Oscar looked over at me and said something that I guessed was in Czech.
I shrugged. "Neither of us speak Czech, but in our house in San Francisco, that's mostly what everyone speaks. We have to remind them sometimes that we don't understand."
Oscar grinned. "Maybe I teach you some? Not hard."
I smiled back. "Maybe."
Oscar walked over to the dining table and looked around. "I do not like room. Very dark."
Benjamin stood and said, "I couldn't agree more." With that, he introduced himself and put his plate on the kitchen counter. Everyone else did the same.
After meeting everyone, Oscar walked back into the kitchen and looked at one of the plates. He asked, "What is this?"
"Breakfast," I replied.
He looked around the kitchen, accusingly, at the rest of us. "Who cook?"
"None of us," I said, "This was from a diner in Sherman Oaks. It wasn't bad."
Oscar picked up a piece of ham and smelled it. He frowned. "Not good."
Tom said, "It was OK. I've had better. What I really need is more coffee."
Oscar nodded. "You strong. You come with me." He waved his hand forward and made his way back into the living room without waiting for Tom to reply.
Carter said, "I'm strong, too." He put his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Come on. Let's see what he has."
. . .
What Oscar had was a station wagon full of groceries. I was never clear as to how he got so much that early in the morning or how he knew what to get. I suspected he'd been talking to Marnie.
He directed its unloading and supervised its unpacking. At one point, Tom looked at me with a carton of milk in his hand and asked, "Who works for who around here?"
"Please, Mr. Tom," said Oscar with a snap of his fingers, "the milk go bad."
Tom grinned at me and put the milk in the big refrigerator.
. . .
Kenneth and Benjamin left in the Mercedes to head downtown to visit Martinelli. Mike and Greg decided Mike needed some summer clothes so they hitched a ride. Tom and Howie headed back down in Tom's car to Beverly Hills to get Howie's motorcycle. That left Carter and me standing in the backyard, looking at the ocean in the distance. It was another warm day.
"What now, Boss?" asked Carter as he rubbed the back of my neck.
I thought about things. There wasn't much of anything to do until later that night. I realized I needed to talk to Ben White about that. He had mentioned a few places but the only specific one had been the beach. I thought it might be a good idea to drop in on him and Jessup at work over at Monumental. Maybe we could have that long-delayed meeting. However, I realized Kenneth would likely kill me if Carter and I went without him. So, we needed to see Kenneth. We could drive downtown and find the two of them at the jail. But then something else occurred to me. I said, "Let's go to church."
"Church?"
I nodded. "Our Lady of something." I was trying to remember the name of the church where the memorial service had been held for the woman Howie had met. I looked up at Carter. "Have you seen a phone book?"
He shook his head. "Let's go look." I followed him inside. We walked into the kitchen where Oscar was taking apart the stove to clean it.
"Yes, Mr. Nick?"
"Have you seen a phone book?"
He nodded. "Yes. Two books. In drawer by phone." He pointed. He was wearing rubber gloves, his coat was off, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. I followed his pointing finger and opened the drawer. Sure enough, there were the two volumes of the Pacific Telephone phone book for Los Angeles right inside. I pulled out the second volume and looked for the church.
As I did, Carter asked, "Did you two talk about how much Oscar's pay is gonna be?"
I shook my head as I found the church name and address. I pulled out my pencil and notepad and wrote them down as Oscar said, "One hundred and twenty for week. Live out."
"What about live in?" asked Carter.
I pocketed my pad and pencil and turned to see Oscar's reaction. "No. Hans will not like."
"Who is Hans?" asked Carter.
"He is my love."
"German?"
Oscar nodded. "Yes. We meet here in Los Angeles before war. He is socialist. He must leave Germany when Nazis start. You understand?"
I nodded as Carter said, "Sure."
"I come to America, to New York, after Germans invade Czechoslovakia. My cousin help me."
Carter asked, "So you've been here for, what, twenty years?"
Oscar blushed. "Eighteen. My language terrible. I know. Hans, he speak very good English. My English better than my German. Hans no like that."
We both laughed. Carter then said, "We'd like to meet Hans."
Oscar shrugged. "He no like big capitalists. So we see."
That made me laugh. I said, "One-twenty is fine. I have a question for you."
"Yes?"
"Did you talk to Marnie LeBeau, my secretary, last night?"
He nodded. "Mr. Blonski call me and tell me about this job. I say yes. Then he tell me call Mr. Haines. Then Mr. Haines tell me call Mrs. LeBeau." He grinned. "She is very nice. We talk a long time." He then frowned. "She is secretary or sister?"
I smiled. "Both. She's been my secretary since '50 and my stepsister since last year. Her mother married my father."
Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "What is the phrase? All in the family?"
I replied, "That's the one." I looked over at Carter and pointed at him with my chin. "Now his mother is going to marry my stepfather."
Oscar looked confused for a moment and then broke into a grin. "This country is very strange to me some of the times."
Carter laughed and said, "You and me both, Oscar. You and me both."
