corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence?
She had been found by a hobo, Ty Shoreman, who had been living in the park for a few weeks. She was stripped to the waist at the time of her death. Strangled. There were signs that she had been tortured before her demise. I thought about the burns up and down Lance’s arm. The hobo was held for questioning and then released.
Wexler.
There were three sharp raps on my front door. I shivered in response.
BOTH WHITE MEN WORE DARK SUITS and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows.
“Paris Minton?”
“Yes, officer?”
“Why you think we’re cops?” the hairy one asked.
“Guilty conscience?” his partner chimed.
“How can I help you?” I replied.
“We’re looking for a friend of yours,” baldy said. “A man named Fearless Jones.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Do you know where we might find him?”
“No sir.”
My face went blank. The life drained out of my voice. My arms hung down at my side and I was willing to do anything those policemen wanted—except tell the truth.
“When’s the last time you saw him?” the ape-man asked.
I stared out at the sky between their faces, pretending to concentrate. “Maybe four weeks. He’s been up north working for a man grows watermelons.”
The cop with the advancing hairline took out a small leather notebook and the nub of a yellow pencil. He jotted down something and smiled at me. I remember being surprised that the one with all the hair was also the man in charge. That seemed unfair somehow.
“May we come in, Mr. Minton?” he asked.
“Sure.” I stepped backward, pulling the door with me. “Have a seat.”
They entered my front room but neither one took me up on the offer to sit. They scanned the room like dog- pack brothers, looking everywhere. The balding cop stepped into the bookstore, checking for surprises or infractions.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” the other cop said. “I’m Sergeant Rawlway and this is Officer Morrain.”
“Pleased to meet ya.”
“Nice place you got here,” bald Morrain said from the left aisle. “You sell a lotta books?”
“Yes sir.”
“That all?”
“I don’t understand you, Officer Morrain.”
He walked back into the room and looked down into my eyes.
“Lots of times we find that people down around here set up places that are supposed to sell one thing but really they have some other business.”
“Like what?” I asked, simple as a stone.
Morrain smiled and sucked in air through his nostrils.
“Where is this watermelon farm?” Sergeant Rawlway asked.
“Up near Oxnard,” I said. “Fearless harvests them for these street salesmen that work all over Watts. Is Fearless in trouble?”
“Why don’t you worry about yourself?” Morrain suggested.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
“When did you say you saw Fearless last?” Rawlway asked.
“About a month . . . almost that.”
“Are you good friends?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh. I met Fearless when he was discharged from the service, after the war.”
“Has he always been a farmer?”
“No sir. Fearless works at whatever. Day labor, farming, you name it.”
“If you’re such good friends,” Morrain asked, “then why haven’t you seen him in so long?”
At that moment I thought about the five-dollar bills on the counter in my kitchen. If the police came across that cache they’d arrest me on suspicion. I could feel the moisture breaking through my pores.
“He, he’s been on that watermelon farm, like I told you. I run this store and don’t have time to drive up there.
