by Lee Strauss
“Do you have other polio survivors on the team?” Rosa asked.
“Not at the moment. Did you know that the latest statistics show that polio is in decline?” Mrs. Philpott’s demeanor brightened. “They say it’s largely due to breakthroughs in vaccine therapy and the programs for mass vaccinations. There’s still no cure for someone who already has the disease, as you know, although I’ve heard that in some cases, it can still lessen the symptoms if the subject is young enough.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that too,” Rosa replied. “It’s good news. Organizations like yours have had a lot to do with the decline in polio cases.”
Mrs. Philpott smiled. “Yes. It’s gratifying.”
Rosa inclined her head. “What did you mean by ‘at the moment’? Did you, at one point, have someone else on the team who was a polio victim besides Rod Jeffers?”
“No, not really. But Raul Mendez had a cousin, Juan Mendez, who died last year from issues related to polio. Raul and Juan were fairly close. Rod Jeffers also knew Juan well.”
“Exactly how did Juan Mendez die?” Rosa asked.
“His lungs gave out, or more specifically, his diaphragm and the involuntary muscles that control breathing stopped working. If it’s left unchecked, the disease eventually paralyzes those muscles and death comes by asphyxiation.”
A hunch that something important had just been disclosed hit Rosa, and she felt a faint buzzing of her nerves. “And there’s no way to prevent that from happening?”
“Well . . . yes, there is,” Mrs. Philpott answered. “A polio victim can be kept alive with an iron lung, a machine that supports muscles necessary for breathing.”
“Was an iron lung not available for Juan Mendez?”
“All the machines in the Greater Los Angeles Area were being used at the time. They’re very expensive and take a long time to show up after being ordered. One iron lung machine could cost the same as a small house.”
“So,” Rosa began, “even though your charity focuses on raising money for polio, you couldn’t get a machine for a relative of one of your own members?”
“We never really found out if we could’ve managed to raise the money. Time ran out on us. The subject had been debated ad nauseam at our board meetings, mind you, but polio is in such rapid decline nationally that, it was argued, we should focus our efforts on other, more inexpensive initiatives.” Mrs. Philpott shook her head. “I don’t know if any of us realized the full extent of the immediacy of Juan Mendez’s situation. Anyways, by the time the motion was passed to focus on an iron lung for Juan, he’d passed away. It was rather sudden.”
Rosa’s heart beat just a little faster, and she leaned forward on her chair. “Who were the ones on the board that were most reluctant to buy a machine?”
Shirley Philpott sat back in her chair. “At first the board was in favor of the purchase, but it was Flo who campaigned against it. In the end, the vote was split down the middle. Florence was the swing vote. She voted no. I remember now, that both Juan Mendez and Rod tried desperately to sway her, but she was unmovable.”
“Mrs. Philpott,” Rosa began, “why did you avoid me downtown when I called out to you? I know you saw me.”
Red patches bloomed on Shirly Phipott’s round cheeks. “I was embarrassed. I knew everyone thought that I’d killed my cousin.”
17
Through his open office door, Rosa could see Miguel sitting at his desk—the receiver of his black telephone cradled between his shoulder and his ear. Not wanting to intrude, Rosa waited for the phone call to end. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but how could she avoid hearing the conversation?
“I can’t come to L.A. right now, Charlene. I’m in the middle of a case.”
Charlene? Oh, dear. Miguel was talking to his girlfriend. Rosa’s chest tightened, and her stomach dropped.
Even though Rosa stepped back into the hallway, Miguel’s voice drifted. “I thought you were coming here? No, I know you’re busy too. Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later, and we can compare calendars. Okay. Miss you too. Bye.”
Rosa took a long, slow breath and pushed her shoulders back. She was a professional. She was here out of duty, not for a social call. She tapped purposefully on Miguel’s door then stepped in.
The scowl etched on Miguel’s face smoothed into a smile when he saw her. “Oh, good, you’re here.”
Rosa didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I think we need to focus our attention on Rod Jeffers, and possibly, Raul Mendez.” She sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
“Um . . . okay, and hello to you too.”
