Destiny of Death

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A nice young man is helping little old ladies with their groceries . . . then stealing their Social Security; an enormous 'ape man' with a face like King Kong is robbing liquor stores; 'Jack the Stripper' is leaving gas-station registers empty . . . and the attendants naked; a pretty Hispanic woman is killed and ethnic tensions are ready to explode; a little girl is mutilated; a cop is fatally shot. Between the weather and the crime wave, Lieutenant Luis Mendoza - the family-man cop - finds shelter at home, knowing that even violence on the streets of Los Angeles eases up . . . eventually. 'A Luis Mendoza mystery means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Timesc

Release date: November 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

“HE WAS AN AWFUL polite young fellow,” said Mrs. Margaret Grimes mournfully. “Like I told you, I was coming home from the market. I
only go to the market about once a week, it’s a kind of chore, what with the arthritis and all.” She looked up at Hackett plaintively; she was a thin little old woman with sparse gray
hair, ill-fitting false teeth. One arm was in a cast, and there were still bruises showing on her face.

The other woman, Mrs. Light, said vigorously, “It’s a disgrace! These awful criminals walking around everywhere—honest people aren’t safe going to the
market—it’s just awful! This used to be a good neighborhood— I was just going out to the market myself, for heaven’s sake, middle of the afternoon, broad daylight, I come
down to the front door, here’s Mrs. Grimes layin’ there with blood on her face, all beat up, and she says he stole her groceries—just awful—”

“Could you give me any idea what he looked like?” asked Hackett.

Mrs. Grimes said doubtfully, “Oh, I don’t know. He was a Negro, but awful light-skinned. A kind of young fellow. See, like I told you, I’d been to the market— I usually
just go once a week because it’s a kind of a chore for me, the nearest one’s up on Beverly and I got to take the bus. I’ve got my little two-wheeled cart, but it only takes one
bag— That’s what I usually get, just one bag— But yesterday there was a sale on a few things, so I got more than usual. Sales on soup, and hamburger, and bread. So I had an extra
bag.” She was lying on the shabby couch in the shabby living room of this old apartment on Benton Way. “Like I told the other officer, I got off the bus on Beverly and I was
walkin’ home, I was tired and I’d be awful glad to get home, I had that extra bag to carry, when he come up to me, and he said—he was awful polite and had a kind of low soft
voice—he says, ma’am, that seems kind of heavy for you, let me carry it—and he took the extra bag and walked along with me, and I just thought it was awful nice of him, you
know— You don’t run across nice friendly people like that so often—and we come up to the apartment building and I thanked him, I said I can take it up from here, and he said
he’d take it to the elevator for me—and we come in and of course there wasn’t anybody around, and it was then he started to hit me, he knocked me down and he kicked me, and he
grabbed my purse—there was still about a hundred dollars left of the Social Security, since I paid the rent—and he took both the bags of groceries—”

“Just awful!” said Mrs. Light. “I called the doctor, we both go to the same doctor, Dr. Bernbaum, and he said to call an ambulance— You don’t get any attention from
doctors nowadays, they can’t be bothered—and at the hospital they said her arm was broken and she’s all beat up, a black eye and I don’t know what all—”

“Could you give me any better description?” asked Hackett again patiently.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Grimes doubtfully. “He was a kind of light-colored Negro like I said. Kind of young. He was sort of thin— Oh, he had on just ordinary
clothes, pants and shirt and a sweater— I don’t know.”

Hackett repressed a sigh. This was the fifth time in three weeks he had listened to a similar tale from counterparts of Mrs. Grimes. The helpful and polite young light-skinned black man had
offered to carry parcels for four other elderly women, had accompanied them home—to two apartment buildings and two single houses—and there attacked them, ransacked their handbags, and
made off with the parcels, in all cases bags of groceries.

He asked more patient questions. “Well, I don’t know as I’d recognize a picture,” said Mrs. Grimes. “I didn’t really take much notice— I just thought he
was a nice polite young fellow—till he did that.”

Dead end, thought Hackett resignedly. The odds were they’d never lay hands on the nice helpful polite young fellow. To date he’d got away with around three hundred bucks—and
the groceries—from the five elderly women, who were all living alone on Social Security. There were no leads as to who he might be, and probably never would be. It was another case where
Robbery-Homicide would file all the paperwork and eventually stash the case in Pending.

He thanked Mrs. Grimes. “I don’t know why you cops don’t catch these awful criminals,” said Mrs. Light.

Hackett could have told her, but it would be a waste of time. He went down to the tiny entrance lobby, belting his trenchcoat. It was a rainy Friday in mid-January; they hadn’t had much
rain as yet this winter, so any was welcome to fill the reservoirs. He had parked a half block away, and dodged through the drizzle to the Monte Carlo, headed back to Parker Center across downtown
Los Angeles.

