A Well-Kept Family Secret

by Marja McGraw

  “Go ahead. I have to check on something anyway. We’ll finish up here in a few minutes.”

  I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t help myself. Tears slid down my cheeks. I looked at Pete and felt as though a part of me had almost been ripped away.

  He glanced up and saw me crying. He started to laugh. I knew that was a good sign. The laughter was a release for him, and somehow that knowledge made my tears flow faster. Maybe somewhere deep down inside of me I thought if I cried harder, he’d laugh harder.

  “Can’t you turn that off? I swear, you cry over everything.”

  “I was okay until I saw the bandage on your arm. It made me realize how close he came to you. Oh, Pete.” I didn’t say anything else. I grabbed him and hugged until I was sure he probably couldn’t breathe. He didn’t push me away, but hugged back.

  “Break it up, you guys.” Rick entered the kitchen. “You’re making all of us uncomfortable, and we’ve got business to take care of. Now.” I knew he was half joking, but he was right. There were more important things to do than hug each other, and I knew Pete wasn’t seriously injured.

  About that time Alan’s body was wheeled out. “Sorry, but this wasn’t a part of what I had in mind when I started the business.” I was speaking to an EMT who had no idea what I was talking about. This wasn’t the first dead body I’d seen since becoming a P.I., but I sincerely hoped it would be the last.

  I rejoined the officer in the living room and finished giving him my statement. I was rubbing my arms.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Cold. Very cold.”

  “Ah.” Not much sympathy there.

  “Sandi,” Pete called from the kitchen. “Come here.”

  “Yes?” I walked into the kitchen.

  “This is going to take some time, and I’m going to have to go down to the station. Why don’t you go ahead and see Amanda? Let her know what’s happened. I’ll catch up with you either at your apartment or the office.”

  “Yeah, I’d better let her know about this. I don’t think she’ll want to stay here tonight. She can stay at the motel like we originally planned. Maybe she can hire someone to come in and clean this place.”

  “Yeah.” I could tell Pete had quit listening to me, and I couldn’t really blame him.

  “She can’t stay here right now anyway,” Rick said. “It’s a crime scene.”

  “Yeah, there is that. I’ll see you later.” I was about to turn and leave when Pete reached out and placed his hand on my arm.

  “How about you? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I really am. It kind of freaks me out when I think what might have happened if Amanda had walked in here instead of us though.” I shivered.

  “It’s over,” Pete said with finality.

  “What will happen to you now?”

  “They’ll handle it as a homicide investigation until they can put the whole story together. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. The photos you took are going to help.”

  I nodded and left to drive over to the motel. What a waste. Amanda had only gone out with Alan a few times. She barely knew him. She should have had the right to tell him she didn’t want to see him anymore. He tried to take that right away from her, and now he was dead.

  I was ready to return to a hundred-year-old murder and hidden treasure. An old dead body I’d never seen would be easier to deal with than the one that had just been hauled away.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  1898

  Florence awoke the next morning and instinctively knew to remain inconspicuous. She dressed in a hurry and left the house before the quarrelsome old man arose. She didn’t want her living arrangements to change after working so hard to get where she was.

  The signs were there. She knew he was thinking about the other woman, that Jessica. She stamped her foot angrily. Florence had to devise a plan to bring him back to her. She felt he probably had fonder memories of Jessica now that she was dead, that he didn’t remember what a harlot she was, but Florence wouldn’t give up without a fight. In her own mind, she was a much better woman than Jessica had been. She’d convinced herself that she was not a whore like the other women who’d preceded her.

  She’d leave him alone for a couple of days, then turn on the sugar. Florence would make him happy. She knew all the right tricks.

  2003

  I drove to the motel and talked to Amanda, telling her about Alan’s death. It took a moment for the news to sink in. Her expression indicated mixed emotions, both relief and horror.

  “I just don’t understand the whole thing. Why me?” Her little girl voice made me feel like I was dealing with a child. I shook the feeling off.

  “It wasn’t just you. Turns out he’s stalked other women, even putting one in the hospital.”

  “I still don’t understand. Maybe I never will. But if that’s the case, then he shoulda been in jail. It’s, well, I didn’t do anything to bring this on. I only went out with him a coupla times.”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes. Who knows what went through his mind? Maybe the police will dig up more on him.” I figured she didn’t really care if they did or not. It was over, and that was probably all that truly mattered to her.

  “You’re going to want to get someone in to clean up your house before you go home,” I said. “And you won’t be able to go home for a few days. It’s a crime scene so it will be closed off until the police are through with it.

  “I can clean it myself.” She paused, apparently thinking about what I’d told her. “It’s pretty much a mess, huh?”

  “Yes, I think it would probably upset you if you saw it right now. You can stay here, at the motel, until the house is open again. Or maybe you can stay with your friend.”

  “I was gonna go home, but I guess I can’t, and I don’t wanna stay with my friend. She’s got a boyfriend I don’t like. Yeah, I’ll stay here for now. Your mom won’t care, will she?”

  “Mother? No, she won’t care. It was her idea for you to stay here in the first place.”

