by P. J. Conn
"If it's not too much trouble."
Joe added the possible hit woman card to his bulletin board, but it was difficult to believe if a woman had been hired to kill Matteo, she would have arrived armed only with stiletto heels. He studied the photo of the fur-clad woman. It would have been a great disguise in New York, but she stood out in Los Angeles. It was mistake a professional wouldn't have made.
Constance called at 11:00 o'clock. "Gunnar wants to meet us at Philippe's at noon. He loves the French Dip sandwiches and while I generally avoid places with sawdust on the floor, I like the food too. Do you want to meet us there?"
"Thanks, I sure do." Joe got hungry just thinking about Philippe's sandwiches. He preferred the pork, with the French roll dipped in the roasting pan's drippings. It would be crowded at noon, but he needed to speak with Mr. Ingvild, and a passion for Philippe's sandwiches should put the man at ease.
* * *
Gunnar Ingvild stood six feet four inches tall. His pale blond hair was nearly white, and his eyes were a vivid blue. With his muscular build and dark tan, he could easily have been mistaken for a lumberjack. His deep laugh carried over Philippe's noisy luncheon crowd, and Joe liked him instantly.
The women at the counter not only took orders, but made the sandwiches as well, and collected the money. The lines were long, but moved quickly, and they found good seats at one of the long tables near the front windows. Joe waited until Gunnar had finished his meal to speak.
"I'm investigating Matteo da Milano's murder, and would appreciate your thoughts. Did it appear to you that Matteo was well-liked?"
The Norwegian's accent lent a musical lilt to his words. "He charmed men as easily as women, but I don't know if he had any close friends in the orchestra. He was such a talented musician, and he was admired, or envied, by most. His death is a great loss to all lovers of classical music."
"Is Sean Dermot equally capable?" Joe asked.
Constance took a sip of her lemonade and leaned closer. "Sean has taken Matteo's place, hasn't he?"
"For the time being, yes, but there is an enormous difference between technical proficiency and true artistry. Matteo's talent was a rare gift."
"So Sean can play the right notes, but that isn't enough?" Joe guessed.
"Sadly, no, but it isn't my opinion that truly matters here, but his," Gunnar mused. "If Sean believed he was Matteo's equal, he would have had a powerful motive for murder."
Struck by the Norwegian's insight, Joe glanced toward Constance. "Let's say professional advancement was the motive. There would have been no point in killing Matteo if Sean doubted his talents and thought he would soon be bumped aside by a more accomplished cellist."
"No, he has to believe getting rid of Matteo would allow him to finally come into his own," she posed. "But who was the woman in the fur coat? I've never seen him with a date at any of the after concert parties. She'd have to be far more than a casual date to commit murder for him."
"You doubt he could inspire such a murderous devotion?" Joe asked. He couldn't imagine the mild-manned man even coming close. Matteo could have easily, however, with his magnetic charm.
"Sean is sweet, but no, I can't believe it of him," she answered.
Gunnar glanced over his shoulder, but no one could overhear them above the nearby conversations and laughter. "Do the police regard Sean as a suspect?"
"They don't share their thinking," Joe answered. "Please don't tell anyone what we've discussed today. I'm just considering possible motives, and don't want anyone to believe I'm accusing Sean of being an accessory to murder."
"I understand," Gunnar responded. "Would it be rude to ask if your black eye is related to your work?"
The deep purple shade had faded slightly and taken on a green tinge. "Not at all. I objected when a client took a shot at his wife."
Constance gasped. "Did he kill her?"
"No, but he took a nasty nick out of the bookcase."
* * *
Thursday morning, Joe got a call from Henry Hilburn. "You were right, Joe, the LAPD detectives have had reports of women contract killers. They've largely dismissed the lady killer possibility as absurd, however, which works to the women's advantage. If no one believes women are capable of violence, they won't become suspects in unsolved crimes."
"Thanks, Henry. I don't suppose you know how anyone could get in touch with such a woman."