Chapter 36
Our Lady of Loretto R.C. Church
301 North Belmont Avenue
Friday, July 15, 1955
Half past 10 in the morning
Carter and I walked into the dimly lit church sanctuary. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness after the brightness of the morning. There were a couple of ladies seated in the pews. To the right, I saw a tiered shelf of candles, about half of which were lit. Next to the shelf was a small collection box which was padlocked closed. I walked over and pulled out my wallet. I grabbed a hundred, folded it over, and slipped it inside the box.
Just then, a dark man of about 30, dressed in a long black cassock, approached Carter. I heard him whisper, "May I help you, my son?"
As I joined them, Carter answered, "We'd like to ask about one of your parishioners." I felt so proud of him at that moment. He was becoming a great private investigator.
The priest looked from Carter to me and back to Carter. A wave of recognition passed over his face. I sighed and wondered what he would say to us.
He pursed his lips for a moment, seemed to think about something, and then said, "Of course. Let us step into the garden." He extended his hand, inviting us to walk towards a door that had a rim of sunlight around its edges.
We quietly walked in that direction. As I pushed the door open, I was temporarily blinded by the brightness of the sun but kept moving. After a moment, I could see a small garden. In the center was a white stone bench. All the plants were either roses or rosemary. Even in the smog, the garden had an inviting aroma, as a result. I had a feeling there was some symbolism involved, but I had no idea what it was.
The priest, keeping his hands inside the deep pockets of his cassock, stopped by the white bench but didn't sit. "I am Father Patrick. How may I help you?"
I said, "Do you remember a woman by the name of Rose Marie Cabral?"
He frowned, pulled his left hand out, and crossed himself. "Of course. Mrs. Cabral was a very devoted member of our parish. She attended mass most every day."
I asked, "Do you know anything about the hit-and-run accident that killed her?"
He put his left hand back in its pocket, rocked gently on his heels, and closed his eyes for a moment. Although his lips weren't moving
, he seemed to be praying. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at me. It was startling. He seemed to see right through me. "It's very strange. I read in the Times about the fundraiser you held at the Ambassador on Tuesday night for the March of Dimes. While I am very concerned for the states of your souls, I was gratified to see you putting the vastness of your wealth to such a beneficial use." It was one of the kindest and most polite snubs I'd ever received.
In reply, all I could do was nod.
He took in a deep breath and continued, "When I read about this event, my mind was directed to a memory of our dear Mrs. Cabral. At the time, I did not understand the connection. The Holy Spirit does nothing in vain, however. And now you are standing before me, in this sacred garden, and I understand completely."
"You do?" asked Carter, sounding very doubtful.
"Yes, my son, I do." He looked up at Carter for a long moment and with the same expression that he'd given me. I heard Carter draw in his breath in surprise.
After a moment, Father Patrick turned to me and said, "Unfortunately, I cannot help you as much as I would like. Perhaps if you ask me more of your questions, I will be able to answer them. I doubt I can answer them all, but I will do so to the extent I can."
I suddenly realized that the thing he wasn't saying was the Mrs. Cabral must have confessed something to him. And that he couldn't talk about it. I nodded and thought for a moment. I finally decided to repeat my initial question. "Do you know anything about her hit-and-run accident."
Father Patrick nodded. "I know that the police do not believe it was an accident. One of the officers told me that there were no skid marks on the road. I think this means that the driver made no attempt to stop."
"That's right," I said. "Do you know anything about the work that Mrs. Cabral was doing at home to make some extra money?"
He breathed in deeply and looked at me for a long moment. "I have heard from her friends that she was enjoying some new work in the last two years of her life. She never missed a mass in those last two years." He frowned just a little. "She was not as consistent before then."
I nodded. I wasn't really sure why we were there. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit, whatever that meant. I just knew that this priest was the only solid lead we had at the moment.
As I was mulling over what to ask next, Carter piped up. "Did she tell you that she was in the drug distribution racket?"
Although I was surprised by how direct Carter was being, I watched Father Patrick's face. A light bulb seemed to go off over his head. He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. He rocked on his heels and finally said, "In the last month of her life, she came to the church sometimes twice a day, lighting candles and reflecting on the grace of Our Lord. I had a conversation with her in this very garden, outside of the confessional, where we talked about, in a very general way, the importance of respecting the laws of Caesar, as Our Lord commands us to do. She was quite persuasive in her theological—" He stopped and rocked on his heels again. "In her pragmatic argument as to the true meaning of Our Lord's words. She offered that paying the tax was what was meant. I suggested that obeying the laws of the land was also obeying the Word of God. I'm afraid I was unable to persuade her of my argument, at least in terms of our conversation on that day."
As we stood there, in the quiet of the garden, only disturbed by the sound of the Hollywood Freeway off in the distance, I watched as Father Patrick seemed to come to grips with the nature of his talk with Mrs. Cabral. Sadness washed across him. It was like the smog. It was thick and heavy. I could almost touch it. He sighed deeply and said, "Did you know that, on the same day as she died, Mrs. Cabral's house was burgled? From what I understand, it was ransacked but little of actual value was stolen."
That was an interesting coincidence. Yet it wasn't. It made sense that they would want to get rid of any incriminating evidence of her activities. I looked up at the priest.
