The Double-Time Slide: A Dieselpunk Adventure (The Crossover Case Files Book 2)

by Richard Levesque

  “Fingerprints are unique,” she said. “Even among identical siblings.”

  “Is that so?” I asked, wondering how the same held true for the same person in two separate worlds.

  “Prints form after conception but before birth,” McNulty said. “Little differences in the womb make the differences in identical siblings, maybe more so in triplets.”

  “Well,” I said, “you learn something new every day.”

  “I try to,” said McNulty.

  O’Neal continued. “We squeezed pretty hard on the one we’re making for Lang’s killer, but he wouldn’t pop. One of the others eventually flipped, though, and said the same one who killed Ross also killed Mercy. So, we’ve got two down for the three killings. We made a deal with the talker to testify in exchange for not being charged as an accessory, and then we’ll turn him over to the German consulate for deportation as soon as the trial’s over.”

  “And in the mean time? He’s loose on the streets?”

  “Protective custody. Don’t worry, Jed. He’s not going to sneak up on you during the night.”

  “And Elsa?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve got eyes out for her. You see her, give me a shout. My guess, though?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s gone. Maybe she found another way to get to Mexico. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere else. But she’s not one of your worries any more. At least not for now.”

  I nodded and thanked her, not entirely reassured but neither was I truly alarmed at what she’d said. From what I knew about Elsa Schwartz, I was sure she wouldn’t let go of her desire to finish me off, but I also knew she wasn’t likely to take unnecessary risks to do it. She was a servant of the Reich, first and foremost. Killing Jed Strait was a side project, and for now it seemed like she was going to do whatever it took to let the dust settle from the whole mess with the assassins. I knew I wasn’t done with her, or she done with me, but for now, things were all right.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  After the funeral, I forced myself to push thoughts of Elsa aside, as I still had loose ends to tie up with Mullen Peale, a subject Carmelita was not likely to allow me to leave idle for long. I went over everything we had on the case and listened once more to all of Carmelita’s theories. Then I took a lunch break to mull it all over a bit longer before heading back to the office to collect my mechanical assistant and make one more trip to Hollywood.

  It turned out that the main gate at Paragon Pictures was right across the street from the Hollywood Cemetery. The spires and obelisks and ornate mausoleums that marked the final resting places of the LA and Hollywood elite going back several decades could be seen jutting above the wall that surrounded the grounds, the stark reminders of mortality making an odd contrast with the world of make-believe beyond the gates on the other side of the street.

  Anticipating a problem, I parked near the cemetery gates and switched seats with Carmelita. Before giving her the go-ahead to pull into the studio entrance, I coached her on what to say to the security guard who sat in an ornate little kiosk beside the gate.

  “Carmelita Garcia here to see Mullen Peale,” she said when the guard asked her business. Then, just as I’d suggested, she added, “It’s a personal matter.”

  The guard was gray-haired and round faced, probably a retired cop. He nodded at Carmelita, whom I’d advised to give the guard her best bedroom eyes while she spoke to him. “Hang on a second,” he said, his tone more nervous than when he’d first spoken to her.

  I watched as he picked up the phone in his booth and dialed a number. Once his fingers had done their job on the phone, his eyes turned back to Carmelita and didn’t leave them again as he waited for someone to pick up the line. Then he was saying, “This is Jonesy at the front gate. There’s a woman here for you, Mr. Peale. Carmelita Garcia. She says it’s…Yes, sir.” The guard nodded. Then he repeated, “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  He hung up the phone without looking away from Carmelita and then finally peeled his gaze free of her, looking like he’d just lost a million dollars. Then he extricated himself from the kiosk and walked to the gate, which he opened and waved us through.

  “Nice work,” I said once we were in.

  “You’re exploiting me, you know?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “There are better ways to get things done.”

  “You may be right,” I said as I leaned forward in the seat and looked for signs pointing the way to the screenwriting department. “But you’ll probably find that method works the quickest. You have the kind of eyes that men feel like they’ll fall into if they’re not careful.”

