The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "As I said" —he dropped the cigarette— "I read various publications." He ground out the butt, a black area appearing in the supposed grass beneath his toe. "Our new President Kennedy in his last speech made it clear we need to be doing more to reach the stars for the U.S.A. This Sputnik satellite the Russians put up caught a lot of us sleeping." He winked at the man, but he wasn't sure why.

  "And your company has done work for the State Department before." Finally the dog looked at him, panting. There was the snap of a finger and the dog stopped, then resumed his previous rigid stance.

  Masters leaned forward as if a great weight were upon him. He stared at the ground, his hands pressed together. "As per your reputation, Mr. Easterly, I knew you to be the man for the job."

  He then stared intently at Easterly. Oddly, he seemed to be suppressing a smile as he did so. "An experienced sleuth, and someone from outside who could easily go undercover in my company to ferret out what may be spies in my organization. Because of the press to get our work done, I've made several new hires. And Mr. Easterly, in under three days— sixty-seven hours, to be precise— I need to deliver a top-secret device to the government. I must know if I've been compromised or not. Of course, you can name your price."

  "This is for my country, sir." Yeah, but didn't he have a mortgage he had to help pay? "How will you introduce me?"

  "As the new accountant."

  "What happened to the previous one?"

  "He was murdered."

  Kettle drums suddenly boomed, and a guitar and horn joined in. Easterly frowned as the camera came in tight on his face. Things went black, and when the lights came up again, he was dancing with his wife, Jill Easterly, in their posh living room. Now a swinging jazz number played on the stereo unit: a lot of vibes and strings. Ice melted in two tumblers amid amber liquid on the wet bar.

  She murmured in his ear. "I thought you said walking Sergei was excitement enough, Alex?"

  "I'm just helping out an old friend, dear. Nolan and I were in the army together. And he's asked me to look into how to better the security at his company, that's all." He spun her around. She was a gorgeous woman.

  "Uh-huh, how come you've never mentioned him before?" She came back into his arms. She smelled like flowers.

  "I don't talk about everybody from my past." They danced real slow, his face near hers. He turned to kiss her.

  Her lips were on his. "This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact Masters Electronics is rumored to be aiding our space effort, does it, darling?"

  Alex Easterly frowned, pulling his face back from hers. "Yes, well, that's so, only—"

  She put her arms around his neck. "Do you think I while away my days reading Jane Austen and getting my hair done? Not that you noticed my new hairstyle." She lightly touched the ends of her coiffured locks.

  Alex Easterly suddenly didn't feel like romancing his wife. As if someone were reading his mind, the music abruptly ceased too. But he was so flustered, he didn't notice that it had happened. "It's not that, dear, really. It's simply I didn't want you to be concerned, that's all."

  She walked to the bar and shook a cigarette loose from his pack of Lucky Strikes lying there. She shook two loose and lit one, inserting the thing in his mouth. "Don't you think I might want to know if my husband is facing danger, going up against what may be a spy ring?" She'd lit the other cigarette for herself, talking over it as it dangled from her lipsticked mouth.

  Jill Easterly then sipped from her drink. "Did you think I'd sit home and weep and be hysterical?"

  "No, I know you're an independent woman." He felt as if he was in the dock and she was cross-examining him. This must come from reading that new magazine Cosmopolitan and what not.

  "And didn't you think I might be of some help in this matter, considering some of my investments have been made in Masters Electronics?"

  "I didn't know that," he reluctantly admitted.

  "Of course you didn't, honey." She blew smoke at the ceiling and belted down more alcohol. "You seem to believe that because I inherited money, I just trot down to the bank now and then and draw out some and not think about where it comes from."

  She sat down and crossed her legs, her foot bobbing up and down. "I admit, when Daddy died, I was befuddled as to the whys and wherefores of his steel and shipping empire. Of course, his law firm was very solicitous, helping the little woman figure out all those complex contracts and business relationships." She fluttered her eyes dramatically.

  Alex Easterly sagged against the bar, his hand blindly seeking his own drink. "It's as if I'm seeing you for the first time," he muttered. He drank deeply.

  "Sweetie," she said, "I haven't been hiding anything from you. But you work so hard solving cases— the gaunt woman matter as a good example— and trying to keep me from helping you, you haven't noticed that I've focused my inquisitiveness on other things too."

  Easterly came over to his wife. "And how was it that Masters came to call on me?"

  Jill Easterly inclined her head and puckered her lips. "A word to a friend of a friend. That's how business is done, you know that."

  He had to smile. He sank to one knee beside her chair. "I may be getting long in the tooth, but maybe I can learn a few new tricks, huh, partner?"

  Her fingers played with the nape of his neck. "Yes, that is so, Mr. Easterly." She kissed him tenderly. Then, "I think your going undercover is a good idea. While that takes place, I'll use my entré from the financial end to investigate some of the board members."

  "Any particular suspects?"

