The Body in Griffith Park

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  Joe looked down. “Once upon a time, you liked the fact that I was not a crooked cop.” He flashed his luscious blue Arrow Collar Man eyes at her.

  Anna opened her mouth, but she had nothing to say.

  The door to Mr. Stevens’ office opened and a man shuffled out. He was Chinese and wearing an exceptionally nice suit. Anna recognized him as Lee Bock Dong, the new president of the Hop Sing Tong. He had chosen to overlook Joe’s falling afoul of his predecessor and had spared Joe’s life. She bowed to the president, though he was undoubtedly up to no good. He looked blankly at Anna, as if he didn’t recognize her, like she was any other white woman. Like all white women looked the same.

  “Matron Blanc.” Mr. Stevens, with his air of self-importance, beckoned Anna from his office. Joe followed, uninvited.

  Mr. Stevens offered them seats. His hair looked as stiff as a helmet. Joe sat, but Anna remained standing. “Let me get right to the point, Mr. Stevens. An associate of Mrs. Rosenberg’s, one Samuel Grayson, has been murdered.”

  Something flashed across Mr. Stevens’s face, an expression Anna couldn’t read. She looked to Joe for a clue, but he gave her nothing.

  She continued, “We know Mr. Grayson was extorting individuals who corrupted young girls at the Jonquil Resort. We know he received three one-thousand-dollar payments from you. We know you are Mrs. Rosenberg’s lawyer. Were you delivering payments to Samuel Grayson on her behalf?

  The lawyer looked at Joe, though it was Anna who had addressed him. “No. And please do me the kind favor of not mentioning this to her. It’s none of her business.”

  Though he looked more important than Anna, he was, in fact, stupid. He had just revealed his vulnerability. Anna said, “Then for whom were you making the payments?”

  “I won’t answer that. It violates attorney–client privilege.”

  Joe stood and leaned on Mr. Stevens’s desk. “You may as well answer, Mr. Stevens. I can get your bank records and see who’s paid you. Then we’ll investigate everyone on that list, including Mrs. Rosenberg. We’ll go visit them late at night when we know they’ll be home. Take them down to the station for questioning. So tell me, why were you making the payments?”

  “I don’t know.” The lawyer’s face had turned red, and a trickle of sweat dribbled down from his helmet of hair.

  “Why don’t I tell you,” said Anna. “Your mystery client is a patron of the Jonquil bath house. He buys the company of minor girls, contributing to the delinquency of minors. Samuel Grayson, who used to work at the Jonquil, was extorting him. Now someone, most likely your client, has murdered Samuel Grayson. So, you had better tell us everything you know.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “Was Samuel Grayson extorting anyone else?” asked Joe. “He had a lot of nice things . . .”

  Anna made a face. “Well, not nice things, exactly.”

  “Not through me.” The self-important lawyer wore a solemn expression.

  “Not Mrs. Rosenberg?” Joe asked.

  “If Grayson was blackmailing her, she paid him in cash. It wasn’t going into his bank account. It would have shown up on his statements,” said Anna. “But we know he had other targets. It only follows . . .”

  “If Mrs. Rosenberg was being blackmailed, she didn’t involve me,” said Mr. Stevens.

  “How many men pay for sex at the Jonquil Resort?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know. Over the last two years . . . twenty or more,” said Mr. Stevens.

  Anna gave Joe a hard look. “So, we have twenty murder suspects. Twenty. I count, one, two—”

  “I got it Anna.”

  Out on the street Joe turned Anna to face him and looked her in the eye. “Anna, you should recuse yourself from this investigation. You can’t investigate your own brother.”

  “If I were formally on this investigation, I would most certainly recuse myself. But since my contributions are unrecognized, I don’t bear that burden.” She shook him off and clipped down the sidewalk.

  He called after her, “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t turn around. “Same place you are. The Jonquil.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Anna made the Jonquil Café in time for lunch. The palm in the corner was dead. No one had watered it in the wake of the raid. A few scattered girls sat among the tables. This time, Anna flashed her police matron badge at the maître d’—a different man than before. “I need to speak with Flossie. I don’t know her last name.”

