I was enjoying my role but her brusque manner was unnerving. 'Yeah, sure,' I replied.
We walked down a dingy hallway. I could hear great numbers of sewing machines whirring behind closed doors. Mrs. Grover sat me down in a wooden chair in her sparsely furnished office. She lit a cigarette, settled behind her desk, and said, 'Poor Maggie. What a godawful way to die. Who do you think did it?'
'I don't know. That's why I'm here.'
'I read in the papers that you people think it was a burglar. Is that true?'
'Maybe. I understand you and Maggie Cadwallader were good friends.'
'In a sense,' Mrs. Grover replied. 'We ate together every workday, but we never saw each other socially.'
'Was there a reason for that?'
'What do you mean?'
'What I mean, Mrs. Grover, is that I'm trying to get a handle on this woman. What kind of person was she? Her habits, her likes, dislikes, the people she associated with, that kind of thing?'
Mrs. Grover stared at me, smoking intently. 'I see,' she said. 'Well, if it's helpful I can tell you this: Maggie was a very bright, disturbed woman. I think she was a pathological liar. She told me stories about herself and later told stories that contradicted the earlier ones. I think she had a drinking problem, and spent her nights alone, reading.'
'What kind of stories did she tell you?'
'About her origins. One day she was from New York, the next day the Midwest. She once told me she had a child out of wedlock, from a 'lost love,' then the very next day she tells me she's a virgin! I sensed that she was very lonely, so once I tried to arrange a dinner date for her with a nice bachelor friend of my husband's. She wouldn't do it. She was terrified. She was a cultured person, Maggie, and we had many lovely conversations about the theater, but she told me such crazy things.'
'Such as?'
'Such as the nonsense about the baby back east. She showed me a photo once. It broke my heart. She had obviously clipped it from a magazine. It was so sad.'
'Do you know of any men in her life, Mrs. Grover?'
'No, Officer, none. I really do believe she died a virgin.'
'Well,' I said, standing up, 'thank you for your time, Mrs. Grover. You've been very helpful.'
'She deserved so much better, Officer. Please find her killer.'
'I will,' I said, meaning it.
I wasn't much good on the beat that night. My mind was elsewhere. I knew I would need a very fast transfer to day watch in order to continue my investigation at night. I thought over my options—requests to Jurgensen? To the head of the Detective squad? Going on sick leave? All too chancy.
The following morning I drove to the station and knocked on Captain Jurgensen's door. He greeted me warmly, surprised to see me in the daytime. I told him what I wanted: I had a very sick friend from my orphanage days who needed someone to look after him at night while his wife went to work at Douglas Aircraft. I wanted day watch temporarily, to help out my friend, and to better acquaint myself with the area I was serving in.
Jurgensen put down his copy of
At eleven-thirty that night I committed my first crime as an adult. I drove up to Hollywood, parked in a gas station lot and walked up to Maggie Cadwallader's apartment on Harold Way. Wearing gloves, I picked the lock on the door and made my way through the dark apartment to the bedroom. I carried a pocket flashlight, and by risking using it every few seconds I could tell that all of Maggie's personal belongings had been cleaned out, presumably to better show the apartment to prospective new tenants when the publicity of her death died down.
In the bedroom, holding the flashlight awkwardly, I unscrewed the bedpost that had contained Maggie's 'priceless love gift.' It was gone. I replaced the post and unscrewed the other one: nothing there. The two remaining ones were solid, melded into the bedstead. It was as I had hoped. Still, there was double-checking to be done.
I drove to Hollywood Station, parked, walked in and showed my badge to the desk sergeant. 'I'm with Seventy-seventh dicks,' I told him. 'Is there anyone upstairs I can talk to?'
'Give it a try,' he replied, bored.
The squad room was deserted, except for a tired old cop writing reports. I walked in like I owned the place, and the old-timer looked up only briefly from his paperwork. When I didn't see what I wanted lying around in plain sight, I cleared my throat to get his attention.
He looked up again, this time displaying bloodshot eyes and a weary voice. 'Yes?' he said.
I tried to sound brisk and older than my years. 'Underhill, Seventy-seventh Street dicks. I'm working South Central pawnshop detail. The loot told me to come up here and check the property report on that dead dame, Cadwallader. We find a lot of stuff pawned down in the Seventy-seventh that got clouted in Hollywood and West L.A. The lieutenant figured maybe he could help you out.'
'Shit,' the old-timer said, getting up from his chair and walking to a row of filing cabinets. 'That was no burglary caper, if you ask me. My partner and I wrote that report.' He handed me a manila folder containing three typewritten pages. 'There was nothin' missin', accordin' to the landlady, and she knew the stiff good. Could be the guy panicked. Don't ask me.'
The report was written in the usual clipped department style, and everything from cat food to detergent was listed—but no mention was made of a diamond brooch, or any other jewelry.
There was a signed statement from the landlady, a Mrs. Crawshaw, stating that although the apartment had been in complete disarray, nothing seemed to be missing. She also stated that Maggie Cadwallader, to her knowledge, had not owned jewelry or stocks and bonds, nor had she secreted in her apartment large sums of money.
The old cop was looking at me. 'You want a copy of that?' he asked wearily.
'No,' I said, 'you were right, it's a dull report. Thanks a lot, I'll see you.'
He looked relieved. I felt relieved.
It was twelve-forty-five and I knew I couldn't sleep now even if I wanted to. I wanted to think, but I wanted it to be easy, not filled with panicky speculation over the dangerous risks I was taking. So I decided to break my silent vow of abstinence and drove out to Silverlake, where I knocked on the door of an old buddy from the orphanage.
He was mildly glad to see me, but his wife wasn't. I told them it wasn't a social call, that all I wanted was the loan of his golf clubs. Incredulous, he turned them over. I promised to return them soon, and to repay him for his favor with a good restaurant dinner. Incredulous, his wife said she'd believe it when she saw it, and hustled her husband back to bed.
I checked the clubs. They were good Tommy Armours, and there were at least fifty shag balls stuffed into the pockets of the bag. I went looking for a place to hit them, and to think.
I drove home and picked up Night Train. He was glad to see me and hungry for exercise. I found a few cold pork chops in the ice box and threw them at him. He was gnawing the bones as I attached his leash and slung the golf bag over my shoulder.
'The beach, Train,' I said. 'Let's see what kind of Labrador you really are. I'm going to hit balls into the ocean. Little chip shots. If you can retrieve them for me in the dark, I'll feed you steak for a year. What do you say?'
Night Train said 'Woof!' and so we walked the three blocks down to the edge of the Pacific.
It was a warm night and there was no breeze. I unhooked Night Train's leash and he took off running, a pork chop bone still in his mouth. I dumped the balls onto the wet sand and extracted a pitching iron from the bag. Hefting it was like embracing a longlost beloved friend. I was surprised to find I wasn't rusty. My hiatus from golf hadn't dulled that sharp edge my game has always had, almost from the first time I picked up a club.
I hit easy pitch shots into the churning white waves, enjoying the synchronization of mind and body that is