Robbery-Homicide LAPD had this and that on the agenda to work. He wondered academically if anybody was getting anywhere on any of it: those heisters, and the latest homicide.

It was four-forty when he rode up in the elevator and came in past the switchboard to the Robbery-Homicide office. Sergeant Lake was sitting there staring into space and smoking. “Nothing
new down?” asked Hackett.

“Not so far,” said Lake. “You ever tried to quit cigarettes, Art?”

“Not seriously,” said Hackett. “These medical fads—one year they tell you it’s dangerous to eat ice cream, all the cancer-causing additives, and then next year
they’ve changed their minds— I take it with a grain of salt. Remember all the fuss about cholesterol? Now I understand it’s naturally produced by the body and necessary for normal
good health— Why?”

“Well, damn it,” said Lake, “Caroline’s after me to quit. But it’s hard enough for me to try to keep on a diet as it is—sedentary job—and you quit
smoking, you start to gain weight like crazy.” He looked at his cigarette moodily. “I don’t suppose it does you any good—not that I seem to be subject to respiratory
trouble—but I’ve got enough of a problem keeping the weight down as it is.” A light went up on the switchboard and he plugged in a line. “Robbery-Homicide LAPD, Sergeant
Lake.”

Hackett went on into the big communal detective office and found Mendoza perching one hip on Higgins’ desk. Palliser was hunched over his desk typing a report; Grace was on the phone;
everybody else was out somewhere. It was Galeano’s day off.

“And where have you been?” asked Mendoza. He was looking annoyed; dapper as usual in a silver-gray suit, snowy shirt, and dark tie, he had been running fingers through his sleek
black hair. Hackett told him.

“Nothing there—she wouldn’t recognize a mug shot, and we’re pretty sure he’s not in Records anyway.”

“¡Condenación!” said Mendoza. “And we’ve got more of the same on this punk heister.”

Higgins sat back and massaged his heavy jaw. “That pharmacist was just in, and gave us damn all. Just a kid, he couldn’t begin to give us a description, he thinks dark hair, maybe
seventeen or eighteen, he can’t say about height or weight, he was worrying about the gun.”

“Naturally,” said Hackett, sitting down at his desk. “The punk seems to be a little nervous about the gun.”

“¡Claro está!” said Mendoza sardonically. This was another ongoing thing; the punk with the gun had hit four victims in the last three weeks, two drugstores, a
small liquor store, and an all-night dairy store. They knew about the gun; he had taken a shot at one of the druggists and the lab had got the slug out of the wall; it was an S. and W. .32
automatic. The proprietor of the dairy store said the punk had been nervous— “The way he was waving that gun around, I wasn’t about to make a wrong move, he was hair-trigger, you
know?” But if the estimates about his age were right, he wouldn’t be in Records, and there were no leads on him at all. In the natural course of events, Robbery-Homicide usually had the
ongoing things to work.

Landers trailed in, looking very wet and discouraged, shed his trenchcoat, sat down at his desk, and lit a cigarette.

“At a guess, you’ve wasted the afternoon,” said Mendoza.

“What else?” said Landers.

“It’s a thankless job. She couldn’t tell you anything.”

“Carbon copy, what we heard from the rest of them.” Landers sat back and shut his eyes. He had been out on yet another ongoing case, the rape assaults from the USC campus.

Time was that the University of Southern California had been in a fairly respectable area of the city, but these days the area around it had deteriorated. It was on the edge of Watts and
downtown L.A., and the crime rate was up all over the county, not just downtown. In the last six weeks five USC students had been abducted, assaulted, and raped; one girl was still in a coma at
Cedars-Sinai from a savage beating. From what the victims could say, they figured it was the same pair of men on the last three attacks, but there was no evidence to lean anywhere else. The first
girl had been jumped on her way to the parking lot, just after dark in mid-November, by a lone male described as big and tough; she couldn’t offer any description, he’d been wearing a
ski mask and dark clothes. She’d been beaten savagely and raped. The next one had been caught as she left the college library just after dark a week later. After that the girls had been
warned and nervous, didn’t go roaming the campus after dark; but the third one had been abducted from the parking lot in broad daylight, that time by two men, both described as big and burly,
both wearing ski masks, so possibly one of them was the X on the first two jobs. She had been beaten and raped in the back of the car, and shoved out—as the first two had been—along
Mission Street by the railroad yards. The fourth had been snatched from a bus stop at the corner of Jefferson and Hoover while assorted passersby thought the college kids were playing a practical
joke; she had ended up beaten and raped down by the railroad yards too. And yesterday Marion Bauer had been grabbed outside the college library at seven-thirty in the evening, by two men, and a
couple of hours later shoved out of a car along North Broadway.