Rosa blushed. “I’m sorry, hello.”
Miguel’s dark eyes flashed with amusement then grew serious. “You do realize that Raul is in my band and was onstage the night Florence was killed. He has an excellent alibi.”
“I know. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“You also realize that Rod Jeffers is a cripple. Although possible, it would have been hard for him to catch up with the somewhat frenetic movements of Florence Adams the night of the murder and surreptitiously slip something in her drink. No one that I’ve interviewed so far even saw him having a conversation with her that night.”
Rosa folded her gloved hands in her lap. “Then we have to figure that out too.”
“You also realize,” Miguel continued without being condescending, “that as far as we know, neither of those two people have any connection to Jason Brewster or anything to do with abstruse poisons.”
“As far as we know.” Rosa held up a gloved finger in the air. Her mind worked hard to bring all the parts together. It was almost like eating a piece of that black taffy so popular in California; it required some thoughtful chewing.
“Yes, as far as we know. We . . .” Miguel stopped and just looked curiously at Rosa with her finger still pointing, frozen in midair. “Okay, sure, here’s the part of the conversation where we can have a pause.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And believe me, I am a big believer in dramatic pauses. But, when you’re ready—I mean, we don’t want to rush it of course—you tell me some of the information that I don’t already possess.”
“Both Raul Mendez and Rod Jeffers have motive,” Rosa said finally. “In fact, they have the same one.”
Miguel sat expectantly, waiting for her to elaborate.
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Rosa said, bounding to her feet. “It’s time to grab the keys from your wall again. The game’s afoot!”
“Really, Rosa? The game’s afoot?”
“It’s what Sherlock Holmes always says when he is closing in on the quarry!” Rosa impatiently waved her arms at him.
He rose from his chair and grabbed the car keys from the wall.
“Okay, I’ll drive, you talk,” Miguel said as they made their way to the back door of the station and out to the parking lot. “You’ll let me know if I should put the siren on, right? I like that part.”
“Not just yet.” Rosa climbed into the passenger seat and gave Miguel the details of the interview with Shirley Philpott. “She knows both men and their connection to the poor lad who died waiting for an iron lung.”
“I didn’t know any of that.” Miguel shook his head. “I mean, I knew Raul had a younger cousin who died from polio, but I had no idea about the part played by the charity, specifically our first victim.”
“Shirley Philpott never felt right to me as the prime suspect in this case,” Rosa remarked.
“Me, neither,” Miguel admitted. “It was hard for me to imagine her killing anyone or anything, much less committing two murders, but I had to follow the evidence.”
This Rosa understood.
After stopping at Rod Jeffers’ apartment but getting no answer at the door, they questioned the landlady, a woman in a full apron with dull brown hair covered by a scarf tied at the back of her slender neck.
“Mr. Jeffers is usually at that fitness gym in town this time of day,” she said, leaning on a broom. “He takes a taxi since he c
an’t drive on his own with those bum legs.”
Miguel knew the place and parked on Lear Street in the business district of the town in front of a building with a sign that read Jimmy Gym’s Fitness Club.
“Clever name,” Rosa said.
They were greeted by the sound of Chuck Berry’s “Maybelline” blasting over the loudspeakers. Though the room was filled with various fitness equipment, the room was empty at this time of day, with the exception of Rod Jeffers, who was prone on a bench with his crutches lying on the floor beside a gym bag.
Miguel walked over to the desk. “We just need a minute with our friend over there.” The young man looked up from his magazine just long enough to nod and went back to reading.
At first, Mr. Jeffers didn’t notice them. He adjusted his leg braces and, using his arm crutches for support, brought himself to a standing position. Except for his legs, which looked rather emaciated, he seemed to be fit with well-defined arms and chest. He obviously liked to keep himself strong despite his illness.
Rosa and Miguel caught up to Mr. Jeffers just as he reached the door to the men’s changing room.
Miguel called out, “Rod?”
Rod Jeffers’ eyebrows collapsed into a V. “Miguel?”
