were let into one of the interrogation rooms, and the boys were brought in by a uniformed jailer.

Mendoza looked at them coldly, resignedly. They were about what he'd expected to see, from the black leather jackets and wide belts and dirty jeans to the expressions on their faces. And there was a lot of talk about it, from a lot of different people, and a lot of different solutions offered to cure the problem. It was a problem all right. They said, clean up the slums. A fine idea, but it wasn't going to cure the problem, because quite a lot of very respectable citizens-Luis Rodolfo Vicente Mendoza among others-had grown up in the slums. They said lack of discipline, which was a little more realistic, but it was theoretically a free country and you couldn't tell people how to bring up their kids. They said prejudice, they said inadequate public schools. What nobody among all the do-gooders would ever admit was that some people just came equipped that way, and that more people were just naturally the kind who'd play along with any strong character to be one of a gang; and you weren't going to change character overnight.

Wills was tall and thin, with an angular pale face, sullen pale eyes, and lank dark hair; he looked older than seventeen. Kellerman was a fat lump, big and awkward and blond. Lopez was a little runt of a kid, skinny and dark, with terrified eyes. They just stood and looked back at him.

"Well, let's get the show on the road," said Mendoza sharply. "Which of you shot Nestor last Tuesday night?"

They looked surprised; and then Lopez looked almost idiotic with panic. "We n-never shot nobody, mister.?Se lo digo, no! Honestamente , we never-we never do a thing like that-"

"You got rocks in your head?" said Wills coldly. "What makes you think we shot a guy?"

"I don't think, I know," said Mendoza. "There's no point going the long way round here. You've been pulling a series of break-ins. Probably in other places than Hollywood. Last Tuesday night you broke into the office of Dr. Frank Nestor, on Wilshire Boulevard. Only you found the office wasn't empty-Dr. Nestor was there." Why had he been there, by the way? Not very important? "Wills, you had the. 22. When Dr. Nestor showed up, did you panic and shoot on impulse, or did you kill him deliberately? You did have the. 22-It's your gun?"

"For Christ's sake!" said Wills incredulously. "That's crazy, man! We was never near no doctor's office, Tuesday night or any other! We never heard o' that doctor. Why the hell'd we want to break in a doctor's?"

"I can think of reasons," said Mendoza.

"Oh-dope. We don't go for that crap," said Kellerman. "Not me, boy! I seen what it done to my brother. You're nuts-we'd never do a real bad thing like that. Gee, what was a couple cartons cigarettes and-"

"I said, let's not go the long way round," said Mendoza.

"I've got other things to worry about than you three louts." He took a step toward them and Lopez cringed back. "Now listen-"

"You c'n beat me all you want!" cried Lopez in a high frightened voice. "Just go on 'n' try-you never make me-?Santa Maria y Josejo – I never-"

"Oh, for God's sake, Joe," said Wills contemptuously, "they don't dare lay a hand on us!" He gave Mendoza an insolent leer. "They got to stay little gents-ain't that so, bloodhound?"

Mendoza pasted a careful, bland smile on his mouth. Never let them see they were getting to you. It was sometimes difficult. Sure-that juvenile thing last year. All the careful rules and regulations to protect the citizenry-and the L.A.P.D. with a lot of private rules on that too, especially about the minors, and what it came to was that the punks could call you every name in the book, tell the most obvious lies, accuse you of anything from wife beating to sodomy, and you had to take it without even a word or two in reply. Sometimes a man lost his temper a little and roughed up one of them-which was the only way to reach a lot of them-and then you got the press screaming about police brutality and the tenderhearted public excitedly demanding investigation. Mendoza smiled at these three young punks, pityingly. The only other way to reach them was to talk to them like the immature children they were. "Look, Mikey boy," he said very gently, "I've got no time to waste playing games with little boys. I'll give you just five minutes to tell me a straight story, but whether you do or not, I'm getting warrants on all of you for murder. As of now. That. 22 is the gun that killed Frank Nestor, that we know, and it was in your possession on Saturday night. Which of you had it on Tuesday night?"

Evidently he reached them with that. Lopez started to say a fervent Hail Mary, with his eyes shut; Kellerman just looked worried. Wills suddenly dropped his sneer and said, "Listen, is that on the level? Somebody got killed with that gun? Jesus-"

"I told you there was somethin' a little funny about it, Mike," said Kellerman.

"That's level," said Mendoza. "What fancy story are you going to tell me now?"

