Dell Shannon - Streets of Death

"Well, I sent for this brochure," said Alison rather guiltily. She picked it up from her armchair and sat down, not offering to show it to him. "Houses. Bigger houses on, well, some land. If you’re going to have a drink, I’ll have some creme de menthe, amado."

"I wasn’t, but I’ll get it." In the kitchen, he said to El Senor resignedly, "She’s going to move us to a ranch now." El Senor uttered a raucous demand for rye, and Mendoza poured him some in a saucer. When he got back to the living room, the other three cats were all trying to settle in Alison’s lap at once.

"You can’t all fit now, and just wait a couple of months," she said, shooing Sheba and Nefertite off. "Thanks, amado. Well, it’s very funny, you know I said maybe an acre, but come to find out, we’ve got nearly an acre here. It’s forty-five thousand square feet, and I figured it out-we’ve got forty-two here. And we really need more-"

"I didn’t know that," said Mendoza absently.

"Neither did I. Luis, you’re not listening."

"I was wondering whether Carey had had a look at that vacant lot. But of course he did.?Diez millones de demonios desde el imferno! " said Mendoza to his rye. "It’s such a simple little mystery, and yet so vague. What the hell could have happened to the man?"

"Who? Now, I think, it’s been some time since you brought any homework from the office," said Alison. "You haven’t been-mmh-in the exact mood to listen. But if you have any bright ideas about Edwin Fleming, I’d like to hear some." He sat down and told her about it, and she listened interestedly.

"Well, that’s the funniest thing you’ve had in ages," she said when he’d finished with Galeano’s account of today’s interview. "You can think of explanations, and then you see it’s impossible because of his being in the wheelchair. And she couldn’t have- And if I know all you hardheaded cynics, you turned every stone looking for a boyfriend, and there just isn’t one."

" En ninguna parte, " said Mendoza bitterly. "Nowhere."

"Well, all I can say is, I’m sorry for Detective Galeano," said Alison. "She sounds like a very prickly sort of girl. And speaking of sex, by the way, I’ve also been sitting up taking enough notice to think about some names-"

Mendoza uttered a groan. "I haven’t dared ask about that."

"Well, I haven’t decided anything yet."

Conway had wandered around all day Thursday on the Peralta thing, and got nowhere. He and Glasser were off on Friday, and Peralta fell to Landers, Grace and Higgins being busy on the new one, Palliser cleaning up Sandra Moseley and on the phone to Fresno, and Hackett in court: Roy Titus was being arraigned this morning. Wanda, Larsen said she’d like some street experience, and if they came across any of Peralta’s girl friends she might be helpful, so Landers let her come along.

They had turned up some known acquaintances of Peralta, three men he’d been picked up with at various times, all users: Ford Robinson, Joe Ryan, Bob Wooley. That kind tended to drift, and none of them was still at the addresses they’d given on arrest. But Conway had talked to a fellow at one of those places who said Robinson had a pad over a disco on Vermont, The Aquarian. Landers looked up the address and he and Wanda started out in the new-to-him car. It was a nice little job, handled very sweetly; Phil had admired it.

The disco wasn’t open, of course, but there was a rickety stair going up one side of the old stucco building, and they climbed it. At the top was a door painted a violent royal blue, and Landers knocked on it.

"You can’t expect the free spirits to be up at this hour," said Wanda when he’d knocked five times.

"I can hear somebody in there." At the seventh knock the door was fumbled open.

"What the hell? What you want?"

"Mr. Robinson? Ford Robinson?"

"Yeah?"

"We’d like to ask you some questions about Rodrigo Peralta." Landers showed him the badge.

"Cops!" said Robinson disgustedly. "Cops, in the middle o’ the night. A lady cop yet. What’s with Roddy?" He yawned and scratched his chest. He was covered with so much hair that it was hard to tell what he looked like; he had a mane of wiry curly chestnut hair to his shoulders, he was only wearing shorts and his entire torso was covered with more, like his arms and naked legs.

Landers regarded him for a moment, considering the best approach to use. Wanda spoke up sweetly. "We’re looking for any friends of his who saw him last Monday night. To, you know, say where he was."

"Oh," said Robinson. "Like an alibi. I didn’t see him Monday-more like last Saturday, maybe." He thought. "But I tell you who might of. Yeah, sure. The Kings."

"The Kings?" said Landers, not looking at Wanda.

"Yeah-Nita and Gerald. I run into them on Monday night, downstairs at the disco, they said they were going to see Roddy, see if he had-well, going to see him."

"I see," said Wanda, making businesslike notes. "What time was that?"

"Uh-seven, seven-fifteen like."

"Do you know where the Kings live?"

"Sure, they got a pad right back of here, on Thirty-first." He added the address. "They could prob’ly say Roddy wasn’t wherever you thought he was. Damn cops coming-"

"Thank you very much," said Wanda prettily.

"Listen," said Landers on the sidewalk, "you’re just supposed to be tagging along."

"Men," said Wanda. "You notice we got what we were after. I always believed the old adage that you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

Mendoza was sitting at his desk staring out at the Hollywood hills at three o’clock that Friday, the cards scattered on the desk behind him; he had spent an unproductive couple of hours brooding over Fleming. At least the rain had departed definitely; as usual in southern California after a rain, it had turned very cold, and it was brilliantly clear, the back mountains glistening with snow, the nearer hills sharply defined.

The office was quiet; everybody was out on something. The A.P.B. hadn’t brought Benoy in yet. There ought to be a report from S.I.D. on the Hopper killing sometime today. A couple of autopsy reports were in; nothing much in them.

"?Ca! " said Mendoza to himself. " A su tiempo maduran las uvas. " He got up and fished in his pocket for change for the coffee machine, and Sergeant Lake came in and shut the door behind him.

"We’ve got ca1lers," he said. He was looking grim and rather pleased; he had one hand behind him.

"Anybody interesting?"

"Oh, I think so," said Lake. "I think you’ll like her. A very respectable widow by the name of Mrs. Consuelo Gomez. She’s got a mustache, seven sons, and a tender conscience."

"Meaning what, Jimmy?" Mendoza sat down again. Sergeant Lake brought his hand from behind his back with something in it. He laid it on top of the cards on Mendoza’s desk. Mendoza stared at it.

It was a large silver crucifix on a long silver chain. The center of the cross was studded with an opaque pale-green veined stone. It was, in fact, the crucifix which had been torn from Father Patrick Joseph O’Brien when the pretty boys attacked him.

Mendoza raised his eyes from it, and they had gone very cold. "Suppose you show the lady in."

"Oh, she’s got one of them with her," said Lake. "Her youngest, Guido." He went out, and a minute later they came in. Mrs. Gomez was mountainous, in ancient and decent black silk, black hair piled in a knob on her head. But his eyes passed over her to the big boy behind her. Boy-he might be twenty, he was big but gangling: unused to his size as yet, awkward. Almost handsome, a poor attempt at a mustache, long waving black hair. And the very natty loud sports jacket, striped blue and green, a dark shirt, a wide tie.