TEN
It took a while to calm him down. Sergeant Farrell shooed Wanda in three minutes later, when she and Landers came back, and she got Mrs. Gomez out and down to First Aid; Hackett came in and cowed Guido considerably by mere looks. Within ten minutes he was talking, sullen, reluctant, resentful, but talking.
They spelled it out for him that they knew there were three of them, and he came out with two names, Jay Folger, Bruce Hardwick. "We met up the semester I went to L.A.C.C. Goddamn it, you got me you’re sure as hell goin’ to get them-they been pullin’ break-ins up in Hollywood for the bread, I wasn’t in on that, I swear." He gave them addresses: Emmett Terrace, Alta Loma Drive, "Jay, he drove me home one night, we saw that crazy old lady Miller lives at the end o’ the block on her way home, he says have some fun with the old scarecrow, and we- No, we never got any loot off them, it was just for kicks. God-damned old creeps, think they know it all, tell everybody else how to live- But that night-that night-I never knew it was a priest, till I saw his clothes."
Mendoza held up the crucifix. "How about this?"
Guido shivered and looked away. "I grabbed it-and then I was afraid, after, to hock it or anything. I shoulda put it in the trash, got rid of it, but I-and the Goddamned old woman-"
Mendoza sighed deeply and dropped it on his desk.
"Take him away, Art," he said. "I do get so tired of the punks, the brainless louts."
Palliser was back then, and they all went up to Hollywood after Jay Folger and Bruce Hardwick. They didn’t find either one. At the address on Emmett, a flustered middle-aged woman told them, "I don’t know when either of them’ll be home, Jay or his father-l’m just the house-keeper-Mr. Folger travels a lot for his company, and Jay, goodness knows where he is, he’s got his own car."
At the Alta Loma address, Mrs. Hardwick stared at the badge in Mendoza’s hand and said, "Police? What-what do you want with Bruce?" She was a fake redhead with a foolish face, a slack mouth, and she bleated like a sheep at them. "Bruce wouldn’t do anything wrong, I see he has plenty of money of his own, he wouldn’t-"
"God give me patience," said Mendoza.
Both of them were supposed to be attending L.A.C.C., but when the school was contacted the registrar said they’d both dropped out last semester. Eventually they would show up at their respective homes; the Robbery-Homicide men went up to the Wilcox Street precinct house and talked to Sergeant Barth, who said he’d have a squad car check at intervals, bring them in if they showed.
At least they knew who the pretty boys were; sooner or later they’d be in custody.
Mendoza went home to tell Alison what a successful gadget her Christmas present had proven to be.
With Guido coming apart, they’d have picked up Folger and Hardwick sometime; as it turned out, they were forestalled. Folger and Hardwick were out for some more lighthearted fun in the slums that night, and at nine-fifteen, having left Folger’s sporty Jaguar parked on a side street, they had the misfortune to jump on Miss Maureen O’Connor. Miss O’Connor was tired, on her way home from work at a cafeteria uptown, and she was rather short-tempered by nature anyway.
"Come out at me like a pair of wild men," she told the uniformed men indignantly. "See me limping when I got off the bus, I s’pose, I twisted my ankle in the kitchen, and think they’d snatch my purse and I wouldn’t do nothing-Hah! Fat chance I’d let ’em try! I just let ’em have it, and I bet they think twice, tackle a poor defenseless old woman again!"
"Defenseless?" said the Traffic man to his partner.
"Well, it’s not a very apt word for it. And listen, doesn’t this look like the pair we had the word on at briefing? We better take ’em in to First Aid to start with." Miss O’Connor had felled Folger with one lusty blow of her heavy handbag, I knocking him clean out on the sidewalk, and tripped Hardwick up and sat on him, yelling mightily for cops all the while. A nearby householder had obliged her by calling it in.
So there they were neatly in jail on Saturday morning, and Mendoza and Hackett talked to them, not very long. They were saying various things about Miss O’Connor.
"We had the word out on you already," Mendoza told them. "Your pal Guido told us where to find you."
"That Goddamn-I might’ve known, weak-bellied little spick!" Folger would have been the leader of the three, a dominating crude force like an aura about him. "Ever since we got that damn priest he’s been ready to have kittens-" Hardwick just glowered.
"You do realize it’ll be a charge of Murder One," said Mendoza. "It was just blind luck you only killed one of them. It really doesn’t matter whether you’re inclined to make statements or not." Folger growled and told them where they could go for statements. "So there’s no point in wasting any more time on you two louts." Mendoza looked them up and down contemptuously. "Come on, Art." In the corridor they met Barth, who wanted to talk to the two louts about a few unsolved burglaries. "I wish you joy of them," said Mendoza. "I’m getting old, Barth. These punks without brains or bowels make me sick and tired."
Barth laughed and said, "You haven’t changed in years, Luis. And I hear your wife’s expecting again."
"More than that," said Mendoza. "Talking about moving to a ranch, I gather. And God knows, there are times I feel like buying a thousand acres in the middle of wilderness somewhere and building a fence around it and staying inside. What the hell are we doing at this thankless job?"
When he and Hackett got back to the office Landers was slouched at his desk rereading a report, and followed them into Mendoza’s office. "This Peralta," he said. "No damned loss, but we have to do the routine. I’ve now got statements from three other people besides Ford Robinson that these Kings-Nita and Gerald-were at that disco on Monday night and said they were going to see Peralta. By inference, to see if he had any dream powder. I haven’t turned up anything else. Walter Pepple, across the hall from Peralta, says it might have been two people running away. And the Kings have taken off from their apartment. He had a part-time job at a service station, and the owner says he hasn’t been in all week."
"So maybe we’d better put out an A.P.B.," said Hackett. "They sound likely for the job, Tom. At least we want to talk to them."
"I think so. I just put a query to D.M.V. about the car."
Hackett went out, heading for the sergeants’ office, and met a diffident-looking couple in the hall. "Oh-Mr. and Mrs. Joiner."
"You asked us to come in, sir. Detective Grace said-"
"That’s right," said Hackett. "Come in here." Carla Joiner was Myrtle Hopper’s daughter. Hackett settled them down in front of his desk, and Grace and Higgins came over. The Joiners looked with faint awe at Higgins, that craggy man with COP all but emblazoned all over him, and were dumb before Hackett. Carla was small and pretty, her young husband round-faced and earnest.
"Just as we told you, Mrs. Joiner," said Grace easily, "all we want from you is some idea of what’s missing from your mother’s house."
"Well, there wasn’t much there to steal," said Carla frankly. "Mother wasn’t one for much jewelry or fancy things. But one thing we’d better tell you, her credit cards are gone. You people said we could go through the house yesterday, after you got finished looking around, and as soon as I looked I saw they were gone, she always kept them right in her wallet, and there was still a little change in it but the cards were gone."
"Which are they?"
"A BankAmericard and the gas company card. She was careful about charging, but it was convenient, she always said."