"I'm not looking, Joe, and I'd advise you not to search for one either. It would be far too easy to insult a woman packing a gun in her purse, and the results could be horrific."
"Thanks, Henry. I see your point."
As soon as he'd hung up, he dialed the number for King's Bail Bonds. Paul King's sister, Jade, answered. "Good morning. This is Joe Ezell. Does Paul have a minute to answer a question or two?"
"I'm sorry, Joe, he's not in. Could I be of some help?"
She was such a lovely young woman, he hated to take advantage, but with murder as a motivation, he did. "I'm researching the idea of a female contract killer. Not that they'd show up at King's Bail Bonds, but do you recall ever hearing a mention of one?"
A brief silence followed as she gathered her thoughts. "Contract killing requires a degree of professionalism we don't see in the women coming here. Besides, a good one, man or woman, would never be caught."
"I'll take that for a no," Joe replied.
"I'll tell Paul you called. Maybe he's heard of one."
"Thank you, Jade. I'm just wondering if such a creature exists, I don't need a name."
"You needn't worry, he wouldn't give you one," she dismissed the thought with a coolly voiced good-bye.
Joe made a fresh pot of coffee, and rocked back in his chair. No one had suggested Black Dahlia's murder might have been the work of a contract killer. It had been a grisly murder if there had ever been one. A man who'd kill, and then chop his victim in half to drain her blood had to be among the very worse of humanity. He'd probably killed more than once, and would continue to kill pretty young women until he was stopped. Joe hoped that would be soon.
Banishing thoughts of the heinous crime, he turned to his bulletin board thinking he probably had the murderer’s name on an index card. It was a chilling thought. He turned the bulletin board to the wall, and left for a long walk to clear his head. He liked the sandwiches at the place he'd found on another extended stroll, and ate his lunch slowly to savor the freshly baked bread, and thick slices of ham and cheese. He took his time getting back to his office, and was surprised to find the door unlocked.
He questioned CC. "I locked my door when I went out for lunch, but found it unlocked now. Did you stop by my office while I was out?"
"No, sir. After my lunch break, I've been cleaning bathrooms. Is something missing?"
"Maybe, I haven't looked yet."
"Well, let's check." When they reached Joe's office door, CC crouched down to study the lock. "Nothing looks wrong, but if someone picked the lock, they would have been careful not to leave any telltale scratches."
"I don't keep money in my desk, so if someone broke in, they must have been badly disappointed."
CC stood and followed Joe into the office. "The painting looks good, and so does the plant. Your new radio is on its table, and the coffee pot is where you leave it. It doesn't look as though anyone came in. Are you sure you locked your door, sir?"
He'd been thinking about suspects when he'd left, but he hadn't been so distracted he'd forget to lock the door on his way out. "Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks, CC. I didn't mean to interrupt your work."
"Don't you worry, Mr. Ezell, my work always waits patiently for me. I'll ask if any of the other tenants has found their office door unlocked."
"Let me know if they have." Joe went over to the window and watched the cars driving by. He might not keep money in his office, but he did have files on all his clients, and someone might have wanted that information.
He opened the file cabinet drawer, and fingered his way through the file tabs. He kept a lis
t of his cases in the first folder, and there were no missing files. Maybe he had left his door unlocked after all. After turning the radio on low, he sat behind his desk and reached for his bulletin board. He'd arranged the 3x5 cards so carefully, but every single one was gone, and the thumbtacks lay scattered on the floor. A tingling chill shot up his spine, as though someone had stepped on his grave.
He'd had names of people involved on the fringes of Matteo da Milano's life, as well as those who'd been close and possessed a motive to kill. Whoever had snuck into his office had no doubt found their own name on the bulletin board, unless it had been one of the Philharmonic wives. No one else would have broken in and taken the cards as a prank.
So what did it mean? Even as a subtle warning, it showed someone must be worried about what he knew, and what he could prove. It was inspiring to be so well thought of, but he didn't want to be popular with the woman who had hammered Matteo to death with a fiercely wielded shoe.