  “They don’t seem to work on you.”

  “I’m immune,” I said but didn’t elaborate. Pointing, I changed the subject and said, “Make a left up there.”

  She did and soon we were driving between two large soundstages. Actors and other workers were moving among the buildings as well, and I thought I spotted a few famous ones walking with a man who was handling a seven-foot boa constrictor. They all looked bored, even the snake. At one point, we had to pause while a woman led a troupe of four child actors all dressed in identical sailor suits across the narrow road in front of us, and once we’d freed ourselves of that delay I saw a smaller building ahead with a sign above its door that read “Writers’ Row.”

  “There we go,” I said. “Find somewhere to park around here.”

  A small lot was near the south end of the building, and Carmelita parked my shabby Winslow next to the fancy cars in the lot. Then we got out and headed back to the main door of the writers’ building. As we went, I noticed Carmelita fiddling with something in her purse.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Just checking on something,” she said.

  I was not in the habit of scrutinizing Carmelita’s purse; regardless, I couldn’t help noticing that it looked like its sides were bulging.

  “What have you got in there?” I asked.

  “It’s a personal matter,” she said, echoing what she’d told the guard at the gate and then trying to skewer me with the same lascivious look.

  I rolled my eyes and kept walking.

  Inside the building was a long corridor and lots of office doors. I saw no reception area and no secretary. This made sense, I supposed, as it was a place of work filled with people who knew where they belonged or where they were going, not often frequented by outsiders who could have benefitted from a lobby and a central authority figure to direct them. We were the only ones in the hallway, and all I could hear were the sounds of several typewriters clacking and dinging away behind closed doors. Carmelita and I stood still for a moment once we got inside, and after taking a look around, I tapped her elbow and nodded. “Let’s go.”

  We moved along the corridor, both of us reading names on doors. I didn’t see a sign with Ginny Flynn’s name on it, nor did I see where Felix Madrigal’s office had been. I did see Mullen Peale’s, though. It was in the middle of the hallway on the left, and the door was closed.

  “You knock,” I whispered.

  She did while I stood off to the side.

  Seconds later, the door opened. Mullen Peale looked at Carmelita with smug superiority, and then he saw me standing next to the doorway. His face fell. “Mr. Strait,” he said with the smallest nod he could muster. Then he stepped aside and let us into his office.

  Peggy had said it looked like he was moving, and I saw that she’d been right. Boxes were stacked on the floor of the tiny office, and the shelves that lined the walls were bare. The beige paint on the walls had spaces where the color was lighter, indicating that picture frames had recently been removed. The only thing about the office that looked like it was still functioning was the typewriter on the desk and the nearly overflowing ashtray beside it.

  Mullen walked around the desk and sat down. There was another chair opposite the desk, and Carmelita took this one without being invited to sit. She hung her purse on the chair and folded her hands in her l
ap.

  Without a seat for myself, I said, “You mind if I pull up a box?”

  Mullen gave me a look of contempt and then waved his hand in the affirmative. I tested one of the boxes to see if it seemed solid. It was heavy, probably filled with books. When I sat on it, I was a few feet away from Carmelita but able to get a good look at the screenwriter on the other side of the desk.

  Before either Mullen or I could say anything more, Carmelita surprised me by taking the lead. “Mr. Mullen Peale,” she said. “That is your correct name, is it not?”

  Mullen and I looked at each other, confused. I felt certain that something had gone sour with Carmelita’s programming and had no idea what Mullen might have been thinking.

  “Yes,” he managed after a moment.

  “And we are meeting in your office at Paragon Pictures on Wednesday, the ninth of March, 1949.”

  “What is this?” Peale asked. “Am I being deposed or something?”

  “No,” I said, doing my best to sound reassuring. “Carmelita is just being thorough is all. For our records.”

