Felony File

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Lieutenant Luis Mendoza and the LAPD homicide division tackle some of their most shocking cases to date. Half a million dollars is stolen from a fashionable department store; a young divorcée is murdered by her ex-husband's lover; three flawless robberies occur in rapid succession and a middle-aged woman is senselessly murdered in a public park. The continually erupting crime in Los Angeles stretches the team to the limit. However, Lieutenant Luis Mendoza handles all this action with his own characteristic, inimitable finesse. 'A Luis Mendoza mystery means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Times.

Release date: December 14, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THE FIRST RAIN of the season had arrived, unexpected and early, this sixth of November. In the little forest of tall buildings which was the civic
center, lights had come on against the gray darkness. Midway up the rectangular loom of Parker Center, LAPD headquarters, the tall windows of the Robbery-Homicide bureau slithered grayly with the
steady downpour; the ranks of fluorescent lighting were on in the big communal detective office.

At the moment, the office was unoccupied except for Sergeant Hackett, who was poring over a typed report at his desk. He glanced up as footsteps sounded in the corridor outside; Mendoza’s
voice was noncommittal on some polite amenity, and a heavier voice rumbled in reply before a door shut. Mendoza wandered into the office looking dissatisfied. He hadn’t been out since the
rain began, and was neat and dapper as always in exquisitely tailored gray herringbone, immaculate white shirt and dark tie. He hoisted one hip on the edge of Hacket’s desk and said,
“That was a waste of time.”

“On what?” asked Hackett.

Mendoza flicked his lighter. “That chief security guard at Bullock’s, Pierson. A big blank.”

“Those other two are down in R. and I. looking at mug-shots, but do you want to bet they draw a blank too?”

“No bets. That was a very cute operation, Art. They tell us this and that, we can deduce the M.O., and it takes us nowhere.”

“We are also nowhere,” said Hackett, “on this new heist job.” He laid down the report. Most of the men in the office had been out getting the first statements on the
Bullock’s job. There was never a time, of course, when Robbery-Homicide didn’t have the heist jobs to work, often several at once, and as a rule they were ephemeral, annoyingly leadless
little jobs.

“What about it?” asked Mendoza uninterestedly.

Hackett took off his glasses. “A pharmacy over on Second Street, about eleven last night, just as they were closing. Matt went out on it. I had the two clerks in just now, and took ‘em down to R. and I. No go—none of the
mug-shots rang a bell. What they tell us, it’s a female. Very much a female—stacked, golden blonde, about thirty, good-looking. And all business, with a fairly big handgun. She got away
with about four hundred bucks.”

Mendoza laughed. “Well, the libbers are getting more equal all the time, Art. No reason they shouldn’t start pulling heists.”

“She wasn’t interested in any drugs, just the cash register. In and out, and neither of them could say whether she got away in a car or what.”

“Helpful,” agreed Mendoza. But he was thinking more about the Bullock’s job, which so far hadn’t offered any handles either and was a good deal more important.
“I’ll take no bets at all,” he repeated, “that the security men make any shots. Empty gesture. I know, I know, those two said they got just a glimpse of two of them on the
way out, pulling the masks off, but—”

“Slick operation all right,” said Hackett. It had been. And one that, so far as anybody remembered, hadn’t been done before.

There were seven floors and a basement of commodities for sale at Bullock’s Department Store at Seventh and Hill. The personnel, accounting, bookkeeping and purchasing departments were on
the eighth floor. At the end of a business day, the proceeds from the cash registers of all the various departments were totaled, encased in canvas bags, and shepherded by security guards up to the
accounting department, whence the bags were eventually conveyed by the guards to a night drop at the bank. Last night, just after the store closed, as the bags were on their way up, four armed men
had materialized in the accounting department, immobilized the guards and the staff remaining in the office, and got clean away with all the bags. The accounting staff was still trying to arrive at
an estimate of the loss, and nobody could offer any helpful clues at all. Two of the security guards had had a very brief look at two of the heisters, but their descriptions were expectedly
vague.

“John was going back to see the chief accountant. There’s no way they can get an exact figure, but an average day—how the hell many departments in that store, and it’s
not the cheapest place in town—might run to three, four hundred thousand. Some of it would be in checks, but—”

“A very nice haul,” said Mendoza, stabbing out his cigarette rather violently. “Anything in from the lab?”