“Yes. Sorry to interrupt your workout.”
Mr. Jeffers glanced a Rosa with a look of disdain and sniffed.
Miguel jumped to an introduction. “This is Detective Rosa Reed from London’s Metropolitan Police. I believe you met at the event where Miss Adams died?”
Rosa held out her gloved hand. “Hello, Mr. Jeffers.”
Rod Jeffers hesitated then leaned an arm crutch against his body, shook her hand, then re-engaged the crutch before it toppled to the floor. Rosa had to admire his agility, even though she felt terrible that she’d thoughtlessly made him perform it.
Mr. Jeffers turned to Miguel. “What’s up?”
“We are hoping to have a few words with you if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Jeffers looked surprised. “Oh . . . sure . . . but . . . I have to use the restroom first.” He pointed with one of his crutches to the men’s room door.
“That’s fine,” Miguel said. “We can wait.”
After Mr. Jeffers had disappeared into the restroom, Rosa grabbed Miguel’s arm and nodded towards the gym bag Mr. Jeffers had left on the floor.
“I can’t just look through that,” Miguel said quietly. “That’s against police protocol.”
“Good thing I’m not a member of your police force,” Rosa said slyly. “Go and distract the man at the desk for a minute.”
“We can’t let Rod know we looked in his bag.” Miguel narrowed his eyes at her then turned towards the reception desk which, thankfully, was partially hidden from view.
Rosa rushed to look inside the bag. Inside were two towels, some toiletries, and a large bottle of pills. The word Dihydroboldenone was written on the label. Rosa quickly took out her note pad and wrote the word down. She then closed the bag and walked over to Miguel just as Rod Jeffers came out of the men’s room. Together, they walked into the lounge area and sat down. Miguel closed the door, and the boom of the rock and roll lessened to a level more conducive to conversation.
“Looks like you keep in pretty good shape,” Miguel said.
Rod Jeffers smiled with a cocky grin. “Thanks, it’s pretty much necessary for me to keep my upper body strength. It helps me in terms of walking and stuff.”
“I’ve heard that athletes or people who are serious about conditioning their body sometimes use steroids,” Rosa said casually.
Miguel shot her a questioning look. Rosa continued, unfazed. “Apparently, they are quite helpful when one wants to build muscle mass.”
Mr. Jeffers didn’t blink. “I’m just interested in staying strong enough to drag these legs around.”
“Certainly, I’m not suggesting that someone like you would use steroids.” Rose smiled, hoping to disarm the man. “I understand they’re rather hard to get hold of.”
“Yeah, so?” Rod Jeffers glared back then focused on Miguel. “What gives, Miguel?”
“Just humor the lady, my friend.”
Rosa’s chest warmed at Miguel’s show of trust.
“If one were interested in obtaining steroids, Mr. Jeffers, do you know how one would go about it?”
“Well, ma’am, I for one, wouldn’t know,” he said snidely. “Now, tell me why you’re askin’?”
“Rod, your manners,” Miguel chastised.
“I don’t get why she’s asking me questions.”
“I didn’t get a chance to interview you the other night at the beach,” Miguel said
“Yeah, well, wasn’t feeling great, so I took a taxi home.” His eyes darted from Miguel to Rosa and back. “Is that what this is about? The fact that I left the beach before you could talk to me? Miguel? We’re friends. You can talk to me anytime. No need to ambush.”
“We didn’t mean to offend,” Miguel said, “but I’m afraid I have to take this matter seriously. Florence Adams was murdered.”
The muscles around Rod Jeffers’ mouth twitched. “What? I thought she fell off the pier.”
“The evidence proves otherwise,” Miguel said. “There was also another murder in Santa Bonita just yesterday. Does the name Jason Brewster mean anything to you?”
This time Mr. Jeffers did blink. Twice. “No, I don’t think so. Do you think he’s the killer?”
“Where were you two nights ago between the hours of six p.m. and three a.m.,” Miguel pressed, ignoring Rod’s question. The time represented the estimated time of death of Jason Brewster that Dr. Rayburn had provided.