“All she could say,” said Landers, “was that she’d been a fool—she’d heard these jokers were around, but she just had to do this research for a paper in her
biology class, and she wasn’t very late leaving the library after all—my God.” He emitted a long stream of blue smoke. “She’s got a broken arm, three cracked ribs, and
concussion. All she can say is they were both big and strong and mean. And I am beat.”

“In fact, more of the same on all counts,” said Mendoza. “All up in the air and nowhere to go. ¡Mil rayos! I think I’m going home.” It was twenty
minutes to six; he stood up, brushing his narrow moustache in unconscious habitual gesture.

“All we’ve got on anything this last week,” said Higgins, “just more damn paperwork.” He hunched his massive shoulders in disgust.

“The way it goes sometimes,” said Hackett.

“For God’s sake don’t be a Pollyanna.” Landers got up wearily and stabbed out his cigarette. “Thank God tomorrow is my day off and I can stay home.”

“If you ever get there,” said Higgins, and Landers snarled at him. Glasser came in and said he was just reporting in at the end of shift, he’d been out chasing heisters all day
with no result at all.

“And tomorrow is also a day,” said Mendoza philosophically. With the weekend coming up, the chances were that they’d be handed a few more heists to work, possibly other things.
Robbery-Homicide was usually busy. He had just gone back to his office for the perennial black Homburg and his coat when a uniformed messenger brought in an official manila envelope from the
coroner’s office. He slit it open, glanced at the contents, and said, “Nada. Nothing we didn’t know, that corpse on skid row last Monday—acute
alcoholism.”

“More paperwork,” said Hackett. “And it’s supposed to go on raining tomorrow.” Mendoza clapped on the Homburg and went out. The rest of them drifted out after him,
down to the elevators. At this time of year it was already dark, the great city all around ablaze with lights, the maze of freeways crowded with homebound traffic. Occasionally all of them wondered
what the hell they were doing here, on the never-ending thankless job in the middle of the second-largest metropolis in the country, with the crime rate rising month by month. They’d all be
glad to get home tonight.

IT WAS SLOW driving in the rain on the freeway and surface streets through Burbank, and when the tall iron gates politely swung open for the Ferrari,
Mendoza was abstractedly glad to get home; he was tired, for no good reason. It couldn’t be, he thought, age; though now he came to think of it, he had a birthday coming up next month. He
couldn’t see the green sweeps of pasture on either side; somewhere the Five Graces—the sheep intended to keep the underbrush eaten down—would be reposing. But outside lights were
on for him at the house, the big Spanish hacienda at the top of the hill; he garaged the car thankfully and went in the rear door. Their surrogate grandmother, Mairí MacTaggart, was busy in
the kitchen and gave him a welcoming smile. “You’ll have time for a dram before dinner, then. It’s a nasty wet night.”

“Good for the pasture,” said Mendoza through a yawn, and collected a jigger of rye before going down the hall to the huge living room. “¿Qué tal,
cariña?”

Alison was ensconced in one of the big armchairs on either side of the hearth, surrounded by cats; the shaggy Old English sheepdog Cedric was curled up at her feet and there was a blazing fire
going. “It’s been a lovely day, darling,” she said. “I didn’t have to go anywhere—I do like a nice rainy day when I can stay in and read and do absolutely
nothing. You look tired—sit down and relax. Oh, well, I’ll have some sherry, but I’ll get it—don’t bother. And for once we can have a peaceful dinner—the twins
are busy with homework—”

“In the first grade?”

“Oh, that Sister Grace is an awful one for homework, according to them.” Alison chuckled. “Just as well—get them into the habit. And the baby went off to sleep without
any fuss at all. You might put another log on the fire.”

Mendoza squinted up at her fondly, the firelight turning her red hair to bronze. “Nice to be home,” he said through another yawn. “Sometimes I get fed up with the damn job,
mi vida.”

“Sit down and relax,” said Alison. “Dinner’s in half an hour.”

LANDERS DIDN’T get home until seven-thirty. After the rat race of the freeway, in the pouring rain, he felt more dead than alive when he pulled
into the driveway and dodged through the rain to the house. In the kitchen Phil was sitting at the table nursing the baby; he bent to kiss her and she said, “You need a drink. Go in and sit
down, I’ll get it. And I won’t say it again—it’s all my fault.”

