Life, Death and Dizzy Gillespie

Part One:

Saturday, October 6, 1956/10 PM – Monday, October 8, 1956/8 PM

He wore his fake, pasted-on politician's smile until she closed the door to his office.

Gliding to the door, he pressed his ear to its window's pebbled surface. He strained to separate the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor from the rain pelting against the building. The clicking stopped. The elevator's tones echoed in the deserted hallway heralding its arrival and then her departure.

He flicked off the ceiling light and drifted back to his desk in the darkened office. Slumping in his chair, he slipped his lighter and pack of Lucky Strikes out of his coat pocket and lit his fifth cigarette of the night. Exhaling, he blew out his tension. For a couple of puffs he basked in the anonymity of the night.

He switched on the desk lamp and reached inside his desk drawer for a scrap of paper he had received that afternoon. He pulled in another lungful of smoke, exhaled again, and stubbed out the cigarette in a crowded ashtray.

In the pool of light, he contemplated the framed picture of his wife and twin daughters and then, the scrap of paper. His hand hovered over the black rotary phone. The insistent pulse of the rain echoed his heartbeat. Clinching the handset, he dialed the number on the paper.

Without waiting for a greeting, Y. Franklin Leigh, Los Angeles County Deputy District Attorney, said, "She's on her way." Then he jiggled the plunger to clear the phone line so he could dial Delaney's number.

oO0Oo

She was suspicious; she didn't trust Leigh. He claimed he had no interest in finding the missing Bryce Hunter films, yet he knew someone who might have them and he was telling her? And how did he know she was interested anyway? Whatever his reasons, she'd worry about it later.

She cowered in the doorway of the Hall of Justice's Temple Street exit. She berated herself for not bringing her umbrella. The rain battered her as she peeked around the granite facade in search of a cab.

An older model green Plymouth limped into view; on its roof the taxi light blinked an unknown Morse Code. It contested with the windshield wipers as to which one was more erratic. She thought the driver didn't see her, but the Chess Cab chugged to a stop at the curb.

"The Mayfield," she said as she climbed in and slammed the door. She plucked a cigarette from the pack in her purse. As she searched for matches, a hand reached back from over the front seat and flicked open a silver Zippo lighter. She noticed the air force logo on it.

"Thanks," she said and took a drag and leaned back in the seat.

"Don't you remember me?" The cab driver's voice sounded like a deeper version of a voice she hadn't heard in a while.

She frowned at the eyes looking at her from the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

He switched on the dome light. It shone on a face that raised memories of a tall, graceful boy. She was a senior when he was a freshman, the first freshman in Summer Grove High history to make the varsity basketball team. The youthful smile she remembered had matured into a world-weary grin.

"Joe? Joe Mannix?"

"Hi, Kathy," he said.

"Joe, how are you? The last I heard you were a POW in Korea." She hadn't kept up with local happenings in Summer Grove after she graduated college in 1952.

"Yeah, I did my time." He steered the taxi away from the curb and into the traffic lane. "How's it going with you? What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

"I'm a reporter for the Los Angeles Observer."

"Kathy Bedrosian, girl reporter. Finally made the big time."

"Not really. I'm stuck on the society pages. Weddings, engagements, the latest charity events Dottie Walker's giving."

"At least it's not the Grove Dispatch."

"Yeah, morning frost reports and cows escaping their pasture." Kathy puffed on her cigarette. "I wonder if old man Jenks ever figured out who was letting his cows out."

"I hope not."

She laughed. "Was that you?" She recalled the memories of Summer Grove she had filed away since she had come to Los Angeles. She didn't miss it. She was always a small town girl with big city ambitions. "So you're driving a cab now. Is this what you've been doing since Korea?"

She spotted his ears turning red. He fidgeted in his seat. The rain beating against the taxi roof covered his momentary silence.

"No, I, um, after the war, I finished my degree in pre-law on the G.I. Bill, and then I realized I didn't want to be a lawyer."

"Why not? I think you would be good at it. Didn't you used to hang around Mr. Kolligian?" She scooted forward and leaned on the back of the front seat.

"Yeah, I did. I was just trying to escape my father's vineyards. Anything was better than digging in the dirt all day. Besides I found out that lawyers spend too much time sitting on their butts and writing and researching and worrying about precedents."

She sensed there was more to his story. Call it her reporter's intuition. Sometimes it's more what you don't say that says it all.