  “There is no one called Flossie here,” he said, unimpressed.

  No one cared if you were a matron. They only cared if you were a cop. “Fine,” said Anna. “Table for one.”

  Anna sat in a booth and ordered albondigas because one couldn’t think if one’s stomach was empty, and she needed to plot her next move. Thus, she ordered a second bowl, and a third. For after, she ordered pie.

  “Put this on Mr. King’s tab.”

  “Certainly,” said the waiter.

  Fueled by meatballs, Anna’s mind whirred. When she’d gone undercover at Canary Cottage, she’d learned that brothel girls used fake names. What if Flossie also used a fake name? She hailed a waiter. “Do you know my friend? She came here from Oklahoma with Samuel Grayson?”

  “You mean Samara Mowrey?” The waiter pointed to a table.

  There sat the young lady Anna had interviewed before when she had been incognito, when Joe had punched Clyde Owen, who had insulted Anna’s virtue.

  Mr. King’s lover. Mr. King, also known as the Black Pearl.

  Anna crossed the room and sat down at her table. “Should I call you Samara or Flossie? Or Samara Flossie? Or Flossie Samara?”

  The girl said, “You’re not a resident. You’re with the police.”

  “Correct,” said Anna. The girl was no fool. Anna took note. “You fought with your fellow, Samuel Grayson, and you broke it off with him.”

  “He has atrocious taste.”

  “Yes.” Anna cocked her head from side to side, weighing whether this was justification enough. She decided it was. “I see your point.”

  “Besides, he’s already taken up with another girl. Maybe even before we split up. I didn’t think he was the cheating type, but what do I know?”

  “Which girl?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I would shoot him.”

  “Pardon.”

  “I would shoot him in the head, and let his body lie where it fell until it was covered with ants.”

  The lady blinked at Anna. “I quit him, not the other way around. Our parting was for the best. It’s always for the best. Shortly after, I took up with someone else, too. I told you about him.”

  “I thought he was merely a client.”

  “He’s my future husband.”

  Anna looked on her finger. She wore that unfortunate diamond ring. The stone was enormous, but badly cut and with flaws that made it appear cloudy.

  “Congratulations. So, you’ve stopped speaking to him?”

  “Who, Samuel? What is there to talk about? I have a new lover. Someone better able to take care of me. We’re getting married. It’s what every girl dreams about.”

  Anna knew that wasn’t true. “Do you know his real name now that you’re engaged?”

  “Oh, not formally engaged. But it’s just a matter of time.”

  “What is his name?”

  The lady’s smile faltered. “I . . .”

  “You still don’t know?” Anna shook her head slowly and tut tutted. “Now that’s a shame.”

  A boy, maybe twelve, came shyly up to the table. “Miss Mowrey, where is Mr. King?”

  “Why do you want to see him?” asked Anna.

  “He always gives me cigarettes.”

  “How very kind,” said Anna. “But we don’t know where Mr. King is or if he’s ever coming back.”

  Samara Flossie stood, glaring at Anna. “And to think I used to like you. Excuse me.” She threw her napkin down on the table and stomped out of the caf�
�, passing Joe Singer, who was on his way in.

  The boy looked guilty, as if he had upset the lady.

  Anna said, “Never mind her. Can you describe Mr. King for me? What color is his hair? Or does he even have hair?”

  The boy looked at her suspiciously and scampered off toward the kitchen.

  “Wait!” called Anna. I’ll give you cigarettes.”

  He disappeared through the door.

  Joe spotted Anna and sauntered to her table. “We already interviewed him. He’s been coached. We got nothing.”

  “You’re running late,” said Anna.

  “I was interviewing Mrs. Rosenberg again. What did you learn?”

  “Samara is Flossie. She believes her lover, Mr. King, is going to marry her. He’s given her a truly ugly diamond ring, which is proof that Mr. King is not Georges. A Blanc would never buy a ring that ugly. What did Mrs. Rosenberg say?”

  “She says Samuel Grayson used to work in the café. He had a sweetheart at the apartments—Samara Mowrey. The girl quit him, so Mrs. Rosenberg fired him.”