“All right, it is,” said Landers. He trailed down to the living room and collapsed in the big armchair; she brought him a highball and sat down opposite him. For once the baby was
quiet, nursing. The baby had decided to arrive a couple of weeks early, in mid-December a month ago, and had turned out to be Sara Ellen, a bouncing and vociferous baby with a good deal of black
hair and a pair of healthy lungs. Phil—whose parents hadn’t known she would turn into a policewoman when they christened her Phillipa Rosemary—would be on maternity leave until
June. But it wasn’t the baby who had occasioned their current problem.

“Me being the penny pincher,” said Phil as she’d said a hundred times before. “You tried to tell me.”

Landers said, “Um,” and leaned back and shut his eyes. “Azusa. Well, here we are.”

Azusa, of course, was just too far away. Real-estate prices being what they were anywhere closer in, Phil had seized on the place as a bargain; it needed a good deal done to it, but she had
argued robustly that they could do everything themselves in time. They hadn’t been moved in a week before it was evident that it had been a disastrous mistake. Azusa was just too far from
everything. It took Landers an hour and a half to get into the office and back, hitting the rush-hour traffic on the freeway coming and going. The house was falling apart. It was two miles to the
nearest supermarket and Phil’s car was on it last legs.

“We’ll just have to hope that that real-estate women can find a buyer in a hurry,” she said mournfully. “We could find some sort of apartment for a while until we can
locate a possible house.”

“Um,” said Landers again, sipping his drink gratefully. “You know the place was on the market for a year before we were fools enough to buy it.”

“Don’t rub it in. I know. We can just hope.” The baby uttered a loud belch and suddenly Phil giggled. “I suppose years from now we’ll be laughing about
it.”

“Probably,” said Landers. “Right now I’m just glad it’s my day off tomorrow. I think I’ll stay in bed all day. I also think I’d like another drink
before dinner.”

IT WAS PIGGOT’S night off. Bob Schenke and Rich Conway came on night watch a few minutes early. The rain had slackened
slightly, and the forecast was confused; it might go on raining tomorrow or it might not. Time would tell.

They hadn’t settled down for five minutes before they got a call, and surprisingly it wasn’t from Communications, which relayed any new calls when their switchboard was shut down,
but a straightforward outside call coming through on the phone on Higgins’ desk. Schenke took it.

“Robbery-Homicide LAPD, Detective Schenke.”

“I thought it’d be simpler to call you direct,” said an incisive male voice at the other end. “My name is John Farber—Dr. John Farber. I’m calling to report a
homicide, and it looks fairly unusual to me, I think you’ll want to do your full routine on it. The man was a patient of mine, and I couldn’t say what killed him without an autopsy. But
in the circumstances, I think you’d better have a good look at it.”

“Yes, sir? Where are you calling from?”

Farber gave him the address crisply, Valentine Street. “Not that I want to tell you your business, but I did a stint in the coroner’s office before I opened my own practice, and I
know your routine. I really think you’d better turn out the lab and do some looking around in depth on this one. It’s got me beat. I’ve got the scene preserved for you, as they
say,” and he gave a short laugh. “No point calling the morgue wagon right away, the man’s going to stay dead. What happened, the wife called me when she came home and found him,
and I was late at the office—had an emergency patient. I was so flabbergasted when I heard what she had to say, I came right around to have a look. And it damn well looks fishy to me. I got
the wife into my car and came up here to the nearest public phone to call you. We’ll meet you at the house.”

Dr. Farber sounded as if he knew what he was talking about, but Schenke thought they’d take a look before routing out the lab on a civilian’s say-so. He said, “Yes, sir.
There’ll be somebody there directly.” Somebody had to mind the store, with the weekend coming up they could expect more heists and other deviltry. Schenke left Conway to wait for
possible other calls, and went out to see what this was.

The address was on an old block mostly of small single houses, a couple of apartment buildings; the number Farber had given was a single house, an old stucco cracker box of a place. There was a
car sitting in front of it; when Schenke pulled up beyond it, two people got out of the car and approached him.

“Farber. You’re—?”

“Schenke. What’s this all about, Doctor?”

The woman beside Farber was sniffling into a handkerchief. Farber turned to her and said in a gentler voice, “See here, Mrs. Maulden, you can’t do anything right now. Suppose you sit
in the car and let me talk to the detective.”

“All right,” she said in a muffled voice. It had stopped raining, but it was very cold in the street, with a sharp wind. “It’s been an awful shock—he was just like
himself when I left for work this morning, he’d had a good night, no pain at all, and then to find him like that—and you know he’d never have done it himself, Doctor—it was
an awful shock— Well, whatever you say, whatever you think best.”

Farber took her back to the car and rejoined Schenke on the walk leading up to the little house. He was a short, square, heavy-sho. . .