by Bill Bernico
Eric held up one hand. “Hold on there, Elliott,” he said. “I didn’t say I was going to keep you out of this, did I?”
“Well,” Elliott said.
“Well, the longer we stand her talking about this, the colder the trail will get. Let’s go.”
Gloria placed a hand on Elliott’s arm. “You be careful, Elliott. Don’t take any chances. You see how willing she was to kill Matt.”
“Don’t worry, Gloria,” Eric assured her. “None of us is going to take any chances with this killer.”
Elliott laid his hand on Gloria’s. “Why don’t you take Olivia home? I’ll catch up with you later.”
Gloria led her daughter down the hall toward the parking lot exit. Elliott walked with Eric to the hospital entrance, where both of their cars waited. Eric paused at his car and turned to Elliott. “How about if we start in front of The Plaid Rabbit? I’ll cruise Melrose and the surrounding main streets and you can start zigzagging up the side streets. We’ll keep in touch on our cells phones in case this woman is monitoring the police band frequency.”
“You got it,” Elliott said and climbed into his car. He and Eric met on the corner of Melrose and Cherokee and waved to each other before driving away. Eric drove west on Melrose while Elliott headed north on Cherokee. He ended up on Santa Monica Boulevard and began backtracking south on the secondary streets until he found himself back on Melrose. Elliott Spent the next hour and a quarter driving up and down the streets near the crime scene. He hadn’t spotted anyone or anything that made him want to take a second look.
Elliott pulled over to the curb, retrieved his city map book and turned to the neighborhood surrounding The Plaid Rabbit coffee shop. He was sure he had covered every block within a mile of the coffee shop. Surely the old woman couldn’t have covered more area than that, unless—unless she had a car parked nearby or caught a cab. The other realization that had occurred to him was that this was not an old woman, but a younger woman made up to look older. She could have walked a lot faster than a real senior citizen. Elliott decided to expand his search to the neighborhood north of Santa Monica Boulevard.
At the corner of Highland and Lexington Elliott spotted a taxi sitting at the curb. A man was just coming out of the drug store carrying a small white bag and walking toward the cab. Elliott pulled up behind the yellow vehicle and got out. He intercepted the man just as he was about to climb back into the cab.
“Excuse me,” Elliott said, holding up his index finger.
The man waved him off. “Sorry, bud,” he said. “I’m off duty. I’m just heading back to the garage. You’ll have to find another cab.”
Elliott shook his head. “No, I don’t need a cab, but I’d like a minute of your time, if you don’t mind.” Elliott retrieved his badge and I.D. and held them up in front of the man’s face, quickly closing the leather case and dropping it back in his pocket. “I’d just like to ask you if you may have picked up a fare in this neighborhood within the past two hours.”
“This whole neighborhood is part of my regular route,” the cabbie said. “I pick up a lot of people during the course of my day.”
“This would have been an old woman carrying a brown paper shopping bag,” Elliott explained. “Do you recall picking up a passenger like that recently?”
The cabbie stopped and thought for a moment and then offered, “There was one woman that fit that description. What about her?”
“Do you have a record of where you picked her up and dropped her off?” Elliott said.
The cabbie opened his front door, placed the white bag on the seat and grabbed his clipboard, running his finger down the page. “Here it is,” he said, stopping on one entry. “Picked her up at Highland and Willoughby at twenty past twelve and dropped her off fifteen minutes later on Sunset, near Las Palmas.”
“Can you describe this woman?” Elliott said.
The cabbie thought for a moment and then offered, “I’d say she was around sixty-five or seventy, kinda fat, wearing a flowered dress and those clunky black shoes that grandmas always wear.”
“Did you see which way she went after you dropped her off?”
The cabbie shook his head. “Nope, I was busy marking it down on my clipboard and didn’t give her a second look. Why?”
“Thanks,” Elliott said and turned back toward his car, opening his cell phone and dialing Eric before he got back in. He got Eric on the second ring.
“You find anything?” Eric said.
“I found a cabbie that says he picked up an old woman near the coffee shop and dropped her on Sunset around the time of the shooting,” Elliott explained. “You want to meet me at Sunset and Las Palmas? That’s where he dropped her off and I think we ought to start canvassing the neighborhood from that point.”
“Stay put, Elliott,” Eric said. “I’m on my way.”
A few minutes later Eric pulled up behind Elliott’s car and got out. Elliott was sitting behind the wheel when Eric opened the passenger side door and slid in next to him. “This is where he dropped her,” Elliott said. “Either she lives in the neighborhood or he was dropping her someplace near where she could have parked a car of her own. He didn’t see her on the street after he’d logged the fare and pulled away, so chances are she didn’t walk up Sunset. How about if we start going door to door on both sides of Las Palmas? I can take the east side of the street and you can take the west. Somebody around here must have seen something.”
Eric nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s do it,” he said and slid out of the car. He and Elliott parted ways at the corner, each man walking south on opposite sides of the street. Elliott walked up to the first door on the corner and rang the bell. Eric did the same from across the street. No one answered the door and Elliott moved on to the second house. A woman in an apron answered the door. She had two small children clinging to her dress like baby possums.
