The Body in Griffith Park

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  “Sure.” He poured whiskey into a glass and set it on a tray. “But you gotta leave. You can’t drink here.”

  Anna took the whiskey and tossed it back.

  “I just did.”

  “You have to pay for that.”

  “Why should I pay for a drink that I didn’t drink because women can’t drink here, so how could I possibly have—”

  “Martin!”

  A man emerged from the back wearing a great, drooping mustache. “What is it?”

  “We have a problem.” He nodded his chin toward Anna.

  “Yes, we do, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey I did not drink. I need to speak with the owner.”

  “Let’s get you out of the bar before I get fined.” The man named Martin grabbed Anna by the arm and pulled her through a curtain and into a dark hallway.

  Anna struggled. “Unhand me!”

  He didn’t. “What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for my brother, Samuel Grayson. He owes me money. I know he gambled here.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence. He owes me money, too.”

  “Well you won’t get it now. He’s dead.”

  Martin’s nostrils flared. He had food in his mustache. “What?”

  “So, he owed you a lot of money?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  Anna whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Are you angry about it? Angry enough to kill him?” Joe had said that if you enrage a suspect, they are more likely to lose control of their tongue. Anna continued. “Or did you send someone to do your dirty work for you? Maybe you don’t have the stomach for that sort of thing. Maybe you’re not man enough. I’d guess you’re as squeamish as a little—”

  Martin’s face contorted, and he pushed Anna roughly against the plaster wall. He needed to brush his teeth. His mustache twitched. His eye tooth was black. He ran his hand down her thigh through the layers of her gown and petticoats. “You’re a pretty thing. Maybe you can pay off his debt.”

  Anna’s own hand went into her pocket and drew out her gun. She pressed it into his belly.

  He sneered. “You’d never shoot me.”

  She cocked her rod.

  He took a step backward, but his face retained its offensive expression.

  Anna backed slowly down the hall, passing the open door to the ladies’ section where charity girls drank, trading favors for gifts and liquor.

  “Good evening,” said Anna, because manners were important.

  Martin stalked after her, too proud to admit she might kill him.

  A big redhead slurred, “You okay, sister?”

  Anna smiled politely, keeping her eyes on Martin. “I’m fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Just fine.” She sounded sleepy. Or possibly doped.

  Anna continued edging backward on the rugged planks in her high heeled shoes, past the ladies’ lounge, toward the alley door, keeping her gun up and pointed at the bad man.

  One of the ladies shouted. Martin turned his head toward the sound.

  Anna’s heel hit a snag in the wood. She stumbled awkwardly, jerking her arm, jolting her hand, and squeezing the trigger. The gun went off, bruising her hand with the recoil.

  Martin yelped.

  Half his mustache was gone. The place above his lip paused a moment before seeping blood.

  Anna winced. “Ooh. That might not grow back.”

  Martin grabbed his mouth. Anna ran out the back door that was specifically for ladies, and through the mucky alley, soiling her shoes.

  CHAPTER 28

  Anna slept fitfully in Georges’s empty hotel room until the birds sang and the curtains glowed. She rolled over on the feather bed and moaned, feeling vaguely hysterical, only mostly awake from a Detective Joe Singer dream. They were trapping a criminal together—a man who did unspeakable things. In the dream, the only way to catch the fiend and save their own lives was if Anna and Joe got perfect scores in ring toss. They tried and tried, but never did. Then, she woke up.

  Everything was so simple in dreams. In dreams, Joe loved her. In reality, he simply didn’t. Because if he loved her, he would never try to send her brother to the gallows. She knew in her gut that Georges could never do such heinous things as pimp girls and kill blackmailers. Joe should trust her. He usually did.

  This was Petronilla’s work. Anna and Joe had offended her, spooning on her land. Now they were cursed, and Anna didn’t know how to break it.

  Anna slunk through the door at Central Station at the changing of the shift. Patrolmen came and went or stood about in blue uniforms with brass buttons, leather helmets strapped under their chins.