"How long you been in Los Angeles?" Kathy asked.

"A couple of months."

"So what else is going on with you? Got a girl?"

"Not anymore," he said a little too quickly.

"Oh, so there was a girl." She wanted to tease him, but just as quickly she rejected the idea.

He shrugged. "Unlucky in love, lucky in war."

She blew out the smoke and crunched the last of her cigarette in the car door ashtray. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

He eased the cab to the curb of the Mayfield Hotel. The rain had slowed to a mist.

Kathy fumbled in her purse for her wallet. "How much?"

"On the house. For old times' sake."

"That's sweet. You don't have to do that."

"I know. Say maybe we could get together for dinner, talk about Grove High, good times." He patted his pockets for a piece of paper. He reached to tear a piece from his logbook. Kathy removed a black reporter's notebook and a pen from her purse scribbled 'Joe Mannix' on a blank page.

"What's your phone number?"

"KL5-9622. It's the Downtown Y on Hope Street. Leave a message there for me."

"I'll do that. Great to see you, Joe."

"Good to see you too."

Kathy opened the cab door and paused. "Could you do me a favor?" Her eyes darted around the area.

"Sure, anything."

"Hold onto to this for me?" She plucked an envelope from her purse and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Maybe my first page one byline or even better, a Pulitzer Prize." Before Joe could ask her anything further, she sprung from the cab. With a few swift strides she reached the lobby entrance. She spun back to face him."Now you can be sure I'll call you." She smiled at him and disappeared into the lobby.

Joe stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and marveled at how fate had brought them back together. He had never mentioned to anyone but his high school buddy, Troy McBride, that he had a crush on Kathy. That is until Jean came along, but that was another memory for another time.

oO0Oo

Leigh didn't normally come anywhere near his Hall of Justice office on a Sunday morning. After last night's little trouble, he had to move on this Bryce Hunter thing. He removed a torn page from his sport pants pocket and copied the information from it onto another piece of paper. Leigh wanted to pace, but he settled for frowning at his Bulova watch instead. He could still make his tee time, depending on how fast Delaney arrived.

Officially Officer Jerry Delaney worked for the Los Angeles Police Department Central Station Burglary Detail. Unofficially, he worked for Leigh just as he had when he was a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff. Leigh incurred a few favors to get Delaney transferred to the LAPD. Whenever he needed information without going through channels, Delaney was his man.

A knock and Delaney entered Leigh's office. He nodded at the Deputy DA and waited silently. Leigh wondered if Delaney had more than two suits. Today was suit number one's day. Leigh handed him the slip of paper.

Delaney scanned the information and raised an eyebrow. "Who's Joe Mannix? This got anything to do with that reporter dame I followed last night?"

"Don't worry about last night. I want everything you can find on this guy," Leigh said.

Delaney nodded again and left. Leigh removed the torn page from his pocket and struck a match to it. Laying it in his ashtray he watched the phone number and the name of Joe Mannix burn to ashes.

oO0Oo

Peter Gunn sipped his Jim Beam and puffed his Winston's as he lounged at a table near the bar. It was Monday afternoon slow at Mother's. A male and a female were content to toy with their drinks and flirt the rest of their day. Barney, Mother's bartender, washed the shot glasses for the third time.

Gunn didn't believe in having the added expense of an office and a secretary. Most of his clients didn't keep regular office hours anyway. Besides Mother didn't mind him hanging around, and he didn't mind helping her out with her problem customers. She often kidded him that he brought 'class' to her bar.

Gunn half-listened to Edie auditioning a temporary piano player named Hank. Emmett, her regular guy, had a gig in San Francisco for a couple of weeks. Her voice glided over the sound of the piano. Gunn didn't recognize the song, but he had been with her long enough to know the melody fit her voice just right.

A messenger interrupted his reverie. Gunn didn't usually accept his clients via messenger, but when he tapped the open end of the manila envelope on the table, a white envelope containing twenty new one hundred dollar bills fell out. Harold Walker, editor and publisher of the Los Angeles Observer, included his business card with a phone number scrawled on the back. The manila envelope also contained a handwritten police report and a photograph.

He reached for the police report. A missing person – Katherine Bedrosian, five foot eight, 130, brown hair, brown eyes, a reporter for the Observer. Last seen Saturday afternoon. Gunn knew anyone missing any longer than a day or so was either in a hospital or somewhere dead. The odds didn't say much else. He squinted at the photo. Okay looking, not bad, but nothing to turn heads.