“Yes,” she said, somewhat annoyed by the interruption.
Elliott held up his badge and I.D. and said, “We’re looking into an incident that involved an old lady who may have been carrying a shopping bag. We need to find her and she was last seen in this neighborhood. Would you know anyone like that?”
“No,” the woman said sharply. “Is that it?”
“Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” Elliott moved on to the third house and rang the door bell. When the door opened, Elliott had to shift his gaze downward, to an old man in a wheel chair.
“What do you want?” the man said impatiently.
Elliott held up his identification again and asked if the old man lived here alone or if there was anyone else in the house.
“Why do you want to know?” the old man said.
“Routine investigation,” Elliott said. “We’re looking for an old woman and I just want to talk to her, that’s all.”
“Ain’t seen no one like that around here,” the old man said. “But then I don’t get out much anymore.”
“Do you live here alone, sir?” Elliott asked.
“I can take care of myself,” the man said defiantly. “I don’t need no nursemaid takin’ care of me.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Elliott said and turned away from the man. He was back on the sidewalk before the old man could utter another complaint.
Elliott was about to walk up to the fourth door when he looked across the street to see how far Eric had gotten. He didn’t see Eric at any of the houses on this block. Elliott stood there a moment and waited, in case Eric had gone inside to talk to some home owner. After a few minutes, Elliott got worried and ran across the street to the house directly across from the one he’d stopped in front of. He knocked on the door and was greeted by a middle-aged woman in a bathrobe.
“Excuse me,” Elliott said, “But was there just a policeman here asking about an old woman?”
“Why, yes there was,” the woman said. “He just left here five or ten minutes ago. Why?”
“Did you see which way he went?” Elliott asked.
The woman spread her hands and shrugged. Then, as if remembering, she hiked a thumb to her right. “He went that way,” she said.
“Thank you,” Elliott said and walked south on Las Palmas. He decided to skip the next house and walked two doors south, in the event that Eric had been progressing at a faster rate than Elliott had. Two doors down a man in a business suit answered the door.
“May I help you?” he said to Elliott.
“Yes,” Elliott said, flashing his identification and badge. “My partner and I were canvassing the neighborhood, asking about a woman we’re looking for. Did he stop here?”
“No one’s stopped here beside you, sir,” the man said.
Elliott described the old woman that the cabbie had dropped off on the corner.
“Sounds like you’re describing Beatrice,” the man said.
“Beatrice?”
“Mrs. O’Malley,” the man said, gesturing one door north. “Next door. Sweet old lady, but she kind of a recluse. Keeps to herself a lot.
“Thank you,” Elliott said and doubled back to the house in between. Instead of approaching the front door, Elliott decided to step around to the side of the house and see if he could see into any of the windows. They were all covered by drapes and shades. He had no choice but to try the front door. He walked up onto the front porch and rang the bell, his .38 hidden behind his back in his hand.
The door opened after a few seconds and Elliott found himself face to face with an elderly woman. “Yes, young man,” she said. “Can I help you?”
Something didn’t sound right, Elliott thought. The voice reminded him of a comedian he’d heard on television trying to mimic an old woman’s voice. There wasn’t enough age in this voice. He glanced at the woman’s hair. It was gray, but the straight part down the side was a bit crooked. Elliott’s heart began pounding faster. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” Elliott said, switching strategies. “I’m here about the furnace. We got a call about a central air conditioning unit not working. Do I have the right address?”
“I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong house,” the woman said and began closing the door.
“Isn’t this the Sinclair residence?” Elliott said, trying to stall for time.
The old woman shook her head. “No,” she answered. “They’re three doors down.”
Elliott had pulled that name off the top of his head. It would have to be one hell of a coincidence for there to actually be a family named Sinclair three doors down. “Thank you,” Elliott said. “Sorry to bother you.” He took one last look over the woman’s shoulder and thought he saw a black shoe in the background. He thought he saw it move.
He let it go and turned away, walking toward the sidewalk again as the door closed. He walked south on Las Palmas in case he was being watched and then walked up to the third house south before dashing between the houses and hurrying back to the house he’d just left. He soft-footed it to the back door and tried the knob. It was locked. Elliott snuck along the side of the house, looking for any window with a view inside. He found one with a shade pulled not quite all the way down and looked into what appeared to be a dining room. There he could see Eric lying on the floor, apparently unconscious. The old woman was standing over him with his gun. She turned and laid the gun on the dining room table before crouching next to Eric.
Elliott backed away from the house and duck-walked toward the front door. He could only hope that the woman had neglected to lock it after he’d left. There wasn’t time to call this in and even if there were, by the time backup arrived, it could be too late for Eric. Still crouching, Elliott tiptoed up the three steps and eased the screen door open, his right hand still wrapped around his revolver. He took two deep breaths, waited a second and then slowly and quietly turned the knob. It turned with no resistance and Elliott burst into the room, his .38 out in front of him.
Claire turned quickly toward the commotion, a startled look on her face. The gray wig fell off her head and landed at Eric’s feet. Elliott aimed his .38 at her head and ordered her to freeze where she stood. Claire didn’t move but just stared at Elliott.
“Who are you?” Claire demanded.
