Felony at Random

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A bunch of kids from a Catholic School on a school trip to the Museum of National History seems like a safe day out. But when the nuns counted heads outside the building, young Joyce McCauley was missing. The Feds, believing it to be a snatch, are waiting for the ransom note to turn up. But Lieutenant Luis Mendoza of the LAPD has other suspicions. He has been working with violence and death longer than he cares to remember and has seen it all. Mendoza is certain some nut has kidnapped Joyce, and sets about tracing the girl in his suave, tough and matchless fashion. 'A Luis Mendoza mystery means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Times

Release date: November 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

URBANELY, THE PROSECUTING ATTORNEY STOOD UP for brief cross-examination. He was a spare middle-aged man with an unexpectedly
musical voice. “When this oral confession to the crime was made, Sergeant Palliser, you were alone with the defendant?”

“Yes, sir,” said Palliser.

“But the confession was repeated in your presence and that of another officer?”

“Yes, sir, before Detective Landers and myself.”

“How much later?”

“Approximately ten minutes.”

“I see. And you then informed the defendant of his rights before formally arresting him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” The prosecuting attorney sat down. The judge looked at the clock and then at the attorney for the defense.

“Mr. Gilbert, is it your intention to call any other witnesses?”

The defense attorney half rose courteously. “No, your honor.”

“Then I think we will adjourn for the day, and begin to take the closing presentations tomorrow. Court stands adjourned.”

Palliser left the stand and went down the aisle to rejoin Mendoza in the second row of wooden chairs. There was a little stir as the judge disappeared into his chambers; a bailiff approached the
defendant, who was slouched at the table beside his attorney. The defendant was a tall, thin medium-black man, seemingly uninterested in the proceedings.

“And that,” said Palliser disgustedly, “will drag it on until next week, for God’s sake. Tomorrow being Friday, there’s not a chance it’ll go to the jury
until Monday at least, and how long the jury might take on it—”

“Tenga paciencia,” said Mendoza, cynically amused. “And nice if we could all work a five-hour day, John.” It was barely four o’clock. He stood up; at this
hour there was a blue shadow of beard showing on his long jaw, but the silver-gray Dacron suit, snowy shirt and discreet dark tie were as impeccable as usual. “After seven months,
what’s another few days?”

Palliser growled. “Taxpayers’ money. Still two hours to the end of our shift, I suppose we’d better go back and see what’s happening.”

Mendoza’s eyes followed the defendant being shepherded jailward by the bailiff. He was looking amused and annoyed at once. “Yes,” he said. “The mills of the gods have
nothing on our courts.” They started up for the double doors.

It had been seven months since Steve Smith had been arrested and charged with the rape and murder of Sandra Mosely. The D.A.’s office hadn’t gone for a plea bargain, evidently
wanting to see a dangerous killer get more than token punishment. At the first trial, four months ago, one of the jurors had had a slight heart attack, nullifying all the proceedings up to then.
This trial had got under way last Friday, and with the judge not convening court until eleven A.M. two days this week, now it was bound to go over
at least to next Monday before going to the jury.

Palliser was still muttering as they got into his car and started back the few blocks to Parker Center. Mendoza sat back and lit a philosophic cigarette. It was the last day of July, and as
usual in Los Angeles very hot; with daylight saving, really only the middle of the afternoon, the heat seemed to shimmer visibly off the concrete below and above and on all sides.

At the tall bulk of the police headquarters building they went gratefully back into chill central air conditioning, and rode the elevator up to the Robbery-Homicide office. Sergeant Lake was
slouched at the switchboard in the anteroom reading a paperback; only Jason Grace was in, hunched over his typewriter in the communal office.

“What’s going on?” he echoed Mendoza’s query. “What ever does go on but the same routine? There’s a new body—man dropped dead in front of the Greyhound
bus station. Probably heatstroke or heart attack. Tom went out to break the news to his wife—there was I.D. on him. George and Nick picked up one of the possible heisters, talking to him now.
I don’t know where Glasser and Conway are.” He yawned and brought out a cigarette; his straight-featured chocolate-brown face, with its line of moustache as precise as Mendoza’s,
looked morose. “Thank God, only three weeks more and I go off on vacation.”

Palliser sat down at his desk; there was a report centered on the blotter. He scanned it rapidly and said, “Well, there you are—another handful of nothing. That market clerk came in
to make a statement—here’s Tom’s report—and he gives us just what the other three victims did. Male Caucasian, in the twenties, five ten to six feet, and the same M.O.
Handwritten note, Give me all your money. And a gun. Nobody can say what kind or even how big. Just a gun. What the hell are we supposed to do with that?”