  “I wish my mom was here right now.” Amanda sounded wistful, and I couldn’t blame her. She could use the support of her mother at that moment. “Why did my mom have to die so young?”

  I had no answer to that question, and it was rhetorical anyway. She made me wish my own mother would hurry up and come back to the city. I had a feeling that Mother’s no-nonsense attitude could have helped both of us.

  “You know, I feel violated,” Amanda said, rubbing her arms. “He was in my house and he did awful things. I’ll never be able to forget it.”

  “You may not forget it, but at least you know he won’t ever be back to bother you again.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  “Yeah, that’s true. But next time I accept a date, I’m gonna give the guy a good going over before I step out with him. Make sure he’s not a nut case, ya know?”

  “I understand.” And I did.

  I left Amanda and returned to the office. It took a while for me to calm down. I tried to drink a cup of coffee, but the caffeine only made things worse. I threw it out and drank some water instead.

  Turning on my computer, I thought maybe I could center my attention on something else. I needed to get back to the old murder. My mother wouldn’t be gone long, and I wanted to be able to show her I’d made some progress when she returned. Good grief. At my age I was still trying to impress my mother.

  I checked my email and discovered a reply from Adrian Praetzellis, the archaeologist I’d contacted. He’d forwarded some information to me.

  I read the email and found myself totally involved in the history of Los Angeles. There was quite a bit to read about the Red Light District and the brothels, along with the general lifestyle of the late 1800s. It appeared to contain everything from their eating habits to waste disposal. There was a virtual plethora of information.

  Around 1850 there were only twenty or so prostitutes in Old Los Angeles. It took about twenty years, but the “oldest profess
ion” had finally taken hold and was becoming a problem for the more prim members of Los Angeles society.

  I’m not sure at what point ol’ Vincente became involved, but along with Bartalo Ballerino, a one-time farmer, and Theobald Bauer, an ex-boxer, he helped rule the area with an iron fist. The three men had taken over.

  The “soiled doves” were multinational, coming from France, Japan, China, Mexico and even Germany. However, the majority were American. It actually made for some interesting reading. A shocking piece of information was that the life expectancy for these women was only about five years after they entered their chosen profession. It seems they ended up in the hospital and died of various diseases or injuries, or committed suicide.

  I’d been reading for about half an hour when the door opened and Pete walked in. He looked pretty ragged.

  I raised my eyebrows in question, but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “I have to go back to headquarters, but I needed a break. They know I’m not going anywhere, and Rick vouched for me.”

  “When do you have to go back?”

  “I told Rick I’d be back in a couple of hours. I need to unwind. I know they’re going above and beyond for me, letting me leave, but – ”

  “You’re right. Rick knows you’ll be back. They know you down there and that you’re one of the good guys. They’ve worked with you and know your ethics.” I didn’t know how to perk him up, and I doubted if anything would work at that moment.

  “I suppose.”

  Maybe I could divert his attention with a history lesson. “I received some of the information about old Los Angeles. Look at this. It’s pretty interesting.”

  “What’s that?” he asked. I passed him a drawing I’d printed that had been included with the historical information.

  “You’re gonna love this. The old parlor-houses were pretty well decorated.”

  “What’s a parlor-house?”

  “That’s a brothel. So anyway, they found pieces of lampshades from the old parlor-houses. One of them has this design on it.” I tapped the drawing with my fingernail. “It’s supposed to be a cameo with a woman’s face in it, probably supposed to be one of the prostitutes. The circle next to it, or connected to it, is a picture of a spider on her web. You remember the old saying, ‘Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly’. Get it?”

  “Got it. Real cute. Guess they had a sense of humor.”

  He wasn’t really interested, but he did make an effort to listen while I read him some of the pertinent parts pertaining to Vincente. I finally gave up and poured him a cup of coffee. He thanked me, but didn’t drink it.

  “I’m tired, Sandi. I feel very, very tired.” Pete’s voice was flat, soft and quiet. My heart went out to him.

  “Pete, Amanda gave us the keys to the house. We had her permission to be there. Alan didn’t. And you shot him in self-defense.”

  “Not really. My finger jerked when he cut my arm and the gun went off accidentally. I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

  “Okay. So you’re in the right, any way the cops look at it. This will be over soon.”

  “I hope so.” He leaned back in his chair, squeezed his eyes shut and ran his fingers through his hair. Sitting up again, he hunched his shoulders upward and tipped his head back, turning it as though trying to work out a kink.

  “Look at it this way. You may have saved Amanda’s life.”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “If she’d gone in instead of us, anything could have happened.”

  “And he never should have been let out on bail. I don’t know if the courts are too busy or what, but people are being put back out on the streets when they should be kept under lock and key.”

  “Whatever. I’d better get back before they come looking for me.” He paused and appeared to be thinking things over. “I’ve never killed a man before. Did you know that very few police officers ever actually have to use their gun? This is the second time for me. But this time I killed a man.”

  “Oh, Pete, I’m so very sorry.” I stood up and walked to him. Taking hold of his hand, I knelt in front of him. I wanted nothing more than to comfort him.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked.