  "Oh, not exactly the fellow travelers you and Nolan might be thinking about, my love. There's this Shockman on the board who is brilliant in electronics but dreary in human understanding. In fact, during the war years he was a youth member of the German-American Volksbund. And I have it on solid background he's maintained his crypto-fascist ties. The East may be red, but there are plenty of those with brown shirts still in their closets."

  "You're full of surprises, Mrs. Easterly."

  "Ain't I, though?"

  He rose to fill their drinks. In doing so, he happened to catch their reflections in the mirror on the wall. Absently, he noted the gray in his temples that seemed to have increased since breakfast. At the bar he had to look around again, a troubling notion gnawing at him.

  "What is it dear?"

  "Ah, ruminating on our next steps." In the mirror he blinked at the middle-aged Negro, or was it colored now? He was dressed impeccably: monogrammed sleeves and creased pants. This fellow's arm lifted when Easterly lifted his arm. By George, he was this fellow, and he was mixing drinks for himself and the woman in the chair. And damned if he hadn't paid attention before, but she was Oriental. That was his wife, right?

  "Alex, are you okay? You look distracted."

  "The case, the enormity of it, I guess." As if he were an automaton, he brought her the drink.

  "Umm," she said, taking her glass. She put it on the floor beside the chair and stood. The mellow jazz score started again.

  Hearing the signal, Easterly put his drink down too and began dancing with her again. "He said we had sixty-seven hours," he whispered in her ear.

  "As I said, love," she began, "the answer might not be what you think. The missing doughnuts may be missing because the thief is looking for something else."

  He looked hard at her as a knock sounded at their door. The knock persisted as the fire alarm also went off. Easterly seemed to be moving through hot tar to reach the door. The bell's ringing drowned out all other sound.…

  "Elrod," Monk slurred into the receiver.

  "Oh, you're still sleeping," he asked innocently. "I called over to the office, and Delilah said you'd probably be taking the day off. I guess she said why, but I guess I wasn't listening. This doughnut thing's got me worked up."

  "The times that Moises has been at work don't jibe with the times you've counted doughnuts missing, do they?"

  Elrod was quiet on the other end for several moments.
"Damn, that was pretty good, chief."

  "Then it doesn't look like he's our man," Monk amplified. "He doesn't have a key, right?"

  "No, and he couldn't have had a duplicate made either."

  "Then when the probable has been eliminated, my dear colleague, all we have left is the improbable. Or words to that effect."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Has to be one of the regulars." He yawned.

  "Yeah, I was afraid of that."

  Through the walls Monk could hear a power motor starting up. He was doomed. "Who's been around?"

  "Let's see," the big man rumbled, "Abe Carson, Peter Worthman, and Karen Oh." He snapped his fingers. "And Willie, Willie Brant stopped by too."

  Oh was a defense attorney whom Monk had done some work for. "She's not a regular," he pointed out.

  "No, but I remember her 'cause she asked about you. This was yesterday and you were still out of town." He got quiet again. "You just drove back this morning, didn't you?"

  "Don't sweat it, El D. You've got me curious about the missing doughnuts too."

  "Aw, man, I'm sorry, I should have realized," he apologized.

  "The game is afoot. Okay, from your list the one that doesn't fit is Karen, but she only showed up yesterday. Yet the doughnuts were gone before she showed up."

  "That's right," the big man said on the other end of the line. "She didn't tell me what she wanted, but said she'd try to get a hold of you today."

  "That leaves us with the— hey, what the hell did Willie want? He hardly ever comes by the doughnut shop. I always see him at Kelvin's." Monk was referring to the Abyssinia Barber Shop and Shine Parlor on Broadway in South Central Los Angeles he and Willie, a retired postman, frequented.

  Elrod said, "You know, now that we're talking about it, I'm not sure, but I think Willie was here more than once in the last couple of days."

  "Just to hang out?" Monk wondered aloud.

  "The first time he came in after Abe showed up. They just seemed to be shootin' the shit and all. Willie broke down with his cheap ass and bought a small coffee and then complained about having to pay for a second refill. And," he added ominously, "that was the night I first noticed some chocolate twists had been taken."

  Another power motor joined the first— must be gardener day in Silverlake, he glumly concluded. "Why would Willie steal our goodies, Elrod? He can't be selling them on the side."

  "He might. Should I question him on the sly, like?"

  He didn't have to activate much of his imagination to see how that might go. "Hold off, all right? How could he be sneaking the doughnuts out? If you're not there, Josette or Donnie or Moises is around, right?"

  "Unless one of them is in on it with him." Elrod sounded like Jack Webb drawing in his dragnet.

  "I tell you what, before you start hauling everybody in and putting them under the hot lights, let's sleep on this, dig? Let me catch a few hours of Z's, then I'll come over and we can formulate a plan."

  "A plan is good," the other man concurred.

  Monk, despite his interest in the doughnut caper, could feel the lead weights pulling his eyelids down. "We'll figure it out, Elrod, you'll see."

  "Okay. Get some rest."