  “For your records,” Mullen repeated, skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes,” Carmelita said. “Can you answer the question as to location and date?”

  “Yes,” he said after another moment’s hesitation. “That’s all…correct.” Then, to me, he said, “Are you sure this bird is flying on all feathers?”

  “Absolutely,” I said even though I had serious doubts about what was happening with Carmelita. Maybe the bullet from the previous morning really had done some damage, perhaps shearing in two a few wires that didn’t affect her basic functioning but which were starting to affect some of her secondary processes. Worrying that her malfunctioning was going to be one more thing I’d have to deal with before this whole adventure was finished, I nevertheless managed to change the subject back to the reason we’d come to Hollywood, saying, “I think we need to get down to business now.”

  Mullen cleared his throat. “I suppose you’ve come for your money,” he said.

  “That, and we’ve got a couple of questions for you still.”

  “I don’t see what you could possibly have to ask me about. Didn’t we make everything clear in the restaurant the other day?”

  “Mostly clear,” I said. “The money, though.”

  He gave me a little nod and didn’t take his eyes off mine as he said, “Your secretary came by with a bill on Monday. I’m not sure you earned the money you’re claiming I owe you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. And I’ll take you to court if I need to.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a waste of your time? A lawyer would cost you more than the amount you’re trying to squeeze out of me.”

  “It’s the principal of the thing. Plus, when I win the case, I’ll also have sued you for legal costs, so it’ll all work out.”

  “Smart guy, aren’t you?”

  “When I have to be.”

  We stared at each other for a few more seconds. Then Mullen broke. With a sigh, he turned in his chair and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a piece of paper. I could see something was paperclipped to it. He pulled the paperclip free, and I saw it had been holding a check in place. His look of contempt shifting into one of disgust, Mullen passed the check over to me and then dropped the first piece of paper back into the drawer. I assumed it was the bill Peggy had presented him with.

  The dollar amount on the check looked right. I folded it in half and put it in my breast pocket. “Thank you,” I said.

  He shrugged. “You can go now. I don’t see why I should answer any of your questions.”

  I nodded at this but made no effort to move from my perch on the man’s moving box.

  “You’re moving, I see,” I said. “Promotion?”

  He glared for a moment and then said, “Yes, actually. Assistant head screenwriter.”

  I nodded and raised my eyebrows to show I was impressed—even though I wasn’t.

  “And Miss Flynn?” I asked. “She get a promotion, too?”

  He cleared his throat and looked a little uncomfortable at this. Then he said, “She did, in fact.”

  “Head screenwriter, I assume?”

  He said nothing.

  “So, Madrigal’s death created sort of a domino effect around here, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Is that why Minnie Flynn killed him?” I asked. “To help her sister? And you just happened to get pulled along?”

  This was the theory Carmelita and I had tossed back and forth the day before, and I had spent time mulling it over. It still seemed like a pretty weak motive for murder, but I didn’t have anything else, so I tossed it in the pool to see if it would float.

  Mullen went pale and I could see he was trying to formulate a comeback, but I kept talking, not wanting to give him a chance.

  “Or did Ginny kill him? Was it Minnie we were tailing up to their parents’ house in the valley every Friday night?”

  “This is preposterous,” Mullen managed to spit out.

  “Maybe. What I’d really like to know is if this assistant head screenwriter position even existed two days ago, or is that something Ginny created once she got moved up to her nice new office? Something the two of you agreed ahead of time that she’d do if you consented to help her knock off Madrigal?”

  “I want you to leave,” Mullen said, anger and a bit of fear in his voice. “I won’t sit here and listen to this…ridiculous talk.”

  I nodded. “We’ll leave.” I looked at Carmelita. “We can head straight over to Hollywood division and give them what we’ve got on Minnie Flynn, right Carmelita?”

  “Yes,” she said, nicely following my lead. “That should work out perfectly.”

  Mullen’s gaze shifted nervously from me to Carmelita and back again. Finally, he said, “You don’t have anything on Minnie.”