“You shot my boy,” Elliott said. “In the booth at that coffee shop on Melrose. That was my son.” He pulled the hammer back as the cylinder rotated into place on the next shell. “Say your prayers, granny.”
“No!” Claire shouted. “Wait. I can give you names. We can make a deal.”
“Dealing time’s over,” Elliott said and kept his eyes on Claire’s. Something in her eyes told Elliott that she had no intention of coming along quietly. Elliott shifted his gaze down at Eric and that was apparently all the edge Clair needed. She turned and made a grab for Eric’s revolver on the dining room table and spun back toward Elliott. Elliott didn’t hesitate for a second and pulled his trigger twice. Claire went down hard between the two men and Eric’s gun skittered across the floor. Elliott hurried to Eric’s side and crouched down next to him. He turned Eric over and noticed a lump on Eric’s forehead. Elliott sat Eric upright as Eric’s eyes fluttered open.
“You all right, buddy?” Elliott said.
“What happened?” Eric said in a weak voice.
Elliott gestured toward the woman on the floor. “That’s the woman who shot Matt,” he said. “She…”
Eric’s eyes got wide as he pulled the .38 from Elliott’s hand and quickly squeezed off another shot over Elliott’s shoulder. Behind him, Elliott could hear a heavy thump on the floor and turned around to see Claire gripping Eric’s gun. She’d never get to use another gun again. Eric’s slug caught her right between her big blue eyes.
“What the…” Elliott said. “I shot her twice. I know I hit her.”
Eric crawled over to where Claire lay and popped open the buttons on her floral dress, pointing at the padding under the garment. “Body armor,” Eric said. “It’s also what made her look thirty pounds heavier and forty years older.”
“What happened here?” Elliott said. “I mean, how’d she get the drop on you?”
Eric blinked again and rubbed his forehead, wincing. “She must have seen me coming up the walk. As soon as she opened the door, she had her gun trained on me and forced me inside. She hit me with the barrel of that gun and that’s about all I can remember until you sat me up.”
“Are you going to be all right, Eric? Do you want me to call an ambulance for you?”
Eric waved him off. “It’s just a bump. Come on, let’s have a look around.” He turned to look down at Claire’s lifeless body. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Elliott helped Eric to his feet and the two men split up, checking different rooms. Eric checked the kitchen and Elliott walked into Claire’s bedroom. He found the brown paper shopping bag behind the door. In it he found clothes like those the waitress at The Plaid Rabbit had described to the police. A gray wig sat on top of the pile of clothes. Elliott carried the bag out to the living room and spread its contents out on the couch cushions.
“Eric,” Elliott said. “Take a look at this.”
Eric returned from the kitchen holding a ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a large chicken. He set it down on the dining room table and stepped over to where Elliott had laid out the clothes. “Same clothes as in the waitress’s description,” he said. “No doubt about it, this is our assassin.” He turned back to the cookie jar and lifted the chicken head lid, revealing folded stacks of hundred dollar bills bound with rubber bands. “There must be a hundred grand or more in there. She’s been a busy girl.”
“I don’t get it,” Elliott said. “She has this old lady disguise in the shopping bag and she’s wearing yet another old lady disguise in her own house. What’s up with that?”
Eric shrugged. “This one is no doubt for the neighbor’s benefit,” he said. “They all probably think some old lady lives here and wouldn’t give her a second thought. They would remember a younger woman living here by herself, though. Pretty clever. Did you find anything to tell us who she
really is?”
Elliott shook his head. “Not yet. I came back out after I found the shopping bag. Let’s have a closer look around this place.”
Eric checked the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet and checking its contents. There were no prescription medicine bottles with any names on them. Just the usual assortment of products any woman might use.
Elliott returned to the bedroom and began sifting through the dresser drawers, finding only more clothes and undergarments. On the night stand next to the bed sat a pair of wax ear plugs in a plastic case, but nothing else. Elliott checked the closet, feeling around on the top shelf, under a pile of sweaters. His hand hit something solid. He pulled out from under the sweaters and examined it before returning to the living room. He could hear Eric in one of the other rooms and walked down the hall to find him rummaging through a desk in what appeared to be a den.
“Anything?” Elliott said.
Eric pulled a small pocket-sized booklet from the desk drawer and opened it. It was a generic notebook, available at almost any store in Los Angeles. Inside he found a list of dollar amounts with two initials next to each amount. The column of numbers hadn’t been totaled yet and the last amount showed the initials W.T. next to it. “William Thomas?” Eric said. He did a mental calculation and whistled. “There are twelve amounts listed here totaling something like three hundred thousand and some change,” he said. “There’s not that much in the cookie jar, so she must be hiding the rest somewhere else in the house.”
Elliott held up the shoe box he’d found on the closet shelf. He opened the cover and tilted the box toward Eric. “Like this?”
Eric looked down into the box and his eyes got wide. “Holy shit. That’s almost enough to tempt me.”
Elliott closed the box again and sighed. “Too bad we’re not that way, Eric. Come on, call this in and let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
“Well, it was fun to imagine it while it lasted anyway,” Eric said. ‘Did you find anything that would identify her?”
