Death Was the Other Woman (4 page)

DEX FINISHED HIS SMOKE
in what looked like a leisurely fashion, but I could see the wheels turning while he puffed. After he was done, he tossed the spent cigarette into the toilet, took out his handkerchief, and started wiping down every surface either of us might feasibly have touched.

“What are you doing?” Even while I asked, I knew it was a silly question. It was fairly obvious Dex was erasing all signs of our visit.

Dex just looked at me, cocked one eyebrow, then went back to his wiping. It didn't take long.

I stood in a corner of the bathroom—the corner farthest from the place where Dex worked—trying to take in everything that had happened.

“We didn't do it,” I pointed out. “Aren't you afraid that you're erasing evidence that might help the police find the killer?”

He looked at me as though I were a child, and not a particularly bright one at that.

“Listen, Kitty,” he said, as he finished up. “Whoever did this doesn't care about evidence, even if they left any. Which they probably didn't. Look at him,” he said, forcing my attention back to the corpse. “He didn't slip in the shower, kiddo. He was chilled, neat and sweet. And it doesn't look like it was amateur night, any way you slice it.” He popped his hanky back into his pocket and pushed me out the door ahead of him. I noticed that as we left the bathroom he didn't bother stopping to turn off the lights.

“You touch anything else?” he asked. I shook my head. “What about the front door?”

“I touched the door and it opened,” I replied.

The hanky was out and the door wiped down so quickly, you would have thought Dex did cleanup for a living. Then he ushered me back to the car, popping me, unprotesting, into the passenger seat and taking the wheel himself.

I didn't ask where we were going. Frankly, at that moment I didn't care. “I still don't think cleaning everything up was the right thing to do,” I insisted as we drove, not liking the petulant note in my voice but beyond caring. “The police would believe us, I think. We didn't have any reason to kill him.”

“It's not so much the cops I'm worried about, Kitty. Like I told you back there: whoever croaked him wasn't an amateur. This guy's got friends you don't want to play with. This just smells like something we shouldn't get mixed up in.”

Though my conscience wanted to argue, I could see the sense in his words, and I lapsed into thoughtful silence.

As we moved deeper into the city, the distant scent of the ocean was replaced with the ever-present odor of Los Angeles: the smell of the oil that the derricks all over the region pumped out of the ground twenty-four hours of every day. It was a hard smell to define. Dark and ancient. The smell of a prehistoric era. And modern wealth, but not a clean wealth somehow. You got used to it after a while.

“One thing bothers me about all this, Dex,” I said, when we'd traveled a few miles.

“One
thing.”

“Seriously. What was he doing in the bathtub?”

“He wasn't soaking his bunions,” Dex pointed out.

“Exactly,” I agreed. “But did he die there? Did someone get him to step into the tub at gunpoint and then execute him? If so, why?”

“I see where you're going,” Dex said. “Because if they
didn't
kill him in the tub, why put him there?”

I nodded. “It's tidy,” I said thoughtfully.

“Hmm?”

“Well, easy to clean up, right? It's a bathroom. Water and everything.”

“What are you saying?”

“Well, if you were going to execute someone but you didn't want to leave a mess, the bathroom would be a good place to do it because it'd be easy to clean up afterward.”

“That's true,” Dex agreed. “But they didn't clean up, did they? Not really. They left the body in the bathtub. That's pretty much a mess.”

“But the towel, Dex. The one I used. It was folded up, all tidy like. Someone used it—I guess to clean up some blood— then put it back carefully. If I hadn't had to dry my hands, I wouldn't have seen the blood at all.”

We passed ideas around for the balance of the ride downtown. Dex felt it likely someone had gone to the house with the idea of killing Dempsey and had executed him in his own tub. I suggested there might have been a fracas that ended up with Dempsey killed and the killer stuffing the body into the tub in order to get it out of the way. But that scenario asked more questions than it answered. Why would a hired gun care if the corpse was in a bathtub or sprawled on a divan or ... why would some gunsel care where the body ended up?

We hadn't reached any conclusions by the time Dex dropped me off on Bunker Hill. We realized it was possible we'd never have answers to the questions we were asking. But when all was said and done, it didn't matter anymore, not to us. With the subject Dex had been hired to tail now dead, there was no reason to pursue the matter. And Dex groused a bit when I suggested he give back at least part of the retainer, but we both knew he'd do the right thing in the end.

I DIDN'T SLEEP WELL
. No big surprise. For one thing, I didn't need much sleep, having had an extended nap in the car. More than that though, despite what Dex had said, I felt an acute sense of guilt for having played a part—however small— in tampering with the scene of a crime.

I tossed and turned for a while after I went to bed. Then I got up and straightened the bedclothes, plumped up my pillows, and hopped back in to toss and turn some more.

Sleep finally claimed me, but it was not the peaceful sleep of the innocent, or so I told myself in the morning. Things chased me in and out of sleep. And none of those things were beautiful boys in French vineyards.

Dark shapes chased me and I ... I chased them. A long-legged woman stood nearby, laughing. She had glorious flame-colored hair, and her full body was sheathed in a silk so fine it might have been made of spun clouds.