"Jesus," said Wills. "I'm not taking no murder rap! I never had that gun until Thursday night, bloodhound, and that's level in spades. I never laid eyes on it till Thursday."

"?No me tome el pelo! Don't kid me," said Mendoza skeptically. "So where'd you get it?"

Wills licked his lips. "We found it," he said.

"Oh, for God's sake," said Mendoza, "can't you think up a better one than that?"

"No, honest-honest, mister, we did!" said Lopez eagerly. "It was down on Main, we was all together-we saw this guy drop something, just ahead of us, see, and Mike picked it up- I saw him-honestamente -"

"That's right," said Kellerman stolidly. "I saw him too. It looked like a swell gun, not so old either-but I told Mike, see, when I see the serial number's filed off, I said, get shut of it, maybe it's hot."

"You've got all the answers," said Mendoza. "Do you really think I'm going to buy that one?"

"It's the truth!" snarled Wills. "It's all I can tell you. Jesus, I wish now I'd tossed it in the first alley we passed, but I didn't. It was mostly loaded, too-eight slugs in it. That's God's own truth, this guy dropped it and I picked it up. Right in the street, see-on the sidewalk."

His tone was passionate. Mendoza looked at him. "So now suppose you produce a nice tight alibi for all three of you for last Tuesday night."

"Hell!" said Wills violently. "You Goddamn cops-"

"I ain't taking no murder rap either, Mike,” said Kellerman. His broad forehead wrinkled painfully with thought.

"It ain't sense. So maybe we get hit a little tougher if we tell them, it's still not murder. Gee, none of us'd do a bad thing like a murder!" He looked at Mendoza earnestly. "We couldn't've, because we was down in Boyle Heights last Tuesday night, we cracked a TV store and got a lot of stuit. You can check it, I guess-lessee, we was with them girls up to about nine, and then we did the store, and we sold a lot of the stuff at a pawnshop on Whittier Boulevard, that'd be about ten-thirty, wasn't it, Mike? And-"

"Oh hell!" said Wills sullenly. "Well, all right. That's where we was, just like George says."

"That's right, mister, honestamente -"

Mendoza looked at Nesbitt and raised his eyebrows. Nesbitt shrugged.

"We'd sold stuff there before-the old guy's name is Behrens. Honest, he'd tell you we was in, about ten-thirty, and-”

"All right, what's the address?" Mendoza wrote it down. "I'll probably be seeing you again." He turned on his heel. Walking down the corridor, he asked Nesbitt, "What do you think?"

"Finding a gun," said Nesbitt. "I ask you."

"Down on Main," said Mendoza absently. He thought suddenly, suppose you had a gun you wanted to get rid of? A hot gun. Maybe one you had a license for, so the serial number could be traced. You could sell it, but the transaction would be traceable too. You could pawn it, but all pawnbrokers were supposed to keep records of serial numbers. You could just dump it somewhere, in anzio empty lot, but there was always the chance of someone seeing you, or Ending it and reporting it. Really, a very excellent way of getting rid of it would be to file away the serial number and then drop it somewhere, casually, in a district like Skid Row, where the chances were that whoever picked it up would keep it for his own nefarious purposes or pawn it for drinking money.

He wished now he'd asked those punks if they remembered anything about the hypothetical man who'd dropped the. 22. But it had almost certainly been after dark, and they wouldn't remember any details. Hell. And no way to…

"We'd better check," he said to Nesbitt. "The pawnbroker, and his stock. Just in case."

"Sure," said Nesbitt sadly. "We have to check everything."

Boyle Heights-Wl1ittier Boulevard. That would be the Hollenbeck station, and Mendoza thought he'd get them to check it out for him. He thanked Nesbitt for cooperation and drove back to headquarters, thinking about the gun.

The Sheldon woman hadn't shown, though it was after eleven. He called the Hollenbeck station, and the sergeant he talked to groaned but said he knew they were keeping busy with this Slasher down at headquarters, and they'd check out the pawnbroker for them. "How's that sergeant of yours doing in the hospital?"

"Not so good," said Mendoza. But a sudden queer warmth spread through him, for the real concern in the man's voice. That sergeant over at the Hollenbeck station had probably never laid eyes on Art Hackett. This was a big police force, though perennially undennanned for the population it served, and it took pride in itself for being, for all that, the top force anywhere. He realized suddenly that every man on this force who had read that brief newspaper story-Veteran Homicide Officer in Near Fatal Accident-was pulling for Hackett. Just because he was another cop.