"Got a case?" Edie asked. She settled in the chair next to Gunn.

"Yeah, I guess." He handed her the photo. "Harold Walker apparently doesn't like how the LAPD is handling his case."

"What do you think?"

"I think this is a wasted effort."

"No, I mean Hank. You think he'll do?"

Gunn observed the piano player's hands grace the keyboard.

"He sounds good. What was that last song?"

"One of his originals – 'Dreamsville.' I sorta like it." Edie nestled closer to Gunn. He kissed her neck.

"I sorta like it too." Gunn thumbed through the report for Katherine Bedrosian's home address – Dorset Arms, 1340 Third Street, Apartment 1D. Might be worth stopping by later.

He nuzzled Edie's neck. Yeah, a little later.

oO0Oo

Macklin Reeves shuffled through the stack of photographs again. He always stopped at the same picture. He shifted in his chair and scowled. Where was that woman? She said she'd be here at 1 PM. He slipped the photo back in the stack.

At the knock at his private entrance, Reeves signaled to Cully Roberts to admit Flora Moore. With her little floral hat perched on her artificially auburn head, she could be mistaken for anybody's mother. That was her power; she looked harmless, but as the gossip columnist for the Observer she wielded power behind the scenes of Los Angeles. Not many people dared to crossed her.

"You said you needed me to translate something," she stated.

Reeves watched her glance around his office in the back of Cameron's, his clothing store and the seat of his operations. She had never been here before. He could see her reporter's mind cataloging the furnishings. From the latest Herman Miller office sofa Bernie lounged on in the far corner to the modern art hung on the walls that Cully leaned against, she was impressed. That was the effect his wanted.

Reeves handed her a stack of photographs. She frowned as she recognized the reporter's Notehand. "Where'd you get this? Is this Kathy's?"

"Just tell me what it says."

Flora examined the pictures, turning them whichever way she needed to read the notes.

Reeves drummed his fingers. "Well?"

"This is mostly stuff about society parties, engagements, and local gossip."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, well, a bit of research on the Bryce Hunter murder. Whatever she could find."

"Any mentions of appointments? Film?"

Flora's eyes widened. "Those Bryce Hunter blackmail films? Nothing about that. You know, just the same stuff you could get from reading the papers."

Reeves searched through the stack and yanked out a picture with a single name and phone number.

"Who's this guy?"

"No idea. Never heard her mention his name before."

Reeves studied the photo. Another piece of the puzzle that eluded him.

"We're even, right?" Flora asked. "I mean I know I owe you a lot more. My son, he's doing well in the army."

"I'm sure the judge who sentenced him will be glad to hear that. Boys will be boys." Reeves stood. "I may call on you one more time, Flora. At least until my current problem is settled."

"I can't keep helping you. Blaney may be getting wise."

"Just one more time." He assured her. He cued Cully who already had his hand on the door knob and propelled Flora out of the room.

"I can't think of a lot of reason why she had that guy's name and number written in her notebook," Reeves said.

"Maybe he's her boyfriend," Bernie said.

As usual Reeves ignored any comments from Bernie. "Maybe . . . just maybe. Cully, I want you to go to Bedrosian's apartment and look for more notebooks. Bernie, find out what you can about –" Reeves picked up the picture and handed it to him. "Joe Mannix. If he has anything to do with the films, it won't be long before he goes for it."

oO0Oo

"What's with the Bedrosian case?" Gunn asked.

Pete Gunn had once again entered his office without knocking. Detective Sergeant Lou Jacoby wanted to put his head down and scream, but with his desk heaped with files, there wasn't any room. By late afternoon he had managed to slog through into a few of the cold cases he had been assigned.

"I'm trying to work here," he said from behind the stacks of paper. "Besides, you should be talking to Missing Persons. Remember I'm in homicide." Everybody was on edge about that missing reporter. Jacoby rejoiced that he was working on a project for the Captain.

"Just trolling for information."

"Go troll in Missing Persons."

"We both know how fast a missing person can turn up dead."

"What do you know that I don't?" Jacoby fiddled with the heaps of papers and files. Gunn picked up a random file; Jacoby snatched it away from him.

"The odds. My, my, a little testy." Gunn said as he propped a hip on the edge of Jacoby's desk.