He stood, walked around his desk, and leaned back against the front. Someone he had questioned had begun investigating him. He had nothing to hide, so no one could blackmail him to force him to keep quiet about Matteo's death. A few stolen index cards could be easily replaced, and he'd do that this afternoon. He'd also place a note on the bulletin board every time he left his office to warn whomever had broken in that he'd catch them, and soon.
* * *
Paul King called while Joe was printing names on new cards for his bulletin board. "I hope Jade didn't think my question was absurd, but I'm just curious."
"You know what curiosity did to the cat. Can you meet me at the Golden Bear Lounge at 6 o'clock?"
"I'll be there." Joe hung up thinking whatever Paul knew, it was too dangerous to discuss over the telephone. What had he stepped into now?
* * *
The Golden Bear Lounge was among Paul King's favorites. The dark mahogany paneling and deep green leather booths provided a touch of class. Mitch, the mustachioed bartender, claimed his mother owned the place, but no one had ever met her. Joe was seated at the bar when Paul walked in. He slid onto the barstool beside him, and ordered a scotch and soda.
"Get that black eye working on a case?" he asked.
"I'll not deny it. I should get a make-up kit like the ones they use in the movies to cover the occasional black eye. I could also use one to create disguises."
"Definitely a business expense for a man in your line of work." He raised his glass in a silent salute. "What is it you really want to know?" Paul asked.
The bail bondsman always looked as though he belonged in a display window at an expensive menswear store. Joe admired his classy tastes, but he couldn't afford them. "A woman murdered Matteo da Milano." He showed Paul the photo. Apparently whoever had broken into his office hadn't found it mixed among the other photos in the top drawer of his desk.
"This has to be a goofy disguise for a California woman, but it worked, and she's impossible to identify. It crossed my mind that she might have been hired to do the killing. Several of the possible suspects could afford such a person."
Paul laid the photo on the bar. "There are female contract killers, but I doubt they'd knock on a man's door. From what I've heard, they are more likely to follow a man and strike when he's alone at night. An attractive woman walking a man's way wouldn't alarm him as an approaching man would. He'd be dead before he drew his next breath. Besides, wasn't Matteo bludgeoned? A hit woman wouldn't take a chance the man could over-power her. She'd shoot to kill and walk away."
"So, it's possible to hire a woman contract killer, but she wouldn't have attacked Matteo with a stiletto heel?"
"She killed him with a shoe?" Paul shook his head. "Too many things could have gone wrong, so it looks as though a contract killing is out."
Joe ordered another round for them both. "Have you actually met such a woman?"
Paul responded with a slow smile. "I once dated one. She was a lovely girl from New Orleans with a seductive southern accent. She'd call me when a job brought her to Los Angeles. I intend to marry a Chinese woman, so there was never anything serious between us. I was younger then and enjoyed the risk, but I wouldn't date her today."
It wasn't only the handsomely tailored bespoke suits that set Paul apart. There was a dangerous edge to the slender man, and the bail bondsman had just confirmed it. "I know what you mean. I'm a lot smarter now than I used to be. Thank you. You've been a great help, and I'll cross a contract killer off my list."
"I'm happy to help. LA has so many male contract killers there might be one seated at the end of bar." He laughed when Joe leaned over to look. "I'm joking." He offered his hand and Joe shook it. "Good luck with your case."
Joe certainly needed it. He pocketed the photo and left for home. He'd call Mary Margaret, but not admit he'd gone off on a wild goose chase looking for a contract killer, or that someone had entered his office while he was out. She had enough on her mind planning their wedding, and didn't need him to add to her worries.
* * *
Friday morning, a woman called to demand an immediate appointment. Joe counted to ten. "Yes, that can be arranged. Please give me your name, and a tell me why you need a detective so I can be prepared when you arrive."
"This is Mrs. Adrian Navarro, and I need photos to prove my grandson is a wastrel who doesn't deserve to inherit a cent of my fortune."
Joe loved the description of the boy. He'd seen wastrel in crossword puzzles, but never heard anyone use the term. Mrs. Navarro appeared to be an elderly lady intent upon safeguarding her wealth even from the grave.