  “They could probably charge me with manslaughter if they wanted to push it, but I don’t think they will. It was an accidental shooting, after all, and I guess it could be considered self-defense. A lot of this will be up to the District Attorney.”

  I stood up and walked to the door with him, and gave him a hug meant to tell him I was there if he needed me. He looked into my eyes and I knew he understood.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, repeating myself. I loved this man. I didn’t want to see him hurting, but there wasn’t really anything I could do except be there for him.

  After he left I returned to my desk and computer. I wasn’t forgetting Pete and his problems, but I needed to get to work. That’s how I dealt with things. I worked. A good distraction was what I needed.

  I discovered that Vincente went beyond the cribs. He also owned parlor-houses. There was a great difference between the way the women lived in the two different places. In the parlor-houses, the women were paid more, they ate decent food, and they lived in the houses. They encouraged the customers to drink as well as partake of their, uh, personal and professional offerings. Meanwhile, in the cribs, the women had to live elsewhere and rent their crib at around seventy to seventy-five dollars per shift, and the crib consisted of one room with a bed, a chair and a washstand.

  By the late 1890s there were hundreds of brick cribs. The brothels were even advertising their services in city directories and tourist publications.

  Hmmm. Late 1890s. The murder took place in 1897.

  I skimmed the rest of the information, planning to go back later and read it more closely. I did discover that in 1903 the infamous Carrie Nation led a march of reformers into the Red Light District. She lectured women in the area, and several even seemed to listen to her. She’d been arrested a few days earlier during one of her marches for “parading without a license”, and left shortly after her visit to the Red Light District. Interesting little tidbit of information. I’d seen caricatures of Carrie Nation wielding her axe in taverns and bars – quite the little reformer.

  Turning off the computer, I decided to go through more of the papers my mother had brought with her.

  I stood up and walked to the front door, needing to stretch my muscles. Glancing out the window, I saw something that made me jump back, out of sight. The black car with no bumper was in the process of parallel parking across the street. I was determined not to lose this guy again. I grabbed my backpack off the desk and ran back to the window. Peeking out, I saw that he was having a problem squeezing his car between two others.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  1897 (One year earlier)

  Vincente returned to the saloon. He quietly spread the word that he would pay well for information about Jessica’s murder.

  He also asked subtle questions about his brother, trying to determine if anyone had witnessed the brawl Miguel had described. No one seemed to know anything about it.

  While talking to the patrons, Vincente caught a glimpse of Dr. Drake coming through the doorway, but when the doctor saw the old man he looked uncomfortable and immediately turned and left. The two men had maintained a relationship, if not a friendship, and when the doctor so suddenly cut his ties with Vincente, it didn’t feel right. This was just one more thing the old man needed to look into.

  After leaving the saloon, Vincente visited the cribs and parlor-houses, collecting his money, always a priority with him.

  The Police Chief found him there and informed him there would be a hearing regarding Jessica’s death the next morning. Although he assured the old man it was only a formality, the Chief radiated a feeling that he didn’t believe in Vincente’s innocence. The Chief knew the old man was more than capable of violence, just like his younger brother. Vincente was le
ss conspicuous than Miguel, less likely to create a public scene, but violence was violence.

  Vincente nodded, indicating he would be there.

  The Chief turned and walked away, shaking his head. He didn’t like the situation. He and his men had taken money from Vincente, but this was different. This was a murder, even if the woman had been one of the town whores. Times were changing, and this couldn’t be swept under the carpet like so much dust.

  2003

  Keeping an eye on the black car, I slipped out the front door. He wasn’t very good at parallel parking, so his attention wasn’t on me or the door, which worked to my advantage. I ran around the building to my car and hid on the far side of it. Watching him through the windows, I waited until he unsuccessfully tried again to force his vehicle into the too small space. I opened the passenger side door and slid across the seats into the driver’s side, or at least tried to. I had to climb over the gearshift.

  Crouching low so he couldn’t see me, I watched him try one last time. He had his window down and I had a good view of him for a change. He had a mean face, dark and heavily lined, with small, squinty eyes. He frowned and slammed his hand on the steering wheel. I started my car as soon as it became apparent he was giving up. I gave him a moment to pull away from the desired parking space before I drove to the parking lot exit. Looking to the left, I could see him about half a block away.

  Traffic was clear, so I pulled out and began to follow him. He was in the outside lane, so I stayed in the inside lane. As soon as a couple of cars pulled up behind him, I moved over and began my own brand of stalking. I was about to find out what this guy’s story was. At the very least, I figured I’d find out something about him.

  After passing a couple of intersections, he turned right. None of the other cars turned behind him. This was the moment when I wished Pete were free to follow in a second car.

  Turning right, I hung back a little. I saw a car waiting to turn out of a side street, so I slowed and let him make his turn, putting the new player between myself and Thick Neck. The new guy seemed to be in a hurry and he caught up to Thick Neck quickly. I thought the car would pass him, but luckily, it didn’t. I moved a little closer.