"Listen, Pete –"

Jacoby was interrupted by a knock at his door. Captain Loomis, his boss, stuck his head in.

"Jacoby, drop those unsolved cases I wanted you to take a crack at. They found the Bedrosian girl's body at the Sheila, Room 323. We're keeping a lid on this. Get there before the reporters find out. It's now officially a homicide."

Jacoby glared at Gunn. "On it, Captain." He grabbed his fedora. "I suppose you want to come along?" he asked Gunn.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"You've already been that. C'mon." Jacoby led the way out of his office.

oO0Oo

A seedy brick and tarnished brass 15-story facade towered over the weather-beaten and torn brown canopy covering the lobby entrance. Many of the light bulbs on the hotel sign were either busted or missing in action. The marble floor in lobby had enough wax buildup to qualify as a skating rink.

Jacoby flashed his badge at the officer posted next to the elevator. "You coming?" he asked Gunn.

"I'll be up later." Gunn surveyed the lobby. Drunks were passed out in the ratty, overstuffed leather chairs. The desk clerk reading the paper didn't seem to notice them or anyone else.

"Suit yourself." The elevator doors closed. Gunn waited for the elevator to signal the next floor before he turned to the desk clerk.

Gunn cleared his throat. Without looking up the clerk leaned back to grab a key from the rack behind him. He stopped when he got a better look who was standing in front of him.

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"Information. Who was registered to Room 323?"

"You're not a cop. You don't dress like a cop."

"My tailor will be flattered." Gunn pulled out a five dollar bill and laid it on the desk. "An answer."

"The clerk's hands twitched as he looked at the cash. "Nobody."

"Nobody? What do you mean 'nobody'? Is that what you told the police?"

"Yep, according to my register nobody was registered to 323."

"Then how did her body get in there?"

"Sometimes people leave without turning in their key. The boss don't want to rekey the lock just because somebody walks off with it. Most times it's accidental. Sometimes we get the key back in the mail in a couple of days." The clerk shrugged 'like I care'. "Never got back the key to 323." He reached for the money. Gunn clamped his hand over it.

"Okay, then who was it registered to the last time you knew it had a key?"

"Jeez, I don't know. The register doesn't go back that far."

Gunn pulled the fiver out of the reach of the clerk. "I'm not asking your register. I'm asking you."

"I'm not supposed to know, but the boss is the only one who has the key to that room."

"Who's your boss?"

"Macklin Reeves."

"What else goes on around here you're not supposed to notice?"

"Please, Mister, I've already said too much."

"I'll find out anyway. All I have to do is I say got it from you whether I did or not."

The desk clerk paled. "Okay, a lot of gambling. There's a bookie joint in the basement. Some of the larger rooms have floating poker games. I'm not supposed to know."

Gunn handed him another five. "I didn't get it from you." He sauntered over to the elevator and pushed the up button. The drunks hadn't stirred.

By the time Gunn reach Room 323 the investigation was in full swing. He recognized the lab guy as Ray Pinker, a good man. The photographer was a new face. With those two and Jacoby crawling over the crime scene, there wasn't much room for Gunn. He relaxed in the doorway and watched. He had learned from experience not to smoke at Jacoby's crime scenes.

Room 323 held a chair, a dresser, a sink, and a barely queen-sized bed with a dead female body. She laid face up staring at nothing. Her lipstick was smeared creating weird shapes around her lips. On the floor to her right was a crumpled handkerchief and her purse. He sniffed a sweet odor – chloroform for sure.

Gunn watched Jacoby mull over the crime scene. He was like a bloodhound loose on the scent. Jacoby stepped back into the hallway while the other two finished up.

"So what'd you find out?" Jacoby asked.

"About what?"

Jacoby rolled his eyes. "So you're not gonna share your talk with the desk clerk with me?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

"Try me."

While Gunn relayed his conversation with the desk clerk, Ray handed Jacoby a notebook after he had finished dusting for prints. Jacoby studied it as he continued to listen.

"Can you make any sense of this?" Jacoby asked Gunn. He held up a page of pen marks that resembled drunk chicken scratches.

Gunn moved closer. "Yeah, it's shorthand. You know, secretaries use it to take dictation."

"Yes, I know, but can you read it?"

"Do I look like I've ever worked in an office?"