Cops had to stick together.

He put the phone down. Palliser came in, looking annoyed, and said that Miguel Garcia hadn't recognized any of the three men with burn-scarred faces they'd held overnight. "I got the Rollen girl to look at them too, she said definitely no. So we let them go."

"Yes. It won't be as easy as that," said Mendoza. "Have those search warrants come through yet?"

"A few. Your idea was that button? Well, if that is a real clue," said Palliser, "and Nestor really did snatch it off his killer, I should think X would have felt it go. And-" He stopped.

"Yes," said Mendoza. "Belatedly, I saw that too. If he realized that Nestor had snatched it, maybe in reaching for the hand that held the gun, how easy simply to take it back when Nestor was dead. So he doesn't know it's gone from his jacket or whatever. Or didn't then. So maybe he's hung the jacket away in his closet for us to find… I thought for a little while we'd cleaned up Nestor, but I'm having second thoughts." He told Palliser about the young punks, about the gun.

Palliser said thoughtfully, "Well, I'm bound to say, if I had a hot gun to get rid of, that might be a damn safe way to do it. Down there, nobody'd be likely to hand it to the nearest patrolman and say, ‘Look what I found- Of course you're checking with the pawnbroker."

" Naturalmente -or rather, Hollenbeck is. You and Bert and whoever else is available had better go out on these warrants. Of course, there's every chance that since the murder X has noticed the missing button and, taking no chances that he dropped it somewhere incriminating, has got rid of the jacket or suit-or replaced the button. Anyway, have a good look for that-a button that doesn't quite match the rest… l want to see Elger again-and this damn Sheldon woman-"

The outside phone rang, and Sergeant Lake looked in and said, "It's your wife."

All Mendoza's muscles semed to tighten. If the hospital… He said, "O.K.," and picked up the phone, seeing his fears mirrored in Palliser's dark eyes… " Querida? "

"Luis," she said. "Luis-we're at the hospital. Angel's just got the doctor to tell her-how it really is."

"Oh," said Mendoza. Some of the tension went out of him, and Palliser, seeing it, drew a breath and went out.

"I'm sorry about that."

"He kept looking so serious, and- When we'd thought- And he tried-but Angel kept at him, and he finally told us-how it might be. Luis, it can't happen, can it?"

"I don't know, belleza. It's a thing, we wait and see."

"I know-but-”

"How is she taking it?"

"All right," said Alison. "It's no good fainting and having hysterics, but- She's-all right, so far. But I can't bear-"

"Yes,” he said. "There's more to Art's Angel than I'd thought. She's a good girl. But I'1n sorry she knows. I'd hoped-"

" Protecting us!" said Alison with a little angry half sob. "Just not running to meet trouble, amante."

"No. I know. But-"

Neither of them said anything for a moment; there was nothing more to say. The line hummed between them, a small comforting contact.

"Alison," he said. "Alison."

"Yes."

"How would you feel about it-if I resigned from the force?"

There was another little silence. "You mean…? I-I don't know, darling," said Alison. "Would you-want to? I mean-"

"I don't know," he said.

"What would-you do with yourself?"

"Something, I suppose. Find something. Esa es cuesti o n aparte. I don't know."

"If you really wanted to-" she said. He heard her draw a little breath. "Will you be home at all? I know how you're working at it-"

"I don't know that either, my darling. I'll call. You take care of Art's girl-and yourself."

"Yes," she said forlornly. "Yes, Luis."

He put the phone down. He looked around the office.

He really didn't know. Twenty-two years. Riding a squad car. In plain clothes, down in Vice-spotting the pro gamblers mostly, because maybe he was half a pro gambler himself. And eleven years in this office, sergeant and then lieutenant.

He'd sat at a desk up here for eleven years, working the cases as they turned up. Always plenty of cases to work. He wondered how it would feel, to be plain Mister instead of Lieutenant. To have nowhere special to be at a specified time every morning. To have no work to do at all. Just time to play.

The job wasn't necessary. All that nice money, in giltedged securities, in real estate. No. But…

Sergeant Lake looked in and said, "That Sheldon woman's here, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant. He had a place in life, as lieutenant. But maybe not fair to Alison, to the twins-and if Art… But meanwhile, thankfully, he had the job to do. He said, "O.K., Jimmy, shoot her in." He snapped his lighter, lit a cigarette.