I woke in full dark, a fine sweat covering my body though the night was cool. I lay there panting for a moment, catching my breath and making a conscious effort to keep the night shapes from following me out of my dream.

Though the dream had been filled with abstracts, I didn't have to work very hard to decipher what my subconscious was trying to tell me. Despite the inglorious end my father came to, I was raised with a certain moral code. There is right, my father taught me from the time I could understand such concepts. And there is wrong. What's in between doesn't stand thinking about. If there was one single theme in my upbringing, it's that you must live with a clear heart and a clean conscience, and if you tell the truth, everything will come out right in the end. They were words my father had lived if not died by, and they had colored my view of the world.

At the breakfast table in the morning, Marjorie took one look at my face and asked what was wrong. I compounded things by not telling her. How could I? And even if I could, what could I have said? The truth seemed too awful to say out loud.

Marjorie suspected I was coming down with something and tried to push an extra piece of toast on me. I declined. I knew we could ill afford to squander bread that one of the boarders might eat. In any case, I could hardly stomach the piece I'd taken, let alone the soft-boiled egg she placed alongside it. We couldn't waste perfectly good food though, so I dipped the corners of my single piece of toast into my egg and managed them both with my morning tea. And felt better for it, but only slightly.

My head was still so filled with grisly thoughts that it detracted from my usual pleasure at the clean swoop Angels Flight cut between Bunker Hill and downtown. On most days I loved everything about the ride on the little tramcar that was part of “the shortest paying railway in the world.” I loved the luxury of sitting when I would have been walking—and always for free on the way down. I liked the rumbling feeling beneath me as the car got going. It gave me a sense of anticipation, like I was going on a big trip, not just downtown. And I loved the split second when the little car seemed almost to hover on the crest of the hill, before it began the descent in earnest and you got a sense of the city spreading almost beneath your feet.

On most days I loved all of that. But on this day I barely saw it. I gave the ride on Angels Flight no more attention than I would have had it been a Red Car; then I trudged the few blocks to the office barely noticing my surroundings, stopping only to get Dex's ice.

The door to the office was still locked when I got there. I wasn't surprised to find myself in ahead of Dex. As sober as he'd looked when he dropped me off, he'd done a fair piece of drinking during the day. I thought he'd probably have something to sleep off, and there was no reason for him to rush into the office just now: his single case had disappeared like the smoke from one of Mustard's cigarettes.

I unlocked the door and closed it behind me, popping my hat and light coat on the rack and my purse on my desk as I came in. In my haste to follow Dex out the day before, I'd not closed the office for the night with my usual precision, and the place smelled like a tavern.

In Dex's office, the jade green ashtray was overflowing. His whiskey glass was empty, of course, but unwashed. When I went to the window and threw it open, I stood there for a moment watching the traffic on Spring Street. Traffic was light a few hours before noon. Even so, cars and trucks moved down the street, and pedestrians hurried about their business.

I could see one couple moving more slowly than the others. They walked arm in arm, her hatted head turned up to his much taller one. She seemed to be listening carefully to what he was saying. I couldn't quite make out the details of their faces, but I imagined that she was beautiful and he was exotically handsome and that both of them were looking forward to a stolen hour—brunch perhaps—in the Palm Court of the Alexandria Hotel just a block away.

When they were out of sight, I pulled myself back inside, instantly missing the warm touch of the sun on my skin. I didn't have any work to do and the phone wasn't ringing, but I had plenty to think about, and think I did. After I tidied the office, I sat at my desk primly for maybe half an hour, one eye on the phone and the other on the door, waiting for any sign of Dex.

The phone didn't ring, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. There was a call I could make. A single call. And I knew that if I made it, some of the horror I felt would start to dissipate. I would feel better, I told myself, because I would have done the right thing.

I waited another half hour, but when at ten o'clock there was still no sign of Dex, I figured I'd better make that call or else forget about it altogether. Once Dex finally got to the office—and I knew he would eventually—it would no longer be an option.

And I was right: I felt better afterward. A surprisingly simple operation, considering the grief I put myself through about it. I gave the police the name of the dead man and the address where he could be found. And when the officer I spoke with asked for my name and asked how I knew, I replaced the receiver calmly in the cradle. Then I sat there with my hand still on the phone while my pulse raced like a frightened rabbit and I contemplated what I'd done.

I told myself that there was no way the call could be traced to me or to Dex. And nothing at the house on Lafayette Square would tell the police we'd been there; Dex had seen to that. It was possible that the unknown hatchetman had seen us when he'd left in a big hurry, but I didn't think so. And if he had, it didn't seem likely he'd be telling the police.

As soon as I was off the phone, the face of the dead man in the bathtub became more indistinct in my mind, and the grim-ness of the night before started to recede. Before long, I was prepared to put the whole business behind me for well and good, and I felt more lighthearted than I had since I'd placed a single foot into that house on Lafayette Square.

I hadn't come to this conclusion long before Dex came in, aiming his usual morning smile at me. “What's cooking?” he asked cheerfully, no trace of the previous night's adventure on his recently shaved face.

“Absolutely nothing,” I said, matching his tone.

He had the morning paper tucked under one arm and a familiar-looking brown bag under the other.