  The line went fuzzy, and Monk stretched and scratched himself like a domesticated bear. The mowers were still going, but their engines were like a motorized melody to his overtired body. He lay still, curled up under the covers again. The world went about its business outside the bedroom, and no doubt bad actors were out there doing bad, bad things. And apparently one of them was a reprobate scarfing down his ill-gotten doughnuts. And he was probably washing down Monk's meager profit margins from the shop with cups of exquisite coffee.

  The answers, he reminded himself, would have to wait until he joined the waking again. Although, he advised himself, a cup of coffee would be just the right nectar of nourishment right now. And for him, he could drink the stuff day or night and go right to sleep. He got up and traipsed into the kitchen. Kodama had left the coffeemaker on, and he poured a cup. He walked back to the bedroom carrying the morning L.A. Times.

  Propped against the headboard, he leafed through the paper. In the Calendar section he saw a piece about a new film version being made from Ferguson Cooper's last book, Platinum Jade. This novel was the final in the series of sardonic and surreal tales Cooper had written about two South Side Chicago cops called Tombstone Graves and Hammerhead Smith. Cooper, a black writer who would later reinvent himself with "mainstream" novels about race and class in the seventies and early eighties, would subsequently disavow the hard-boiled books as merely ways to meet the rent while living in Kenya and Cuba.

  But toward the end of his life, Cooper admitted he'd had a lot of fun writing about Graves and Smith, and thus published Platinum Jade in 1983. The book was both running commentary on the coopting of the civil rights movement, women's lib and the Reagan-led backlash against social safety nets, as well as a pretty solid mystery. Monk sipped some coffee and put the paper and cup aside. He stretched and soon his head sagged against the headboard, blissfully sleepy.

  "Carson is a carpenter. Honest Abe they call him. Ain't that sweet?" Hammerhead Smith snickered in his basso profundo voice and tossed aside the bio and photo of the man printed on card stock. He pushed the aged bowler back on his large head, crossing his size-seventeen Stacy Adams on the desk where he'd propped them up. His hand, as large as a car engine's fan, held up the next Criminal Investigations Division print off the desk.

  "Peter Worthman, longtime labor organizer and general rabble-rouser," Smith's partner, Tombstone Graves, illuminated upon eyeballing the photo. "He's operated in some interesting circles over the years: backroom deal making with pols, getting thousands of workers to strike and stay united on the picket line, and been married to more brainy, good-looking women than I can shake your dick at."

  "You the one the chicks go for, man," Smith said, not without a touch of jealousy. "Here I am, all six feet eight big dark burnished inches of me, and with thumbs that are, shall we say, longish." He winked, chomping on the smoldering cigar in his mouth. "But no, you with your Savile Row and St. Laurent suits, alligator and ostrich skin ankle boots…"

  The dig was coming, but Graves didn't mind, so much now anyway. It was his gruff partner's way of saying he liked him. "But to top it all off" —Smith flapped the file card in the air— "that bullet-scarred mug of yours seems to actually turn the ladies on. They love to feel your scars, Je-sus."

  "Back to the case," Graves said, hiding his ego boost. "Worthman can be ruthless, so we can't rule him out."

  Smith unlimbered his brogans from the table and straightened in his chair. "He's no pie-card union fat cat sitting on his can collecting his worker's cut from their dues check-offs,"

  "Spoken like the son of a city hall clerk that you are," Graves said, adjusting his gold chain-mail cuff link.

  "My point, fashion plate, is why in the hell would Worthman— hell, any of these supposed suspects— be involved in the theft of sixty-seven assorted doughnuts? In fact, why the hell did the Captain assign this goofball penny-ante misdemeanor to us anyway?"

  "Because there's more to it than what's apparent, Sergeant." The new voice belonged to Captain Mitchum. Phones rang, perps and cops bustled and argued, yet there was a quality to his baritone that cut through the institutional din. He was standing near their desks, his lidded eyes at once giving nothing away yet taking in everything. He shoved his hands in the box-style coat he always favored. His barrel chest strained against the coat's buttons.

  "Word just hit the streets that the shop owner where those doughnuts were swiped is offering sixty-seven grand for their return."

  "A thousand dollars a doughnut?" Graves asked rhetorically, gazing at his partner.

  "It would seem," Mitchum confirmed. "Could be there's more missing than icing and jelly."

  "Like something hidden in the doughnuts." Smith shoved the bowler even farther back on his broad forehead.

  "And,
ah" —Mitchum moved the file cards around on the desk— "don't forget that our good counselor Oh also legally goes by the name Kodama." He tapped the woman's card for emphasis.

  Smith was staring at the photos, then suddenly clapped his mammoth hands together. "And she defended Willie Brant."

  "How do you know that?" Graves asked.

  "I was down at the courthouse last week on that Veese matter. So I'm strolling down the hall, and who do I see all huddled up on the bench outside one of the courtrooms but Oh and Brant? Me and her nod at each other and I keep going. But I recognize Brant from his picture here."

  "We got to get out and circulate," Graves said.

  "Keep me posted." In that particular gait of his, Mitchum stepped back into his office, whistling a tune.