  Joe, dressed in plain clothes, was waiting to waylay her near the stairs.

  “Busy night?” he asked, unsmiling.

  “No, I just had a quiet dinner, and—”

  Joe grabbed Anna by the hand and spun her to face him. “Shot a guy at the Cock of the Walk. Don’t lie to me Anna. He came in last night with half his mustache missing and a story about some unbelievably gorgeous girl—Samuel Grayson’s sister—shooting him in the lip.”

  “So.” Anna withdrew her hand and shook it out. He had inadvertently squeezed her bruise.

  “So? So?” He threw up his hands. “So, don’t go to Chinatown alone. Don’t interview murder suspects alone. Take me with you.” His cheeks and ears were flushed with anger.

  “Don’t read me the riot act, Detective Singer. You don’t get to be huffy with me. You’ve lost the right. And if you want to fight crime with me, you have to be better company.”

  “Why did you shoot him? Never mind. I know it was an accident. You’re not that good of a shot.”

  Anna stepped closer and poked him in his manly chest. She growled. “Believe you me, it was no accident. He raised my ire, so if I were you, I’d watch your step.”

  Joe’s angry blue eyes burrowed down into her gray ones. They were unmannerly close—too close for a detective and a police matron.

  A patrolman strolled by and cleared his throat, smirking.

  Joe took a step back. “Assistant Matron Blanc, meet me in the kitchen. That’s an order.”

  Anna stormed to the kitchen. Joe followed, shutting and locking the door.

  Joe pulled her into his arms and kissed her until she was week-kneed and breathless. “I’ll come to you tonight.”

  “Yes. Come to me, Joe. Come make love to me where I live now—in Georges’s hotel room.”

  Joe swore and let her go. He paced to the wall and back again.

  “Question the man with half a mustache. He’s the bookie that Samuel owed money to. And for the record, he tried to dishonor me, so I shot him.”

  Joe made a loud anguished sound in the back of his throat that the cops could probably hear out on the floor. “Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He didn’t look all right. He looked a little wild. “I’ll kill him.”

  “I don’t need you to rescue me. I rescued myself. Besides, I don’t want him dead. Let him suffer forever with his silly half mustache because it’s not going to grow back. I scalped him.” She proffered a fleeting smile. “But let’s question him first.”

  Martin, the owner of Cock of the Walk, also had a last name. “Mr. Rooster?” Joe said skeptically.

  “Is he serious?” Anna made a chicken noise, then laughed for a full minute. It relieved her stress a little, so she did it again. Joe laughed at Anna laughing.

  Mr. Rooster didn’t laugh. His asymmetrical moustache made his frown ridiculous.

  “You should learn to laugh at yourself,” said Anna.

  “Shut up you little . . .” The man stopped midsentence when he saw Joe’s murderous expression.

  Anna had been waiting for Joe’s anger, and here it was, splendid and violent red, contorting his face. He was moving slowly and steadily closer to Mr. Rooster.

  The man gulped and quickly backtracked. “I beg your pardon, Miss.”

  Anna wasn’t a
bout to help him.

  Joe grabbed Mr. Rooster by the lapels and sat him up in his chair. “Where were you two weeks ago last Wednesday?”

  Mr. Rooster’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. Finally, he said. “In the county jail.”

  “Biscuits!” said Anna.

  Joe narrowed his eyes. “What was the charge?”

  “I got in a fight.”

  “A cockfight?” Joe deadpanned.

  Anna bent over at the waist and giggled.

  “Whatever got done, I couldn’t have done it,” said Mr. Rooster.

  “He could have hired someone to kill Samuel Grayson,” said Anna. “In fact, he probably did.”

  “Why would I want him dead if he owes me money? I wanted him to pay me back.”

  Anna tapped her lip and looked heavenward. “To punish him? To make an example of him?”

  “Grayson always paid me before.”

  Anna and Joe went into the hallway to confer.

  “I believe him,” said Joe. “Only a fool would loan a gambler five hundred dollars unless he had excellent credit.”