“There probably won’t be,” said Hackett. “Everybody said they didn’t touch anything but the bags and were wearing gloves anyway.”

“And where is everybody?” asked Mendoza, looking around the empty office.

“Tom and Jase are down at R. and I. with the guards. Henry’s out on a new body, and I think Wanda went with him. I couldn’t say about anybody else, I just got back
myself.”

“There was another body turned up,” said Sergeant Lake, coming in with a manila envelope. “George and Conway went out on it. In a house down by the railroad yards. This is a
billet-doux from the D.A.”

“Thank you so much.” Mendoza slid out the contents—a little sheaf of official court documents—on Hackett’s desk and glanced at the accompanying note. “So. The
Hoffman hearing is set for the tenth.”

Hackett sighed. “At least the court isn’t dragging its heels. Let’s hope, short and sweet.” None of them liked thinking about the Hoffman case much.

They sat in silence for a moment. The rain slithered steadily down the windows. Mendoza lighted another cigarette. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and Higgins and Conway came in. They looked
wet and disgruntled. “So who’s going to do the report?” asked Higgins. Conway fished out a quarter and tossed it. “Heads.”

“Oh, hell,” said Conway, uncovering the quarter.

“What was the body?” asked Hackett.

“Nothing much.” Higgins sat down at his desk and got out a cigarette. “Probably an O.D., dumped in an empty house. God knows how long its been there—couple of weeks at
least. The owner found it, and the last time he was there was about that long ago. Male Caucasian about twenty-five. See if his prints are on file.” Conway had rolled the triplicate forms
into his typewriter and was starting the initial report. “Anything show up on the Bullock’s job?”

“I can prophesy right now, it’s a dead end,” said Mendoza. “Damnation, these smart pros—” That particular M.O. didn’t show in any of their files; there
was no handle on that at all.

“I see you made a start on painting the kitchen,” said Hackett to Higgins.

“What? Yeah, I got the first coat on,” said Higgins.

“You missed a spot just behind your right ear,” said Hackett, and Higgins swore and felt for it.

“The place needs painting outside too but it’ll have to wait till spring. Damned if I’ll take on that job. It’s been enough of an upheaval to move.”

Hackett picked up his report again. For a couple of minutes the only sound was the staccato tapping of Conway’s typewriter, and then Sergeant Lake looked in again.

“You’ve got a new one down,” he said succinctly. “Robbery and homicide. Portia Street.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Higgins.

“I’m busy,” said Hackett hastily, getting up. “I’m going down to ask records if we have any beautiful blonde heisters on file. Besides, you’ve been sitting in
a nice dry office all day, you’re due for some legwork.”

“Hell,” said Mendoza mildly.

“And I don’t suppose I can get any wetter,” said Higgins gloomily. They went out reluctantly.

The rain had been completely unforeseen by the weather bureau, and as up to yesterday the temperature had hovered around seventy, nobody had worn a coat this morning. At the front entrance of
the building, Mendoza and Higgins stood at the top of the steps for a moment; the rain was pouring down monotonously, and the concrete jungle all around Parker Center looked very wet and
uninviting. It was a good fifty yards to the parking lot.

“Damn it, this is a new suit,” said Mendoza. Resignedly, they turned their collars up and pulled hatbrims down and launched into the rain. By the time they reached Mendoza’s
Ferrari they were both dripping.

“Portia Street,” said Higgins. “That’s up toward Silver Lake.” Up to a few years ago, one of the quiet backwaters of town; but recently the crime rate was climbing
in that area, which was why the Higginses had sold the house on Silver Lake Boulevard. Mendoza started the engine and backed out of the slot.

It wasn’t far enough off to justify the freeway; he went up Sunset, where it curved narrowly here at its beginning; Portia Street crossed it a little way up from Elysian Park Avenue. It
was a tired old residential street, modest single houses lining it on each side, mostly frame places dating from the twenties. The houses were neatly enough maintained, with strips of lawn in front
The black-and-white squad was in front of a house midway down the block, a square pseudo-Spanish crackerbox house painted dingy yellow. In the deluge of rain, there weren’t any neighbors out
staring, but there was a woman standing with the uniformed figure of Patrolman Zimmerman on the little square front porch.

When Mendoza and Higgins joined them the porch was crowded, but neither Zimmerman nor the woman made a move toward the open front door past a sagging screen door. “This is Mrs.
Meeker,” said Zimmerman, “from next door. These are the detectives from headquarters, ma’am Lieutenant Mendoza, Sergeant Higgins.”