  Anna tapped her lips scanning the café, then gestured with her chin. “That girl.”

  “What about her?”

  “Samara Flossie said he took up with another girl. I’m betting it’s her.”

  The girl in question was a natural beauty, though it was hard to tell beneath all her ornamentation. She had clearly dyed her hair, and the color of her gown jolted the senses.

  “So the evidence suggests,” Anna continued.

  “You think she goes with his settee,” Joe said.

  Anna shook her head solemnly. “Nothing goes with that settee.”

  “Let’s talk to her.”

  Anna and Joe strolled to the garish lady’s table. She was deep in conversation with a female dining companion. Joe cleared his throat and flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Singer with the LAPD and this is Assistant Matron Blanc.”

  “Excuse us, but we need to talk to you,” said Anna.

  The second young lady swallowed her words and stood up, making an obnoxious noise with her chair. Then, she fled, walking unmannerly fast across the café. Joe turned as if to pursue her, but Anna caught his arm. “No. I’m sure it’s this one.”

  The garish young woman asked, “Why me?”

  Joe said, “We need to question you regarding the murder of Samuel Grayson.”

  Joe looked every bit the detective, his lush mouth could be carved of stone. His dimples could be cups of justice. His mysterious cock stand slept, but she knew it was there, waiting for her to forgive him so it could rise again. But she couldn’t forgive him, though Georges was only one in a field of twenty-some murder suspects. And besides, Joe hadn’t apologized.

  The lady screeched, “He’s dead?”

  It snapped Anna out of her daydream and back into the world of fighting crime.

  Joe said, “Maybe you’d be more comfortable discussing this in private.”

  Anna looked about them. “Actually, there’s no need.” The other patrons, those sitting nearby, had up and left when Joe flashed his badge. No one cleared a room of the nefarious quite like the LAPD. Of course, the LAPD were their own brand of nefarious.

  Now they had the waitstaff to themselves. Anna smiled, “Two Coca-Colas, please.” She looked at the young lady who was struggling to compose herself. “Make that three.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Rosenberg?” The girl demanded.

  “Mrs. Rosenberg is in jail, so you had better talk,” said Joe.

  “Let’s be civil and wait for our sodas. How are you?” said Anna, looking at Joe.

  “I’m in hell.”

  Anna smiled tightly. “And you, Miss . . . I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced.”

  “Brown. I’m Edna Brown. What have I done to gain the attention of the police?”

  The waiter appeared and slid their sodas in front of them.

  “Now talk. You had an affair with Mr. Grayson,” said Anna.

  “No. He was handsome, sure, and we talked sometimes. But he never laid a hand on me.”

  “You’d have made a lovely couple.”

  “It was just a rumor. No substance to it at all. I have my own lover.”

  “What’s his name?”

  She shrugged. “His alias, you mean? I call him Jack. Why?”

  “He’s a suspect.”

  The girl shook her head. “Jack knows I didn’t sleep with Samuel Grayson. Besides, he’s not the jealous type.”

  “Then, how did this rumor get started?”

  “Mrs. Rosenberg started the rumor, and I owed Mrs. Rosenberg a favor, so I kept quiet. I don’t know why.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Rosenberg picked you because you matched Mr. Grayson’s settee, so to speak. Of course he’d be attracted to you, which makes the rumor believable.”

  “All I know is that I’m sorry he’s dead. He was nice to me.”

  Anna and Joe waited for the Red Car. Anna scribbled in her notebook: Jack sleeps with Miss Brown, who has bad taste and thinks Samuel Grayson is nice. Mrs. Rosenberg started the rumor that Miss Brown slept with Grayson. Samara Flossie is practically engaged and has an ugly ring.

  Joe paced. “What did you think of her reaction to the news?”

  “I don’t know. She could just be a good actress.”

  “How did Samara, I mean Flossie react?”

  Anna thought for a moment. “I never told her. I never told her he was dead.”

  “I have a theory.”

  “What?” asked Anna.

  “I think Mrs. Rosenberg wanted Grayson off the property so that Samara Flossie would be all alone, so she could lure her into prostitution. That’s why she started the rumor.”