  “Regrettably, I believe him, too.”

  “But we can try him for attempted rape.”

  “No. The defense attorney would tear me apart, given the things that have been written about me in the papers. They made me out to be a . . . bad woman.”

  “Those newspaper stories were discredited, and other newspaper stories vindicated you. You were investigating a murder undercover in the brothels. Not a whore.”

  “You don’t understand. Once a woman is tainted, it never goes away.”

  “So, what do I do?”

  Anna sighed a deep sigh of resignation. “Just let him go.”

  “All right. If you say so. But I’ve got my eye on him.” His face went flat. “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

  “What?”

  “Georges.”

  Anna remained stony silent.

  Joe said, “Well, where is he? Any word?”

  “No.”

  “Are you looking for him?”

  “No. I’m sure he’s just . . . convalescing.”

  “He’s got a court date and a fifty-five-thousand-dollar bond. If he’s innocent, he’d be better off here defending his name. They’ll issue a warrant. He’ll be in contempt of court.”

  “How long does he have?”

  “A month.”

  “All right. I’ll find him.”

  “There’s something you should know . . . My pop has added five patrolmen to help Wolf and me with the investigation into the Jonquil Apartments. Not just Georges. All the men we can identify. Mrs. Rosenberg. Everybody. He’s serious about addressing the girl problem. This morning patrolmen went out to the Jonquil Café, the Jonquil Apartments, and the resort to get a list of the girls’ names to testify. And a list of the male patrons.”

  “Wolf is helping too?”

  “He doesn’t have a choice.”

  “But you do.”

  “Anna, I’m on your side. I’m always on your side.”

  “Hah!” Anna turned her back to him.

  “I’m just trying to protect you. If he’s guilty, I don’t want him anywhere near you. If he’s innocent, I’ll find the real Black Pearl. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Anna searched Georges’s desk for his address book, but it seemed like he’d taken it away with him. She couldn’t call his friends because she didn’t know his friends. She didn’t know anyone who knew Georges except perhaps her ex-fiancé, Edgar Wright, who she would never call upon unless she was thoroughly drunk or desperate. She called Georges’s lawyer, Earl Rogers. A little girl answered the phone. Mr. Rogers wasn’t in, but the girl said she would take a message.

  Anna set down the phone and pressed her forehead with the heel of her hand, thinking. Where could Georges be? She wondered if her father knew.

  There was only one way to find out.

  She took the trolley to Angel’s Flight, then took the funicular up to the top of Bunker Hill and walked the rest of the way to the Blanc Mansion. Though in need of maintenance, it remained one of the grandest houses in Los Angeles—an architectural gem, surrounded by gardens, and with views of the city all the way out to the sea.

  Anna knocked on the enormous door, coming for the first time as a visitor. The butler answered and gawked at her like an incredulous hillbilly.

  “Do close your mouth, Robin,” said Anna.

  “I’m sorry miss. I didn’t expect you.”

  “Is my father at home?”

  “No, he’s out.”

  Her father’s servants claimed he was out every time Anna called on the telephone. They were, no doubt, under orders. But she didn’t think Robin was lying. Her father’s auto was not in the drive, and she couldn’t smell his telltale cigar.

  She thanked the butler and began trudging down the drive toward Angel’s Flight. As she rode the funicular down the hill she noted the Fremont Hotel where Georges had said he and his mother used to live when he was in Los Angeles six months of every year. Where was his mother staying now? Maybe in France, or maybe not. Maybe she was staying at the Fremont Hotel.

  The Fremont Hotel had been stylish years ago when Georges and his mother had first moved in. It still had a faded glory, but Anna could understand why Georges had sought greener pastures. The question was, had his mother?

  “Is there a Miss Devereaux in residence,” she asked the clerk at the front desk.

  “Mrs. Jeanne Devereaux?” he asked.

  Anna blushed. “Yes, I meant, ‘Mrs.’”