“We are so often asked to make bricks without straw,” said Mendoza. He sat down at Hackett’s desk—this was Hackett’s day off—and contemplated the desk
calendar idly. The doctor had said, and Alison had said, the last week of July; but as of this morning Alison had still been bulging uncomfortably with James-or-Luisa, and very volubly tired of it.
In the last month, she’d been bulging sufficiently that she couldn’t fit behind the wheel of the car to drive, and all the running around and overseeing the work on remodeling her old
estancia had come to a halt—probably, he reflected with a grin, to the relief of the various workmen involved.

George Higgins and Nick Galeano emerged from one of the interrogation rooms down the hall with a shambling, big black fellow. He shambled right on out, and Higgins and Galeano came into the
office looking disgruntled. “Up in the air?” asked Palliser.

“As usual,” said Higgins sourly. The note-wielding heister wasn’t the only one they were looking for; they had vague descriptions on three others, and at the usual legwork, in
the merciless heat, were hunting the possible suspects out of Records and leaning on them, without result up to now. “No alibi, but no evidence either.”

Tom Landers came trailing in, looking very hot and tired; his perennially youthful face was drawn, his tie pulled loose, and he was shedding his jacket as he came in. “Why anybody lives in
this climate— That poor devil was in the sixties, and too fat—should’ve had better sense than to walk eight blocks to a market in the middle of the day. When I finally got hold of
his wife, I thought she was going to have a heart attack too. I ended up calling the paramedics for her. What a life! And now I’ve got to write a report on it.”

“Oh, there you are,” said Lake to Mendoza, looking in. “I buzzed your office awhile. Carey’s on the way up to see you.”

“Caray,” said Mendoza, mildly annoyed. Lieutenant Carey of Missing Persons had in the past handed them some difficult problems. But he might have expected something of the
sort; aside from the various heisters, and unusually for midsummer, business had been slow the last couple of weeks, and they were overdue for new problems. He went down the hall to his office and
swiveled the desk chair around to the familiar view over the Hollywood hills; today there was smog and heat haze obscuring them grayly.

A minute later Carey bustled in looking harassed. “We don’t know that this is anything for you at all, Mendoza, but I thought you’d better hear about it in case it turns out to
be. It’s—”

“You’re always so thorough,” said Mendoza. “Sit down and relax. Who haven’t you got now?”

Carey sat down but his restless energy kept him fidgeting in his chair. His blunt bulldog face wore a reproachful look. “It’s nothing to joke about, damn it. I mean, an
eight-year-old kid—a girl—and the probability is it’s a snatch, the Feds think so, but it could be something else. We’ve been scouring the area since noon, and
nothing’s showed, but it could be some nut got her into a car and took her right out of the area. If that’s what happened, she ought to show up somewhere, sometime—all too likely
dead. I just thought—but the Feds just came in, and they think it’s a snatch.”

“So let’s wait and see.”

“I just thought I’d brief you,” said Carey. “I’ve got a feeling about it—no snatch. I just don’t see how anybody could have pulled one. I think it was
just some freak—um—seizing the opportunity, if you get me. Because the County Museum—a bunch of kids from a Catholic school, couple of nuns leading ’em around—and only
a few people knew this McCauley kid was going with them—”

“The County Museum?” said Mendoza, faintly intrigued.

“That’s right. They—”

“But school is out. Public or parochial.”

“This is a boarding school—I gather pretty swank and expensive—place called St. Odile’s. Brentwood Estates. Evidently—I haven’t got the details on that, it
didn’t enter in—some of the girls stay there all summer. The McCauley girl’s father lives here—Bel Air—he’s something to do with an oil company—”

“Money.”

“Oh, very definitely, by the look of him—he’s been out all day helping us hunt, all broken up. Anyway, the girl was living at home for the summer, but she wanted to go on this
trip to the museum, so he drove her up to the school this morning. There were about fifteen kids with the two nuns. And the hell of it is, nobody can say exactly where she disappeared
from—just somewhere in the Museum of Natural History, and you know that place—oh, well, there are five or six big halls, not all that well lighted. The kids were supposed to stay
together, but they straggled. When the nuns counted heads outside the building—that was about eleven-thirty—Joyce McCauley was missing. They hunted for her for a while before they
finally called McCauley, and he called us.”

“And now, going by the rules, you bring the Feds in, and they’re telling you to wait and see if a ransom note shows up.”