Jacoby flipped through the pages of the notebook again. He stopped and removed a pencil from his pocket. "Look, a page's been torn out." He rubbed the graphite on the blank page that came after the missing one. A name and a phone number emerged. He copied it into his crime scene notes.

"I need a translator for the rest of this stuff. Do you know somebody who can read this?"

"I'm more than happy to assist the in anyway that I can." Gunn reached for the book. Jacoby jerked it away.

"This is evidence. Don't lose it or I'll be breaking rocks at San Quentin with you right next to me."

"Why, Sergeant, I'll treat this like it was the Hope Diamond."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba."

When they reached the lobby, reporters swarmed Jacoby. They shouted their questions. Each one Jacoby answered with a "no comment" or "still under investigation."

Gunn stepped back into the shadows. He lit his first cigarette in what seemed like hours. He scanned the crowd of reporters. John Blaney stationed himself on the edge of the crowd scribbling in his notebook. Gunn tapped him on the shoulder and nodded him away from the crowd.

"Need a favor," Gunn said. He removed the small notebook from his coat pocket. "Can you give me quick read on this?" He handed it to him.

Blaney rifled through it. Gunn had time to finish his cigarette.

"Mostly society gossip except for a few notes on the Bryce Hunter murder," Blaney said. "This is Kathy's. Where'd you get it? At the crime scene? Can I get an exclusive?"

"I'll get with you later." Gunn put the notebook back in this pocket and trailed the other reporters out of the building.

oO0Oo

Art Malcolm didn't know why he chose to play half-court basketball with Joe Mannix in the late afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. He jumped to block Joe's shot only to feel his hand hit vacant air. Joe faked him out again and dribbled past him to make a layup. He was working his ass off, and Joe looked like he was taking a walk in the park.

"So tell . . . about this girl . . . you met?" Art huffed. He hated feeling the sweat drip down his back.

"I didn't meet her. I know her from high school."

"And you got her phone . . . number, right?"

"Wrong. I gave her mine."

Art drooped to one knee. "You gave her yours? How are you going to call her?"

"She'll call me." Joe bounced the ball a few times. Art appreciated the extra seconds to catch his breath.

"What if she doesn't call?" Art stood up signaling he was ready for his next humiliation.

"Art, she works at the Observer. All I have to do is call the paper. You gonna play ball or worry about my love life?"

"I was just asking because I thought maybe you'd like to go out on a double date with me and Helen. We're going to go see that new Robert Wagner movie, Between Heaven and Hell, next weekend." Art moved in rhythm to Joe bouncing the ball.

"I thought Helen didn't like war movies."

"She doesn't, but she thinks Robert Wagner is 'cute.'"

Joe dribbled and backed into Art, bumping him closer to the hoop. Their rubber soled shoes squeaked and thumped on the worn wooden floor. Joe twisted left then right and caught Art leaning the wrong way. Joe's wrists flicked with a jump shot. Art marveled as the ball sailed over his head and into the basket. He shook his head.

"Okay, I give. By the way, did you put the paperwork in for the LAPD?" Art retrieved the ball and lobbed it to Joe.

"Do I have to say this again? Why on earth would I want to be a cop?" Joe asked as he toed the free throw line.

"You could do worse. In fact, you already are. Since when is being a cab driver a good career move?" Art watched Joe sink the basket – H.

Art had sensed something was wrong when Joe returned from Costa Verde. He noted Joe's weight loss and Joe had let it slip that he wasn't sleeping well. And his tan from Costa Verde was almost gone. Joe still smiled and joked and talked, but he rarely commented on Costa Verde. Art had expected to hear about his daring exploits a mercenary pilot, but all Joe had said was that it was a dirty, little war in a dirty, little country.

"Wait a minute; I'm doing Mac a favor. He's short a driver." Joe bounced the ball twice as was his routine. "Besides I'm a lousy pistol shot."

Art frowned. "Don't worry about that. Sgt. Davis is the marksmanship instructor at the academy; he'll sharpen up that eye. At least put in the paperwork. The department's hiring again. You'll know in a couple months. They give preference to veterans. At least, it's a steady job. You could settle down."

"Like you? No, thanks." Joe bounced the ball again and let it fly. He missed.

Art blinked. Wasn't often that Joe missed a free throw. He grabbed the ball and traded places at the free throw line.

"Mercenary isn't your style, Joe." Art launched a shot that was doomed from the moment it left his hands.

"And chasing pickpockets, burglars and drunks is?"