  “So, we can add Mrs. Rosenberg to the long list of people who may have wanted Grayson dead: A loan shark, Miss Brown’s lover, Samara Flossie’s father, the lawyer’s mystery client, and every man who’s ever frequented the Jonquil Café or resort, including the man from Mars. So, you can take the heat right off my brother.”

  “Anna, what about the other charge? Kidnapping? Contributing to the downfall of a minor. It would help his case if you could find him.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Anna selected an exquisite tooled leather purse with flowering vines and the image of a peacock. She chose it because it was the least expensive of all her purses—though it had been very expensive—and it was roomy enough to keep her gun. She dressed in her worst dress, which was yellow and actually quite stunning. After solving the Chinatown trunk murder, Anna was intimately acquainted with the most dangerous beat in the city, with its muddy streets tramped by men and almost no women. Most of the Chinese men wore loose-fitting tunics and pants in dark hues. She knew she would stand out like a daffodil in the mud. But stealth was not her objective. She came to exonerate Georges, wherever he might be.

  She rode the trolley to the Plaza, adjacent to Chinatown and crossed to Los Angeles Street. The cheerful lanterns from Chinese New Year no longer swung from the eaves. The quarter resembled a run-down Wild West town, but instead of cowboys, there were Chinese men with long black braids. Vendors from the morning produce market were packing up, and wagons dispersed, leaving the ground littered with vegetable waste and horse manure. Being there again, Anna felt panic fluttering in her chest, a remnant from the riot, the tong war, and the deaths she had witnessed. She stopped and collected herself for a moment, simply breathing. She took the gun from her purse and secreted it away in her skirt pocket.

  Mr. Jones’s still operated his herbal remedy shop on the corner. She would like to see him again and peeked in the window, but a different fellow was manning the till. She wandered down Los Angeles Street to the burned-out hull that was once the Presbyterian Mission. Its tragedy had compelled her, though it was blocks out of her way. Anna crossed herself.

  She cut down to Alameda Street. The gun swished among her flounces as she walked. Most of the gambling, drinking, and whoring done in Los Angeles was done on the fifteen or so streets and a
lleys that made up Chinatown. The city was deliberately zoned that way, whether the Chinese liked it or not. Chances are, Samuel Grayson played cards here, on Alameda Street. Every second shop was a front for a lottery, fan tan parlor, house of ill repute, or opium den, but Anna knew Samuel’s game. He played poker. Most joints offered the normal fare—poker, fan tan, lotteries—all illegal, all under the protection of the mayor, the police chief, and the Chinatown Squad, who took their cut. Ladies were not allowed, except in secret backrooms with separate entrances. She would go door-to-door until she found a gambling joint that offered poker, and where the proprietor recognized the picture of poor dead Samuel.

  Anna went window to window, peering inside, her guts in a knot. The first three establishments were Chinese-only—at least she saw no other races. Each time, curious faces peered back at her, and one old proprietor shooed her away, waving his hands and speaking sharply in Chinese. Anna skedaddled. The fourth saloon had black paint over the windows. She cleared a hole in the paint with her fingernail and peeked through. Mexican, white, and black patrons were watching a woman in harem pants dance with a large white snake, her midriff bare. No gambling. Fascinated, Anna lingered to watch the dancer skillfully rolling her hips and writhing with the snake, until a man, spotting Anna’s eye, covered the hole with his hand.

  White and brown men played poker in the fifth establishment. Anna eschewed the back door because she didn’t believe in back doors. Graciously, the man behind the bar spoke to her as he threw her out. But he didn’t recognize the name Samuel Grayson, nor the photograph.

  The next saloon, the Cock of the Walk, nestled between what purported to be a barber shop and a brothel. Anna arrived at the front entrance just as an Indian was being manhandled out. She felt a camaraderie with the man. It was illegal to sell liquor to Indians, just like it was illegal to serve women in bars.

  Anna swung through the door. All eyes rested on her, disapproving. She maintained her poise, chin tilted toward the tin ceiling and bellied up to the bar. She showed the bartender Samuel’s photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”