“Well, then, I've got some business to take care of. Got my ice? Good, good. You know where I am if you need me,” he said, closing the door to his office behind him and settling in for his day.

Unlike Dex, who seemed to have his itinerary all laid out, I had no plans for the day, which was the only part of the job I didn't like.

When Dex was on a case—and especially at those rare times when he was working two or even three at the same time— there could be a fair amount for me to do. The phones would be ringing, and there'd be calls for me to place or people he had asked me to track down, and time would speed by.

The last few months though, things had slowed down. I figured it was a sign of the times. No matter what the newspapers said, things were tough and looked to be getting tougher. For a lot of people, choosing between paying the rent and hiring a shamus wasn't much of a decision.

Even so, I knew there were P.I.'s in town who were still making a decent living, but in a business like ours, a lot of work comes by referral. Dex could be the most charming guy alive when he cared to. Most of the time though, he just didn't care. Maybe he'd told one too many customers off—or just told off the wrong ones—or maybe he'd not delivered on a job once too often. Or maybe I was just whistling “Dixie,” but I knew one thing was true: the phone didn't ring as much as it used to.

This was a problem for me. Not only did it make me worry about getting paid; it also made it tough to fill up my time at the office. On days when we didn't have much going on and the hours dragged slowly, I'd twiddle my thumbs or practice my typing. Both of those activities provided a limited amount of entertainment.

Seeing my plight—and perhaps suspecting how flush I wasn't—Mustard had taken to bringing me books every now and then. I could see they'd been read before I got them, but I never asked if Mustard was the one doing the reading. He didn't volunteer the information, but it really didn't matter. I took his offerings greedily. Reading offered escape as well as a pleasing way to get through the slow-moving office days that didn't have a lot of work in them.

The book Mustard had dropped off most recently,
Revolt in the Desert,
was an exciting account of T. E. Lawrence's adventures in Arabia. It was proving to be a magical transportation from my life in the city, concerned as I was with things that to me seemed everyday. “The march became rather splendid and barbaric,” I read. I could almost smell sun on sand, feel the particles of dust in my hair. “First rode Feisal in white, then Sharraf at his right in red head-cloth and henna-dyed tunic and cloak, myself on his left in white and scarlet, behind us three banners of faded crimson silk with gilt spikes, behind them the drummers playing a march, and behind them again the wild mass of twelve hundred bouncing camels of the bodyguard, packed as closely as they could move, the men in every variety of coloured clothes and the camels nearly as brilliant in their trappings. We filled the valley to its banks with our flashing stream.”

I read away the balance of the morning, lost in rivers of camels and streams of brightly colored silk, then put the book aside at noon and went out into the sunshine to find a bench on which to eat the sandwich Marjorie had prepared for me— sardines today, I noticed with distaste while I ate—and stretch my legs.

Los Angeles at street level is a series of contradictions. Just within sight of the bench I'd chosen near the corner of Spring and Fourth, I could see girders on three different buildings. A casual glance would show that the growth of Los Angeles continued apace. Yet the careful eye could see the difference. The crews on the buildings were smaller than they'd been even a few years ago, and the crowd of men who came to line up in the morning—the men wanting work—seemed to swell every day, as did the number who were unsuccessful and trudged unhappily away when a handful of their rank were chosen. “You, you, and you. Not you.”

I'd seen the selection process when I'd come to the office early one morning. Perhaps twenty or thirty of the assembled men were chosen to do rough labor. Four or even five times that many were turned away. You could feel the desperation pouring off them in waves. I imagined that many of the men would have families somewhere nearby, hoping that this threadbare head of house would manage to come up with enough from his day's labor for a bit of bread and perhaps some milk. More would be disappointed than not.

Yet the party line was clear: we were above the Depression in Los Angeles. Other less golden regions might have to deal with it, but not us. Not here. And the
Los Angeles Times
trumpeted freely that the Depression that had so affected other parts of the country had not touched us and was not expected. Our eyes told a different story.

At street level you could feel the difference. From above and from a distance you couldn't see the details, and everything looked just as it always had.

You could, as I had this morning, see what looked to be a beautiful, happy couple and imagine they were heading for some romantic hour. Now, on my bench, I saw that couple again. They walked right past me, in the direction opposite the one I'd seen them travel a few hours earlier.

Up close, everything about them told a different story. I could see his shoes were down at the heels, and her dress had been washed so often, the colors were no longer bright. And the movements I'd seen pass between them—his sheltering presence, the laughter sent up to him—were quite different up close as well.

I don't know where they'd been—I'll never know where they'd been—but at close range I could see it had not been the Palm Court at the Alex, as I'd hoped and supposed at first glance. The Los Angeles Trust and Savings Bank was just up the street from the hotel. From the looks of this pair, that's where they'd been. And things had not gone well.

Just as I'd seen this morning, he leaned over her, as though protecting her, as they walked. She looked up to him, but not in laughter. What I saw in her face was a desperation so raw, I had to turn away.

As I watched, he leaned down to her, said something softly in her ear. He might have been offering her something reassuring, but whatever it was, I figured it was probably a lie. Nothing would ever be the same again.