CHAPTER 3

The wind rose suddenly, carrying with it an ungodly odor.

Joe lifted his head. “What is that smell?”

Anna smelled it too. She gagged a little at the scent—like rotting pork in a sweet sauce.

He groaned. “I’m finally alone with the girl of my dreams, and some creature decides to die in the most romantic spot in the park.”

“It’s probably a possum. Can’t you find it and fling it off the hill with a stick?”

Anna slid off Joe so that he could stand. His hair poked out in odd directions from Anna’s caressing fingers, but he still looked good enough to eat, and the front of his drawers was pooching out most interestingly. She was starting to see the shape of things.

Anna rose gracefully in her drawers and chemise, stuffed her feet into unhooked boots, and took his hand. She wasn’t going to miss one moment of touching him, stench or no. They turned in a circle, sniffing the air.

“It must be upwind.” Joe licked his finger and held it up, then tugged her toward the edge of the hillside and a panoramic view of the city below.

Anna saw a trail of ants marching in a row and followed them. There, near the edge, she saw the source of the smell.

A dead man lay on his side with a hole in his head. His hair and face were covered with ants, as if they found whatever oil his barber used particularly delectable. A revolver lay in his limp, open hand. Los Angeles spread out before him.

“Jupiter, a deado,” said Anna. “It’s the curse.”

“Holy hell.”

“You think somebody corpsed him?”

Joe moved closer, “I don’t know.”

Anna noted that Joe’s underwear no longer pooched out so dramatically. Her own skin had grown suddenly cold. This dead man was killing the mood. Petronilla had foiled her lovemaking with Joe Singer after all, something she’d ached for since he’d first kissed her on a police sting operation last summer. She didn’t know when they’d get the chance again. But while there was nothing in the world she loved more than spooning Joe Singer, there was one thing she loved just as much.

Catching killers.

She might get to help with this case.

Take that Petronilla.

Joe stood reverently. “Looks like he shot himself in the head, poor fellow.”

“Are you sure?” Anna let go of Joe’s hand and squatted, trying to ignore the bare, muscular legs now at eye level, and moved forward, examining the ground like an Indian tracker. She felt a breeze through the split in her two-piece drawers.

“Oh Lord,” said Joe.

“Only one set of footprints, and they are clearly from the victim’s own ant killers, by which I mean feet.”

“Anna, not a step closer. How would I explain your little footprints near the body?”

She stood. “Say you were having a lover’s tryst. They don’t care what you do. Just don’t say you were making love to me. Because they’d hang me.”

He strolled toward the body. “Turn around and walk back.”

Anna’s upper lip twitched and she didn’t move. He was bossing her.

“Sherlock, it’s not worth it.” Joe returned to her side, took a scowling Anna by the hand, and dragged her away from the death scene, back to the blanket and the pile of their clothing. He pecked her on the lips. “Anna, sweetheart, I’m sorry. We’ll hunt for truants another day—”

“We’ll have to find a different spot. This one’s spoiled now.”

“Marry me and we won’t have to find a spot. We could make love every night, all night, in your great big canopy bed. Mornings too. And vacations. Mercy. Think about vacations. We could go to the courthouse tomorrow.”

“Mm,” said Anna, considering. It did sound like heaven.

He bent to pick up his pants and shook them out. “Now, I’m going to hike back to the trailhead and use the call box to send for the coroner’s wagon. You stay here and guard the body in case vultures or a coyote or some hiker stumbles on it. Keep every living thing away from the scene. There better not be any girl footprints when I get back.”

The corner of Anna’s mouth twitched. He was still bossing her.

He appeared to read her thoughts and threw up one exasperated hand. “Sherlock, I outrank you.”

“Just say the footprints belong to some other girl—a lost hiker or . . . or a prostitute—”

“I’m not gonna lie.”

Joe and Anna somberly dressed themselves—an unhappy event, so unlike the joyful removal of their clothing. Anna sighed as she watched him button up his trousers. He smoothed her hair and straightened her tie, but she would not meet his eyes. Then, she watched Joe’s wool-clad backside disappear behind the outcropping. She was alone with the corpse and the ghosts. She stared miserably in the direction of the body, which she could smell but could not see. Now she could neither hunt truants with Joe nor help determine whether the death was suspicious. As usual, Anna was denied everything good. “Curse you back, Petronilla.”

She drew a picture of a gun in the dirt with her toe. She drew a picture of Joe in his underwear with a mysterious point in front. She scanned the sky for vultures, just in case, and saw a condor soaring overhead on giant wings. It was a lovely sight, but she’d rather be looking at the deado. It was a cock shame that she was a woman, because if she were a man, she could make love to Joe Singer and examine dead bodies with impunity. But as she was a woman, the two things she wanted most were denied her.

It wasn’t fair, just like tight corsets, no votes, and submission to husbands.

And so, Anna did what any lady would do in her situation, faced with grave injustice, alone at a potential crime scene that was begging to be investigated.

She tiptoed to the body.

It was a gruesome sight. The man’s head lay turned to the side as if watching the view down the mountain. His face teemed with ants, making it hard to discern his age or features. His thick hair, stiff with pomade, looked absent of gray. His mustache curled up just so. His suit was new and made of fine material, but the color was ugly—some kind of orangey, greenish, brownish herringbone. She checked for a label but found none. No doubt the tailor did not want to own that suit.