  The Mrs. must be a ruse to cover the shame of unwed motherhood. If she had married, she would bear a new name, and she wouldn’t live here in this hotel, supported by Anna’s faithless father and now, no doubt, Georges. Was she still beautiful? She must be well past forty. Had she stayed for the money or for love? Georges had said their father had loved his mother. What about her. Had she loved the volatile, brilliant, unfaithful Christopher Blanc? Did she still?

  “She just left,” said the clerk.

  Anna’s shoulders sagged.

  “She’s never here in the evenings.”

  “Why not?” said Anna.

  “She goes to church. I know because she’s always inviting everyone.”

  Anna perked up. It was an odd pastime for a French mistress, but it could work in Anna’s favor. If Anna were lucky, she could perhaps arrange an introduction through the priest, who would surely be on her side. “Which church?”

  “The Azusa Street Mission.”

  Anna borrowed the clerk’s City Directory and found the address of the church to be 312 Azusa Street, not far from City Hall. She took a cab, because she could, and she could because of Georges—Georges who she must find.

  The church was a dump, like a big, white, plank box in terrible need of painting. Like something you’d store fish in. Except, the box lived. It veritably shook with sound, like the fish were still flopping, and they were giant sea bass. Anna disembarked. “That can’t be a church.” She looked quizzically back at her cabby, but he was already clip-clopping off in his hansom.

  Music flowed from the box’s windows. She heard no instruments, just voices joined in a rousing chorus. “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine . . .”

  Anna thought the lyrics rather presumptuous, but she resolved to keep an open mind.

  She moved toward the building with a funny feeling in her stomach. This fish box wasn’t like a church at all. The doors opened at her tug, and instead of fishes, strange noises swam out. It was crowded and stank of sweat, breath, and roses.

  Negros and whites mingled together. She noted a few Mexicans and even Chinamen. They swayed together with their hands in the air, singing at the top of their lungs, whether they could hold a tune or not. Tears streamed down a grown white man’s face, and he wasn’t the only one crying. A strapping Negro in a bow tie stood up front and preached, barely audible over the music.

  Then Anna realized why she couldn’t
understand him.

  He wasn’t speaking English.

  She had never known anything like it, not in stories, not in her dreams. The song ended, but not the noises. People prayed out loud, all at the same time, in that same mysterious language that was not English, French, Spanish, Chinese, or Latin, all of which were familiar to Anna. Esperanto perhaps? Or maybe it wasn’t one same language.

  It was holy chaos, so vibrant, she felt it rattling her bones. Could this be Petronilla’s doing? Anna crossed herself and leaned against a wall. She said a silent prayer to Saint Gotteschalk, patron saint of linguists, that he would grant her understanding. He didn’t.

  Every man, woman, and child held a Bible in their hands or had one in their lap. One man waved his in the air, but no one read them. Then all the people hushed, except for the crying man who sobbed into the silence. He looked very ordinary—like someone from a regular church, only blubbering. People swarmed him, put their hands on him, and began to pray in the burbling mystery language, rudely talking over one another. It disconcerted Anna, and she was tempted to turn around and wait back at Jeanne Devereaux’s hotel. But Anna couldn’t risk letting her father’s mistress slip through her fingers. She needed to find Georges, and she needed to find him soon, before he missed his day in court. Joe said so, and Joe Singer never lied.

  A Negro child in a white ruffled dress stood on a chair, shouting out with an authority uncommon for a child her age. She had to be twelve. “Someone here is under the conviction. Someone needs to repent. God sees you. God is calling you.” She turned and, with burning brown eyes, looked straight at Anna.

  Anna glanced behind her, but there was no one behind her. She froze. She wasn’t interested in repenting. Not yet.

  Then a woman made her way forward and hovered near the podium, head bowed in shame. Anna’s shoulders rose and fell as she breathed in relief. Luckily, she was not the only one under conviction.

  The preacher man touched the woman, who must have been very sorry indeed. She collapsed. Anna gasped. She waited for someone to help the lady, but no one did. They just left the woman to lie on the carpet.

  Anna tapped the shoulder of a man next to her. “Excuse me. A Christian is down.”