“It’s just terrible,” she said. “Just terrible.” She was a nice-looking middle-aged woman, a little too plump, with dark hair; she was wearing a cotton housedress
with an old gray cardigan over it, and she was hugging herself, shivering not altogether because of the cold rain. “I’ve always tried to be neighborly—we’ve lived here
nearly twenty-five years and the Whalens lived here more like thirty-five, this was their folks’ house. They always seemed to get along fine, but it must have been hard for Dave, not that he
ever complained, he was such a nice man, so good and gentle and patient—and the Lord knows there wouldn’t have been much there worth anything, I know he never kept cash around—and
it’s bad enough they should break in and rob them, but why they had to—oh, Lord, poor Dave dead there on the floor—” She began to cry a little. “Never did any harm to
anybody, and what Dan’s going to do without him—and broad daylight, too—it’s terrible—Harry and I’ve been talking about getting out of the city, the crime rate
up so high, but this happening right next door, it brings it home. Everybody liked Dave so much, you had to admire them, how they got along—”

“They came in the back,” said Zimmerman, “by what I got from Mr. Daniel Whalen. I don’t suppose there’ll be anything for the lab.”

“You never know. There’ll be a mobile unit out,” said Higgins. Mrs. Meeker was still talking as he and Mendoza went in.

The front door led directly into a long narrow living room. It contained a good deal of old-fashioned furniture: a big couch, two matching chairs, and a TV on a wheeled stand at one end where a
small false hearth was built in on one wall; at the other end were a round oak dining table and chairs, and a heavy old sideboard. In the middle of the room sat a man in a wheelchair. He looked to
be about sixty; he had thin gray hair and a long thin face, and his body was thin too and frail-looking. He was neatly enough dressed in gray slacks, open-necked shirt and a blue sweater. He looked
up at them as they came in, and said in an expressionless tone, “He’s in the kitchen. Dave. I don’t know why they killed him. They didn’t have to kill him, just for twelve
dollars.”

At the other end of the living room a cross hall led to the kitchen, two bedrooms with a bath between. The kitchen was square, its old soapstone counters polished clean, no dishes visible, the
worn linoleum on the floor clean except for the pool of Dave Whalen’s blood spread around his body. He lay flat with his arms out in front of him, as if he was still trying to push himself to
his feet. He had been another long, thin man, with scanty gray hair; they couldn’t see his face. There was a small service porch, and the outside door there was half open.

“He says they both had knives,” said Zimmerman behind them. “His brother was just ready to leave for work—he’s a clerk at the J and M Liquor Store down on Fourth,
three to closing—when they heard a noise at the back door. He went to look, this one here I mean, and these two louts pushed right in. Both young and black. The other one didn’t know
his brother’d been killed until they took off—they took his brother’s wallet, he hadn’t one on him, grabbed some loot from the bedrooms and ran out. That’s all he can
say, they were young and black. After he called us he called the neighbor woman. She didn’t see a thing, and says most of the people along here are at work all day, there wouldn’t be
many home.”

“The lab may pick up something,” said Higgins sadly, looking at the body.

“By what she told me,” said Zimmerman, “the poor old fellow in the wheelchair’s been crippled all his life—polio or something—and his brother always looked
after him. Never married, just stayed home and took care of him, after their parents died. Seems to’ve been a quiet hard-working guy—never much money, but they got along. Like he
says, the louts out after a little loot, why the hell did they have to kill him?”

But it was, of course, the kind of thing the louts did. Maybe high on something, or just not caring what they did.

The lab truck would be on the way. Mendoza and Higgins went back to the living room. Daniel Whalen was still sitting in his wheelchair staring at the opposite wall. Mrs. Meeker had come in and
was talking to him, but he didn’t seem to be listening.

“We managed,” he said suddenly. “We always managed, whatever happened. I always just prayed it would keep on that way. I can get myself to the bathroom, fix myself snacks, when
Dave was at work. We knew there might come a time when I couldn’t—we just hoped—I’m fifty-nine and Dave was sixty-one. Only sixty-one. And now—and now—what I
always dreaded. Just—done—in—half a minute. Dave dead. And I’ll have to go to one of those homes—I’d rather be dead myself. I wish I was.”