Anna circled the body as if she were a dancer and he were her partner of sorts—one with a propensity for vacuous staring. She wrapped her hand in a handkerchief, picked up his hand, and tried to bend his fingers. They held stiff. He remained in the peak of rigor—dead no more than thirty-six hours. Given that his hand was ambient temperature, she thought at least fourteen.

His silk tie was fiercely ugly. The man had money, but no taste—something his family should have contained. Had he no family? Were they dead, estranged, or just far away? She unbuttoned his coat and dug through his pockets. She found no wallet, no calling cards like a gentleman might carry, just a cheap, dirty handkerchief with no monogram and a salacious-looking dime novel that she wouldn’t mind borrowing. In a coat pocket, she found a bottle of headache medicine with the name of a pharmacy in Oklahoma City. A small amount remained. Perhaps his family, who should be monitoring his wardrobe, was yet in Oklahoma. She put the bottle back.

She noted a depression marring the ground beneath his knee. Tiny pebbles stuck to the ugly wool at that knee, partly embedded in the fabric. Anna squatted again to heave the body over to its original position so that his hand once more lay near the gun.

Joe would return any moment, so Anna picked up a branch and swished it over each of her footprints until they were eradicated. Then she tossed sand, gravel, and a handful of dried leaves over the spot to hide the marks.

Then she noticed other smooth spots in the dust.

When Joe returned, Anna was dressed and waiting back in the place he’d left her. “Thanks Sherlock. Now, you’d better get down the mountain before the coroner comes and sees you.”

“I think we should check the gun for fingerprints.”

“Um hm.”

“Remember, ‘Every contact leaves a trace.’”

“I know Locard’s Exchange Principle.”

“Did you read Locard’s L’enquete criminelle? Because it’s in French, and I didn’t think you read French.” “I read a translation.”

“I read the original.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hightail it down the mountain.” He treaded on soft dirt over to the body. He whipped around and glared at her. “Speaking of leaving a trace, Anna, you examined him. I can tell you wiped your footprints away. It’s too smooth here.”

“No. Those aren’t mine.”

“Don’t try to deny it.”

“I’m not denying anything. My wiped-away footprints are on the other side of the body, more artfully disguised and sprinkled with leaves. I’m not the first person to erase my footprints from this crime scene. I will also note that he was kneeling when he shot himself. He died backward execution style—that is, shot in the forehead.” Anna lifted her skirts thigh high and dropped to one knee, knowing very well her stockings would get ruined, but figuring it would be worth it. “If you roll him over, you can see the impression from his knee and the tiny rocks embedded in his pants. His pants are dusty everywhere, but there are only rocks at his knee. Then he fell sideways like this.” She fell, catching herself with her palms. She rolled over and showed Joe the resulting mark on the ground and on her stocking.

Joe considered her carefully. He moved to the body and examined the knee. “You’re right, Sherlock.”

“Of course I’m right. Somebody put him out of business. And I can’t believe, after all we’ve been through, you’re not letting me help.”

“Anna, if they find out we were in the park together, you’d lose your job, and I would never see you. I happen to love you, so just get down the mountain and on the tram before the coroner gets here.”

Anna returned to the station and the sharp scent of convicts and cigarette smoke, wiping her feet vigorously on the mat at the door. She took out her handkerchief and brushed dirt from the tops of her boots. She glanced up to find Wolf observing her closely.

“Where you been Assistant Matron Blanc?” he asked.

“Hunting a truant.”

“You got dirt on your boots.”

“So.”

“What do you bet that when Joe comes through that door, he’ll have dirt on his boots.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I’m a detective, remember? He telephoned from the call box at Griffith Park. Honeybun, if Matron Clemens or Captain Wells suspect you’ve been fraternizing, you’d be fired and there’s nothing I could do to protect you.”

“What if I’m not the fraternizer? What if I’m the fraternizee?”

“Then they’ll blame you for being a distraction. But if Detective Singer is giving you trouble, you come to me.” He grinned, promising trouble of his own.

Matron Clemens clipped over, her white tie starched to perfection. Anna’s tie had dirt on it.

“Good Morning, Detective Wolf. There you are, Assistant Matron Blanc. I’ve been looking for you. Did you accomplish your task?”

“Sure did. Didn’t you, honeybun?” said Wolf.

“Why, yes. I did. Positively,” Anna lied. Truthfully, she hadn’t accomplished her task with the truant or with Joe Singer. “That is, I looked for Eliel Villalobos.”

“Good. That’s all we can do,” said Matron Clemens. “I’m going to address the Friday Morning Women’s Club tomorrow. They are starting an effort to find employment for girls who would like to escape a life of sin, and they’ve asked us to help them. Assistant Matron Blanc, you know some of the girls in the brothels. Are there any you know who might want to change their lives? If you could find someone to give her testimony, I’m sure it would help with fundraising.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Very good.” Matron Clemens clipped away.

Wolf leaned in close to Anna. “I know how you are. You saw the body and you’re going to want to get involved.”

“Of course I want to be involved. He was shot, backward execution style.”

“But you can’t. You’ve got to forget about the body and concentrate on your matron duties. Find jobs for prostitutes. Watch lost kiddies. Look out for lady prisoners.”

“I can do both.”

“I’ll tell you what. If we need to question a female suspect, I’ll ask for you in particular.”