He nodded slightly. "I'm afraid that is all that I can offer you today, gentlemen."
"Thank you, Father."
Carter added, "Yes, thank you."
Father Patrick looked from Carter to me and said, "Peace be with you both, my sons."
. . .
Neither of us said much on the short drive into downtown. As I parked the Buick in the lot across from the Hall of Justice, I said, "It must be tough being a priest."
As I killed the ignition, Carter put his hand on my thigh. "I love you, Nick."
"I love you, too."
He took my left hand and kissed the back of it. "Thank you for last night."
"For what?"
"For holding me. For letting me fall apart. This case is getting to me."
I nodded. "Me too. We haven't done—"
Carter put his hand over my mouth. "No. I know you've been worrying every night about not getting out and prowling the streets." He took his hand off my mouth.
I grabbed it, kissed the back, and then held it in mine. I could feel the tears start on their way up. "But we should have. Martinelli..." I couldn't say what I'd been thinking for four nights in a row. We were letting him rot in jail.
Carter shook his head. "The key to this case is not in some back-alley flop with a bunch of filthy men and women who are strung out. You know that's where he was going, right? He might have been getting the junk through that phone number, but there was something else going on. Think about what you told me. Whoever was sitting out there with John Taylor and Juan Zane was another up-and-coming star. Just like William was."
I nodded. Carter was right. "Whoever killed William lives inside that house. It could have been Juan Zane, but—"
Before I could finish, Carter said, "Juan Zane is exactly the kind of man to knife someone. I can't see him with a revolver."
I sat back and looked at my husband for a long moment. "That's twice you've done that today."
"What?" he asked with a slight frown. "Interrupted you?"
I shook my head. "No. When we were talking with Father Patrick, you got right to the heart of things. When you asked him whether Mrs. Cabral had ever told him what she was really doing."
He shrugged. "It just seemed obvious."
I nodded. "Right." I slid a little closer to him. "We make a good team, you and me."
He laughed. "You're just now figuring that out? After eight years?"
"That's not what I mean. I've never really seen you at work on an arson investigation. But, Carter Jones, when you take hold of a murder investigation, you're right on it."
He looked faintly embarrassed.
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know. I kinda feel like you're my dad telling me how proud you are."
I snorted. "I am not your dad but I am proud of you even though I don't think I have anything to be proud of. It's not like I had anything to do with this."
Carter looked right at me. "Yes, you did." He looked around the car. "Look at this. I wouldn't have any of this if it weren't for you."
I shrugged and look at the Cadillac parked in front of us. "I don't know about that. If none of this—"
He put his hand on my mouth again. "No. Not again. We covered that already."
He removed his hand and I said, "You're right. We did. But look at it this way. Can you imagine what I would be like if you were Jeffery? Or Mack?"
Carter bit the inside of his lip. He looked nervous. "What do you mean?"
"Can you imagine me and either of them, running around spending money like it's water?"
Carter laughed. "Mack, God bless him, would've had a nervous breakdown." He looked stricken. "Sorry, Nick, I shouldn't have said that."
"No, you're right. He would have. That's why he did what he did. He left me so I would fall in love with Jeffery. He saw the writing on the wall the first day I went to meet with Jeffery the first time. It was a couple of days after we left Treasure Island. After we were demobilized from the Navy. Anyway, I met Mack at a diner after my meeting with Jeffery and he was never the same again. It took him
about ten days to kick me out of his bed. That's when I moved in with Jeffery and you know the rest."
Carter nodded pensively. "Sometimes I think of myself as Mrs. Nick Williams."
I smiled and said, "There are a number of reasons why you wouldn't fit that role"—Carter managed a small grin—"but the main reason is because we're partners. We don't have that kind of marriage. We're equals. The way that men and women should be."
Carter nodded. "Some are. Like your father and Lettie."
I shook my head. "No. Lettie is doing most of the work between the two of them. My father would probably have collapsed by now. Remember how driven he used to be?"
"Yes. And it was mostly for show."
"Right."
"But I think your father is happy this way."
"I do, too. I wish I remembered enough about the old days to compare—"
"I don't think there's any comparison. I believe it when Ed says your mother was a remarkable person but if we were to ask him about Lettie—"
"I'm sure you're right. It's like comparing a nice spring shower to a hurricane."
Carter laughed.
We sat there for a moment, holding hands and looking at each other. I looked around the parking lot. No one was around right at that moment, so I leaned in and kissed Carter on the lips, afraid to linger, but glad I did.
He whispered, "So, again, thank you for last night, Nick."
I put my hand on his face and said, "You're welcome." It sounded hokey but it was on the tip of my tongue, so I said, "Partner."
He kissed me back quickly and, with that, we piled out of the car and made our way into the Hall of Justice.
Chapter 37
Hall of Justice
211 West Temple Street
Friday, July 15, 1955
A quarter before noon
We were back at the information desk for the jail. The same gal who had been working there the morning before was on duty once again. I smiled and said, "Good morning."
She smiled and said, "And how are you today?"
"Fine. I'm looking for two attorneys. Kenneth Wilcox and Benjamin Ross."
"You are?"
The Pitiful Player (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 14) Page 28