Mrs. Meeker was crying again. Daniel Whalen beat one hand on the arm of the wheelchair, feebly. “I can’t—even—open a can for Merlin,” he said. “The
counter’s—too high. I’m no use—”

There was, Mendoza saw, a large wicker basket at one side of the gas-heater in the imitation hearth, lined with pieces of old blanket. In the basket was curled a rather portly black-and-white
cat with very long whiskers and green eyes slitted just now at the strange men.

“Oh, Dan, you know I’ll do that—”

“Dave always had to have a cat. I can’t even take care of a cat, let alone myself. Why they had to kill him—about twelve dollars, and Father’s old railroad watch
and Masonic ring and Mother’s cameo pin, that’s all—not worth anything really, just sentiment—”

The cat Merlin decided that there was too much disturbance in the room for comfort, and rose and stretched. He had four white feet and a white tip to his plumed tail. Slowly he walked to the
front door and waited. Mrs. Meeker hastened to open the door for him and he stalked out.

The lab truck was pulling up outside. Scarne got out of it with Johnson, and Mendoza and Higgins went to brief them. There was always a chance that the lab work would turn up something; they had
to try. The louts might have left some latent prints, and they might be in L.A.’s records. The autopsy surgeon might tell them something about the knife. They would get a statement from
Daniel Whalen; it might be worthwhile to ask him to look at books of mug-shots. The little loot sounded very ordinary, but if it ever turned up in a pawnshop, he could probably identify it.

Both Mendoza and Higgins were aware that there was a very long chance that the louts would ever be dropped on, a good enough legal case made to charge and try them if they ever were. It was just
one of those things.

They stood on the little front porch, lighted cigarettes and looked at the gray veil of rain. “Another wet winter, probably,” said Higgins. And after a moment, “I wonder what
the other new body was.”

The call had come in from the squad car at one-twenty, just as Glasser had come back from lunch. He hadn’t seen any of the other men since eight o’clock this
morning; Landers, Palliser and Grace were out on the Bullock’s heist, the others on something else, but somebody had to mind the store.

Their policewoman, Wanda Larsen, who was bucking for detective rank, promptly got up and followed him out. “New call?”

Glasser cocked his head at her trim blonde person. “You so hot for street experience,” he said. “You’ll catch pneumonia. Haven’t you got a coat?”

“It was such a nice morning—I’ll be all right.” She had a fairly heavy cardigan. Downstairs, they made a dash from the front entrance to Glasser’s Gremlin in the
lot. “Where are we going on what?” asked Wanda brightly.

“Don’t know—squad just said a body. It’s Darwin Avenue.”

That was one of the oldest streets in the oldest part of Los Angeles, a shabby, dirty, narrow street of ramshackle old houses. The houses had never been owned by anyone with much money, and a
good many of the owners and renters had always been people who spent what money they had on less mundane things than plumbing repairs, broken windows and leaking roofs; most of the houses looked
ready to fall down, long unpainted and neglected. They sat on meager city lots; and even the city seemed to have forgotten the street, so that the sidewalks were cracked and broken, the blacktop of
the street spotted with potholes.

Patrolman Yeager was sitting in the squad in front of one of the houses waiting for them. “I just decided,” he told Glasser, “I don’t like this damn job. I’m going
to quit the force and start selling insurance or something.” He looked at Wanda a little uneasily. “You going in there?”

“Certainly,” said Wanda. “What have we got?”

“A bloody mess,” said Yeager. “You want me to come with you?”

Glasser didn’t think Yeager had been riding a squad long: a year or two on the force maybe. Even in that time, a cop ought to be used to some of the bloody messes they saw on the job. He
said mildly, “Well, give us a quick rundown, will you?”

Yeager’s roundish young face looked pinched. “A Mrs. Rose Engel called in. Says she came home and found her daughter dead. The kid was nine. There are some other kids,
younger.”

“That’s it?” said Glasser. “Where was she?”

“She just said, at a party. She left her boy friend with the kids. He lives with her. I just got his name, Leon Fratelli. Maybe he’s awake now. She’s got the hell of a hangover
and wasn’t talking very straight.”

Glasser said to Wanda, “Maybe you’d better stay out here.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Wanda impatiently. “I’m a cop as much as you are, Henry.”

The house wasn’t very big: maybe five rooms. It had originally been clapboard, and a number of the boards had been cracked and broken loose. Both front windows were broken. It had been so
long since the house had been painted, it was impossible to tell what color it had been. There were wide cracks. . .