  “So, you know who she is,” I said.

  He pointed at Carmelita. “She needs to leave,” he said.

  “That’s not very friendly of you,” I said.

  “She leaves and you tell me what you’ve got on Minnie.”

  “In exchange for…?”

  “I’ll tell you what I know about what happened to Felix.”

  “Why can’t Carmelita stay?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No. Just you and me.”

  “Your word against mine if I decide to go to the cops?” I said. “No Carmelita, no corroboration.” I shrugged and turned to Carmelita. “You mind?”

  “No,” she said, a trace of a smile on her lips. Without another word, she stood, stepped around me, and opened the door to leave. “I’ll be in the car,” she said, and then she was gone, the door closing with a click.

  When I turned my attention away from the door and back to Mullen, I was staring down the barrel of a little .22 caliber handgun, a smaller weapon than the one I had in my trunk but plenty big enough to do damage at this range. He held it in his shaking hand, and when I looked from the gun to his face, I saw beads of sweat had formed on his upper lip.

  “I’d be a lot more comfortable if you’d put that thing away,” I said.

  “Shut up!” he snapped. “What do you have on Minnie?”

  “Those things go off accidentally sometimes, you know? Maybe you could point it over that way just a little while we’re talking.” I pointed to my right and saw then that Carmelita had left her purse hanging on the back of the chair she’d been in. “That way, you could point it back at me pretty easily if you decide I need shooting and, in the event you don’t decide that, everyone’s much safer.”

  “What do you have on her?” he asked again, his voice rising.

  I shook my head. “Gun first, Mullen.”

  He tensed up, and I told myself I was about to get shot, but then he let out his breath and reconsidered. Seconds later, the black hole in the barrel’s tip moved about an inch. I felt myself relax just a little, not having realized how tense I’d become since Carmelita had
left.

  “Go on,” Mullen said.

  I cleared my throat and fed him what I’d learned from Carmelita. “Ginny has a twin sister named Minerva, goes by Minnie. That house you had us set up on was originally purchased jointly by the sisters, but Ginny bought her sister out after a few years. Minnie lives in Phoenix now. Over the last couple of months, she’s been making regular trips to LA, coming in every Friday and staying at the Califia in Hollywood. A desk clerk there is willing to testify to that, and I’m sure the police could subpoena the registry. The same clerk has noticed a man matching Felix Madrigal’s description visiting Minnie most of those evenings.”

  “That’s all you’ve got?” he asked.

  “I’ve also got you hiring me to watch Ginny go up to the San Fernando Valley on those same Fridays and then go back to her place on Saturday mornings, probably around the same time Minnie was in an airship going back to Phoenix.”

  “You can’t prove that.” He looked smug as he said it, whatever fear he’d been terrorizing himself with apparently fading as I spoke.

  “No, but I expect the cops can when I give them all this information. They can subpoena airship records, too. Right now, I expect Minnie isn’t even on their radar. You either, for that matter. At least, not until they get wind of your promotion.”

  “That’s got nothing to do with anything.”

  “You and Ginny both getting promoted at the same time? The dominoes falling just right for you, with Felix’s death being the first piece to fall?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “I don’t think so. There’s also the fact that you hired me to watch Ginny. It’s too clean. You set her up to have an alibi while her sister comes into town and plays peek-a-boo with Felix. Then, this past Friday night, the pattern shifts. The clerk at the Califia sees her check in and then go out again later, against the pattern. And her gentleman caller never shows up. Late at night, she comes back. Then, the next day, Ginny goes to the Califia, visits her sister’s room, and then they both depart. Somewhere in there, Felix Madrigal got some extra ventilation. And it was Minnie who did it. All the cops will need is her motive, and I expect it’s money. She fall on hard times in Phoenix, Mullen? If they look into her bank records, are they going to find an infusion that maybe matches a withdrawal from Ginny’s account?”