Art shook his head. Joe's last missed free throw might be the only time he'd get to beat him. Otherwise he'd have to wait until Joe broke both his hands and both his legs. Joe shifted to a left-handed shot. Swish – O.

"Promise me you'll at least think about it." Art tossed the ball back to Joe.

"I'll always think about it." Joe began his free throw routine again.

oO0Oo

Jacoby stood in the entrance to the basketball court at the Downtown YMCA. He watched Officer Art Malcolm and another man play half-court ball. Obviously Malcolm was not in the same league as the man he was playing with.

"Are you Joe Mannix?" Jacoby asked.

Malcolm and the other player swiveled to face him.

"Who are . . ." the man asked.

"Sergeant Jacoby, what are you doing here?" Art asked.

"Malcolm." Jacoby nodded and jerked his thumb toward Joe. "Is he Joe Mannix?"

"Yes," Malcolm answered.

Jacoby stepped closer. "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."

"About what?" Mannix pitched the ball from one hand to the other.

"Katherine Bedrosian."

"Kathy? What about her?" He stopped tossing the basketball.

"I need you to come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about!"

"Joe, not here."

Jacoby knew Malcolm recognized the look on his face.

"Art, what do you mean 'not here.'? What's this about?"

Jacoby sighed. "Katherine Bedrosian is dead."

The basketball tumbled from Mannix's hand. "Dead . . . no . . .I just . . . the other day." Thump. "She can't be . . ." Thump. The color drained from his face. "Not Kathy." Thump. The basketball rolled away into a corner.

"Get him to the station, Georgia Street," Jacoby said. His eyes followed Malcolm as he lead his friend off the basketball court. This was the rotten part of being a policeman. Maybe he'd take Pete Gunn's advice someday. Maybe it was time to stop telling people that someone they knew was dead.

oO0Oo

Jacoby trudged down the hallway. Long day and even longer night. He glanced up at ceiling thinking of the second floor. He hated that the new Central Receiving Hospital would be on Sixth when it was completed. Having it on the second floor of the Georgia Street Police Station made it easier to interview victims, witnesses, and suspects who needed medical attention. The only good thing was that the detective squad would get new offices upstairs. Detective sergeants, like him, didn't usually rate a private office, but everybody knew he was on his way to lieutenant. Besides you couldn't have shoehorned another desk into the current detectives' squad room.

As he turned the corner, he saw Art Malcolm with Joe Mannix seated on the bench across from his office door. Mannix was as white as a sheet. Maybe he shouldn't have taken him to the morgue to ID Katherine Bedrosian's body. Her managing editor had supplied the next of kin information.

He pondered the young men. The Mannix guy wore a brown leather jacket over his sweats. Malcolm, similarly garbed, perched like he was on guard duty. Jacoby opened the door to his office and signaled to Mannix to go in. He closed the door and turned to Malcolm.

"What do you know about him?" Jacoby asked.

"I know I wouldn't be standing here now if it wasn't for him."

"Yeah, how so?"

"Got me and a few other guys out of a Korean POW camp."

"The hero type?"

"No, regular guy. I've been trying to talk him into taking the exam for policeman."

"You think he could cut it?"

"Not only could Joe Mannix cut it, he could slice it and dice it. He's the type of guy Chief Parker's looking for."

"What's he doing driving a cab?"

"He came back from Costa Verde. Hired out as a mercenary pilot."

"Flyboy? And he's working as a cab driver?"

Malcolm shrugged. "He's keeping his options open."

Jacoby arched his brow in disbelief.

"He's okay. You don't think he had anything to do with it, do you?"

"You know as well as I do, everybody's a suspect in a murder case until proven otherwise."

"You might as well think I'm a suspect too."

"What makes you think I don't?" Jacoby pushed into his office. He recognized that Joe Mannix had a good friend in Malcolm.

Mannix sagged in the chair in front of the sergeant's desk. Pete Gunn discretely leaned against the file cabinet at the other end of the office. He was unhurried as he puffed on his smoke. He barely nodded to Jacoby, code that he'd stay out of the questioning.

Jacoby figured Joe Mannix couldn't have been more than twenty-five, twenty-six years old. A curl of hair hung over his forehead. Jacoby caught a whiff of sweat-soaked clothing. A sadness around his eyes, the leather jacket with air force unit patches on it. A POW, probably a tough son of a bitch. Had to be to impress Malcolm. A flyboy, huh. Jacoby was in the MPs himself. If he was gonna die, he didn't want to have far to fall.