"Thank you. Will eleven o'clock work for you?"
"I'll be there," she replied and abruptly hung up.
The office was as neat and clean as always, thanks to CC. Joe got up to straighten the landscape painting, and made certain his bulletin board was hidden from view behind his desk. He doubted Mrs. Navarro would want a cup of coffee, but just in case she did, he made a fresh pot and went downstairs to the drugstore counter to fetch cream and sugar and a handful of napkins. He already had clean spoons in his desk.
At precisely eleven o'clock, Mrs. Navarro's driver, in a chauffeur's navy blue suit and hat, opened the door for her. "Wait on the bench for me, Roger."
"Yes, ma'am, I'll be right here."
Joe stood to greet her. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall and dressed entirely in gently draped black silk. With fluffy white hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was very pretty. He saw she was comfortably seated, and offered coffee.
"No, thank you, but Roger might like some."
Impressed she would care about the chauffeur's comfort, Joe opened the door, and Roger leaped to his feet." Would you care for a cup of coffee while you wait?"
"Yes, thank you, if it's not too much trouble. Just black is fine."
"No trouble at all." Joe poured him a cup and handed it to him. He'd never had anyone wait for a client, and wished he had a magazine to offer. He'd buy one downstairs when he returned the cream and sugar.
"Can't keep good help if you don't treat them right," Mrs. Navarro whispered as Joe returned to his desk. "Constance Remson recommended you very highly."
"How nice of her." He had proven Constance's suspicions about Matteo, even if he'd yet to find who'd slain the cellist.
"My grandson, Timothy, has dropped out of more colleges than I can recall." She handed him a studio photo of him, and he was a handsome kid. "He blames his instructors, of course, rather than his own inability to concentrate. He cannot decide what to study, which exacerbates the matter. He began with engineering, and then went from math to architecture, and now art. He claims no one appreciates him, which is his parents' fault. They granted his every wish, and spoiled him terribly. They nearly ignored Teresa, his sister, and she's doing beautifully at Bryn Mawr."
"Have you considered leaving her the good portion of the inheritance?" he asked.
"That's precisely what I intend to do, but I want to be able to tell Timothy why she's receivin
g the greater share. It isn't only his lack of direction I find appalling, but his pastimes and companions. That's what I want you to document. Not that it will influence Timothy to reform his ways, but perhaps it will give him a moment's pause. I don't dislike the boy. I'm quite fond him, but I'll not fund the extension of his childhood forever."
"I understand," Joe sympathized. He got all the pertinent information from her, as well as a retainer, and opened the office door for her when she was ready to leave. Her chauffeur handed him the empty coffee cup, and held her arm as they made their way down the stairs. Physically, Mrs. Navarro might be becoming frail, but her mind was as sharp as a tack, and he liked her.
* * *
Joe returned the sugar and cream to the drug store, and perused the magazine rack for something that would appeal to everyone, and wouldn't have to be replaced each month. It proved to be a nearly impossible challenge, but he finally settled on a magazine devoted to California history and the state's majestic scenery. It ought to be enough to keep someone entertained for as long as an office visit would take, and the reader might learn something in the bargain.
Dr. Raymond, the pharmacist who owned the building drew Joe aside after he had paid for the magazine. "CC told me someone may have broken into your office yesterday. None of the other offices was entered. Are you sure you didn't leave your door unlocked?"
"Yes, sir. I always lock my door, but only a few index cards I had pinned to a small bulletin board were missing. Whoever did it probably won't be back, and they would have no interest in any of your other tenants."
"Let's hope not, but I don't like that this happened to you. All day people come and go for appointments, and I'll have CC watch for anyone loitering in the hall. We certainly don't want another tragedy happening in the building."
A woman had been murdered in the hallway outside Joe's office, and he was grateful the pharmacist hadn't evicted him immediately. He left before Dr. Raymond could ask how the cards related to one of his cases, because he sure didn't want to discuss murder with the man.