“That’s just what. And I don’t know, Mendoza, but I’ve got the feeling—just some nut spotting her, trailing after the other kids, and grabbing her. She’s a
pretty little kid, blonde.”

“In a public building? She’s eight? She’d have fought him, made some noise. A thing like that’d have been noticed.”

“You think so? That damned place is like a morgue,” said Carey. “No, like a church in the middle of the week. Hardly anybody there—great big rooms and dim
lights—and echoes. There’s an attendant at the entrance to confiscate cameras, but he doesn’t pay any attention to people leaving. And whether she was grabbed by a pervert or
somebody thinking of ransom, the same thing applies. I don’t know, Mendoza—” Carey shrugged and got up. “We’ve beaten the grounds all afternoon, she’s not there.
But if she turns up somewhere raped and dead it’ll be your baby.”

“So I can hope the ransom note shows up instead?” Mendoza grimaced. Inevitably his mind slid back to that time when they’d waited for a ransom note, the twins missing; he
spared a moment’s sympathy for the McCauleys. “You’ll let me know.”

“One way or other,” nodded Carey, and went out.

Mendoza contemplated the hazy hills and yawned. Why did anybody stay in this climate? Quite a lot of people had jobs here they couldn’t leave; but he could. They could leave everything and
go north quite a long way, to somewhere where it never got over sixty degrees. Only there was Alison’s grand old Spanish mansion getting refurbished, and the ten-thousand-dollar fence around
the four and a half acres, and the projected ponies for the twins, and Alison’s lately acquired new retainers, Ken and Kate Kearney, who would live on the premises and look after the
livestock and help with the house. Involved was the word, thought Mendoza; before he knew it, his red-haired Scots-Irish girl would have him master of a feudal household; God knew what she’d
find to do next.

He heard the other men talking back and forth out there, languidly discussing the heisters, the latest body. It was half past five. He got up, picked up his hat, and went out. Tomorrow would
also be a day.

Three minutes after he’d left, Sergeant Lake hurried down the hall. “Boss gone?”

“Just now, why?” asked Higgins.

“Damn—I’ll see if the desk can catch him—” But the desk sergeant downstairs said Lieutenant Mendoza had left a couple of minutes ago. “Well,” said Lake
resignedly, “I suppose he’ll find out about it when he gets home.”

Mendoza turned the Ferrari onto Rayo Grande Avenue off Laurel Canyon at quarter past six, and swung into the drive, automatically watching for cats. Alison’s Facel-Vega was missing from
the garage, but Máiri MacTaggart had been driving it occasionally to keep the battery up. However, at this time of day—

“Lieutenant Mendoza! I’ve been watching for you— They just left! Just half an hour ago! Mrs. MacTaggart—”

“Daddy, Daddy, Mamacíta’s gone to get James-or-Luisa!” “Daddy, when are we gonna get James-or-Luisa? Mama said—”

Three excited people came running across the lawn from the house next door, Mrs. Fletcher the neighbor on that side, and the twins. The twins, who would turn five in another month, easily
outdistanced fat, red-faced Mrs. Fletcher.

“Daddy, when are we gonna get—” “Daddy, where’s James-or-Luisa comin’ from? How long—”

“Quiet, niños—¡vaya despacio! They—”

“Just left, half an hour ago,” panted Mrs. Fletcher, nodding excitedly. “The pains were seven minutes apart and Mrs. MacTaggart said they were going to the hospital and no
waiting around for the doctor, he was out of his office. And I’m only too glad to look after Johnny and Terry, and oh, I do hope Mrs. Mendoza will be all right—you’ll want to get
there as soon as—”

“Yes, thanks very much.” Mendoza squatted before the twins. “Now, niños, you be good. Máiri’ll be home soon to get your supper—I don’t
know when Mama’ll be home, Terry—” He dived back into the Ferrari and slid down the drive; in the street, away from possible cats, he stepped on the accelerator and, turning onto
Laurel Canyon Boulevard, reached to switch on the siren.

At the Hollywood Hospital, up in Obstetrics, he found Máiri MacTaggart sitting composedly in a comfortable waiting room, every silver curl in place, while a distracted-looking man paced
the floor and another sat opposite, head in hands. “There you are then,” she said cheerfully. “I did call your office after I found that misbegotten doctor wasn’t in. But
it’ll not be long to wait, this one has a mind of its own.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Mendoza. “I suppose there’s a doctor with her now?”