“I was at home, of course. I don’t really get out that much, as you can understand.”
“Were you with anyone?” Rosa asked.
Rod Jeffers met her gaze with reluctance. “Raul and I were playing crib on my back patio. We do every Monday night.”
“Just you and Raul? No one else?” Miguel asked.
“Yes, and nope.”
Miguel and Rosa looked at each other.
“Tell us about Juan Mendez,” Rosa said.
Rod Jeffers raised his eyebrows, shook his head, and looked sincerely surprised. “What’s he got to do with anything?”
“We don’t know yet,” Rosa said. “Perhaps you can tell us.”
Mr. Jeffers scowled at Rosa. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Mick, that you don’t already know. I mean, you must have heard about Juan.” Staring at Miguel, he added, “He was Raul’s cousin.”
“I’ve only known Raul since he joined my band,” Miguel said. “About a year. I’d heard he had a cousin who died from polio, but I didn’t know the whole story.”
Rod Jeffers leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m not sure what you mean by the ‘whole story’.”
“You and he were quite close, weren’t you?” Rosa asked.
“Juan and I grew up together in Mansfield. We were the same age,” Rod Jeffers replied.
Rosa remembered that Mansfield was a small town just north of Santa Bonita.
“Isn’t that where Raul grew up as well?” Miguel had now taken out his notepad and started writing.
“We all went to elementary school there. Raul is two years older than Juan and me.”
“When did polio enter the picture?” Rosa asked.
Rod Jeffers sighed deeply. “Juan got it first when we were both in sixth grade. At first, everyone thought it was just a bad case of the flu. I contracted it about five months later. In those days, there was no vaccine.”
Rosa concurred. Field tests of the first vaccine didn’t happen until 1954.
“Juan’s illness progressed differently from yours, I assume?” Rosa said.
Rod Jeffers slowly nodded. “His lungs got paralyzed.”
Miguel tapped his pen on the table. “From what I understand, an iron lung could have prolonged his life?”
Mr. Jeffers answered darkly. “It could’ve saved his life.”
&nbs
p; “But there was none available,” Rosa said. “Is that right?”
Rod Jeffers hesitated. “Apparently not.”
“From what we heard,” Rosa said gently, “the charity foundation tried to get him one, but it was expensive. By the time they decided to place an order, Juan was dead.”
Rod Jeffers shifted in his seat, grimacing. “Something like that, yes.”
“Was Florence Adams in on that decision-making process?” Miguel asked.
“I didn’t kill her,” Rod Jeffers said forcefully.
“We didn’t say that you did,” Miguel returned.
“But you’re obviously thinking it. Look, I was furious with Florence Adams—enraged beyond words. She stalled and stalled while my friend slowly suffocated to death! I bet you anything that if he hadn’t been from south of the border, those funds would have come much faster.”
His bitterness was a heavy weight in the room. Rosa inexplicably found it challenging to breathe.
“I hated Flo Adams for what she did,” Mr. Jeffers said. “I held her responsible for the death of my friend. I never forgave her. There’s your motive if that’s what you’re looking for, so go grab your handcuffs and take me away if it makes you think your job is done. But the real killer, whoever he is, would still be at large.” He narrowed his eyes on Miguel. “I swear on my mother’s grave, I didn’t kill her.”
18
Miguel pulled the police cruiser away from the curve in front of Jimmy’s Gym. “What do you think?”
Rosa removed her compact lipstick with its attached mirror, turned her back to Miguel, and covertly applied some before facing him again. “I can’t quite decide if I believe him about not murdering Florence Adams. I mean he’s pretty convincing but . . .”
“I agree. He’s a hard guy to read.”
“He is lying about the steroids, though.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I wrote down the name on the pills I found in his bag.” Rosa retrieved her notepad from her purse. “I’ll have to check with Dr. Rayburn to confirm, but as far as I know, Dihydroboldenone is a steroid used by bodybuilders and the like. From what I’ve read, it’s kind of a new fad in the world of athletics. If that’s true, then Mr. Jeffers is lying.”