"Would you mind talking to me about the last time you saw Katherine Bedrosian?" Jacoby asked. He slipped behind his newly uncluttered desk.

"She was a fare."

"She wasn't in your logbook. Where'd you take her?"

"The Mayfield."

Jacoby tensed The Mayfield wasn't where her body was found.

"Do you know why she wanted to go there? Was she meeting someone?"

"I don't know."

Jacoby peeked at Gunn to gauge his reaction. Gunn tilted his head and raised his brows.

"Where'd you pick her up?"

"The Hall of Justice."

"What time?"

"A little after 10 PM."

Not a lot open at the Hall of Justice at 10 PM on a Saturday night. She had to be meeting someone. Jacoby made a mental note to check with the deputies at the Hall of Justice. That time of night you had to sign in and out. "You knew she was a reporter?" Jacoby asked.

"Yeah, she told me."

"Did she seem worried, nervous, anxious during the trip? Anything you can tell us could help us find out who did this."

"I don't know anything." Joe squeezed his jacket pockets. He pulled out his pack of Kools. "Got a match?" he asked.

Gunn tossed Joe a pack of matches and Jacoby shoved an ashtray toward him.

"Thanks."Joe inhaled the smoke.

"Did she tell you why she was going there? Who she was going to meet?"

"Nothing like that. We talked about a bit about home. I thought maybe we could get together. I gave her my phone number."

"Yeah, that's how we found you." Jacoby didn't mention that the page was torn out of her reporter's notebook. "Anything else you can think of?"

Joe shook his head.

Jacoby pushed a business card toward him. "If you think of anything else no matter how unimportant, give me a call. You can go."

Joe snatched the card, stood and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. He glared at Gunn and left the room.

"What do you think?" Jacoby asked.

"He's hiding something though I can't imagine what."

Gunn had already filled in Jacoby on Blaney's translation of the Bedrosian notebook.

"Yeah, well, unfortunately, I don't have the manpower to have him followed."

"What about his buddy? You could use him."

"Good idea. I'll mention it to Malcolm. You know, make it unofficially official."

"While I take care of the officially unofficial?"

"What's on your mind, Pete?" Jacoby sighed.

"Nothing official." Gunn whistled his way out of the office.

oO0Oo

No sooner than he shut the door to his room, Joe slipped the envelope from his inside coat pocket. He rested on the edge of his unmade bed and opened it. A ticket to a Dizzy Gillespie concert at the Hollywood Bowl, terrace box seats, Tuesday, tomorrow night.

He tried to get the image out of his mind of Kathy's lifeless body covered by a white sheet. He preferred to remember that last time she smiled at him and said she'd call him, that last moment before she entered into the Mayfield lobby and stepped into something she couldn't handle.

He shifted and kicked at a lone shoe on the floor.

When he'd reached into his jacket for his cigarettes in Jacoby's office, he'd felt the envelope rub against his sweatshirt. He'd stopped breathing long enough to make the decision not to tell the cops he had it. The envelope was Kathy talking to him.

He scanned the small desk next to his bed for matches. Before he realized it, he had smoked three cigarettes in a row while staring at the ticket in his hand. Why did he even think this had anything to do with her death? She didn't want it with her when she was going to meet someone at the Mayfield. But why? What's Dizzy Gillespie got to do with this? Was she meeting someone at the concert? Or did she like Dizzy Gillespie?

The tiny room was thick with smoke. As usual he opened his window to let the smoke-scented air out. He gazed at his stellar view of a brick wall.

A corner of his room held two boxes of law reference books given to him by Mr. Kolligian and his basketball and football trophies from college. When he returned from Costa Verde, he retrieved the boxes from Art's garage and wondered why he had held on to its contents. This stuff reminded him of what he could have been versus what he was – a hack driver. He flicked the butt out of the window toward the brick wall.

He didn't have any idea about what to do next except attend the concert and see if anything happened. Probably nothing. Who was he kidding? He didn't know the first thing about investigating a murder.

He lit another cigarette. He smoked too much and kept promising himself he'd quit, but not today. He needed something to hold on to. He'd quit smoking after he'd found Kathy's killer.

He'd better get a move on. He had to shower, shave and get dressed. He still had a cab to drive.

The End of Part 1