“I would suppose so,” said Máiri, “though I’m not that confident of hospitals myself, I’d put more trust in that old war-horse of a nurse got her settled in
bed. Why, the way it’s acted so obstinate all along—it should have come last week—and then making up its mind to come so sudden. Up to half past three she was fine, only
complaining something fierce about being short of breath and feeling like the fat lady in a circus, and I give you my solemn word she’d only just said to me, ‘I don’t think
it’ll ever come,’ when the bairn kicked her a good one and the pains started right off. Seven minutes apart in less than an hour, and I wasn’t about to dither around trying to get
that doctor. We’re going to have a lively time with this one, it’ll be obstinate and contrary as its mother.”

Mendoza burst out laughing. “All the same, I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“You’d best tell them at the nurses’ desk that you’re here, so they’ll let you know. And I’d best be getting home to the twins.” She stood up and cocked
her head at him fondly. “Don’t fret about Alison—she’ll be fine. You call me as soon as it gets here.”

He promised, and went out with her to tell somebody whose husband he was. “Oh, yes, the new one in nine-eleven,” said a blonde nurse brightly. Mendoza didn’t think much more of
hospitals than Máiri did. He went back to the waiting room, where the two distracted young men were muttering at each other; it appeared that this was a first-time round for both of them.
“She’s been in there since eight this morning,” said one of them. “It can’t be much longer, can it?”

“I don’t know—I’ve been here since noon,” said the other one; his eyes looked wild.

Mendoza lit a cigarette and hoped Máiri was right. This one had been a good deal more trouble than the twins, what with the unexpected morning sickness; having exhibited the obstinacy in
refusing to arrive on time, it might now decide to cause more trouble. Half an hour later he went out in search of somebody to answer questions, but nobody seemed to know anything. The only reading
matter in the waiting room was a stack of old National Geographics. He lit another cigarette from the stub of his latest one and tried to do some constructive thinking on the note-wielding
heist man. That was the fourth job he’d pulled, and it was just a little offbeat; nobody had heard him say one word yet.

There weren’t any unsolved homicides on hand, which was very unusual for the middle of a heat wave. Bodies: but just natural deaths, suicides, overdoses, or simple homicides with the
X’s known: just paper work to do. The calm before the storm, very likely; it wouldn’t go on like this. The heat wave would be with them for another two months at least, and normally the
homicide rate climbed as the temperature climbed.

He lit another cigarette and looked at his watch: five of eight. He realized he was starving. He thought about that damned trial; speedy justice, hah. This was the second time those witnesses
had had to be brought all the way from Fresno, and of course seven months after the murder the victim had faded into limbo. Juries could be funny. It was all very straightforward evidence; but, of
course, even if he got life, he’d be eligible for parole in seven years. Only the people of California had voted in a return to the death penalty; the politicians were still managing to stall
on that.

He had just looked at his watch again to find that it was nearly half past eight when a grim-faced nurse looked in and said, “Mr. Mendoza?”

“Yes.” He got up.

“You have a little girl and your wife’s fine. You may see her in just a few minutes.”

One of the other men let out an anguished howl. “That’s not fair!”

“He just got here!” said the other one aggrievedly.

“Well, when you finally decided to do it, at least you didn’t waste any time, amada.”

Alison looked tired but very self-satisfied; she peered down her length in the hospital bed and said, “Thank God, I can see my feet again. I had the most awful premonition, Luis—just
getting bigger and bigger the last month—that it was another set of twins—”

“¡Dios me libre!”

“Exactly,” said Alison. “At least we’ve been spared that. Did they let you see her?”

“!Cómo no!” said Mendoza. “Don’t worry about it, cara—doubtless she’ll improve in looks. I suppose she’ll grow hair
sometime.”

“Just because the twins were born with hair—” Alison squinted up at him indignantly. “She’s a beautiful baby. Only it strikes me as very odd that she weighed only
six and a half pounds, the size I was.” The door opened and she sat up looking pleased. “Food—I’m starving to death. And I’ll bet you are too—you go home and let
Máiri feed you, darling.”

After he’d had something to eat he called Hackett, and then Piggott and Bob Schenke sitting on night watch. Hackett, of course, called Higgins, who called Mendoza to hear
the details. Higgins was belatedly interested in babies; since taking on Bert Dwyer’s widow and two kids, he and Mary had had one of their own, his darling Margaret Emily. “I’ll
bet she’s a cute one,” he said to Mendoza. “Luisa what?”

“Luisa Mary. She’s bald as an egg and the way she was yelling I’d take a bet she’s got the hell of a temper.”

“Now, Luis,” sai. . .