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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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…” I began.
“I’ll think about it, but not very hard,” she said, opening the door for me to leave. I could smell her perfume as we moved to the door and out. I didn’t smile, just stepped past her into the courtyard as she locked the door behind us.
“Nice fish,” I said, looking at the pond.
“Building manager says there were more,” she said, looking at me. “But one of the tenants threw in a small fish he caught at Lake Arrowhead. It ate its way through the smaller fish and had downed two big ones when the manager pulled him out.”
“Moral?” I asked.
“Don’t throw odd fish in with the domestic ones,” she said. She turned and walked down the red brick path, past a green elephant-eared plant and into the late afternoon. I didn’t follow, didn’t say anything. I made the mistake of going back to the pond to look at the fish.
They swam in odd patterns, looking for something to eat or be eaten by. Black and gold splashes of paint with tails that …
“Fish belong in soup,” came a familiar voice behind me.
I played it right. I didn’t turn, just kept looking at a big gold one with bulging eyes and a mouth that opened and closed over slightly brackish water.
“Fish are fascinating,” I said.
“Why?” asked Lieutenant Steve Seidman of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“You need a soul to understand, Lieutenant,” I said, turning to him with a sigh.
“That explains it,” he said flatly. There was no expression on his pale skeleton face. For years there had been rumors that Seidman had a rare disease and would soon be gone, but other cops faded and died around him and Seidman went on, a pale shadow beside his boss, my brother, Captain Phil Pevsner of the Wilshire District.
“What we have here is one hell of a coincidence,” I said. “Or …”
“Phil-wants to see you,” he said, looking at the fish but seeing nothing that interested him.
“Should I ask?”
“I would,” he said.
“Right. Why does he want to see me?”
“Fellow named Hower got himself killed down in Pacific Palisades. Found the body about an hour ago,” Seidman explained. “We got a call about thé same time suggesting that you might know something, about it.”
“And my brother had you …”
“And four other detectives,” he interjected.
“… come out looking for me. You got lucky.”
“No,” said Seidman. “Phil called people you know and found out that Ann got back to town today. He figured you’d come here looking for her. Said you couldn’t stay away from her.”
“Betrayed by love,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said. “I’ve been a cop all my life. Let’s go.”
And we went. Seidman trusted me enough to let me drive my Crosley ahead of him. We got to the Wilshire Station in fifteen minutes, bucking the traffic. The Wilshire had been the hotbed of police activity back in 1923 when my brother Phil joined the force. Phil had come in during Prohibition when the department was at its most corrupt. He became a cop the same month the city fathers appointed August Vollmer, the father of police science, to a one-year term to clean up the L.A.P.D. Vollmer, a clean-living police chief from Berkeley, got nowhere, and when his term was about to expire in September of 1924, billboards began to appear all over the city, saying: “ THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER WILL BE THE LAST OF AUGUST .” And it was. I remember seeing the signs and asking Phil what they meant. I remember he rapped me in the head and told me to shut up.
I parked in a space on the street and met Seidman in the lobby. The desk sergeant was a young balding guy named Rashkow who’d had his brains shaken and his left leg peppered with shrapnel defending some small island in the Pacific a year before. He was back now and doing desk duty.
I waved at him and he waved back. Rashkow was busy with an angry little woman in a cloth coat and an enormous fat man with a baby face. The fat man was rocking from
“I’ll think about it, but not very hard,” she said, opening the door for me to leave. I could smell her perfume as we moved to the door and out. I didn’t smile, just stepped past her into the courtyard as she locked the door behind us.
“Nice fish,” I said, looking at the pond.
“Building manager says there were more,” she said, looking at me. “But one of the tenants threw in a small fish he caught at Lake Arrowhead. It ate its way through the smaller fish and had downed two big ones when the manager pulled him out.”
“Moral?” I asked.
“Don’t throw odd fish in with the domestic ones,” she said. She turned and walked down the red brick path, past a green elephant-eared plant and into the late afternoon. I didn’t follow, didn’t say anything. I made the mistake of going back to the pond to look at the fish.
They swam in odd patterns, looking for something to eat or be eaten by. Black and gold splashes of paint with tails that …
“Fish belong in soup,” came a familiar voice behind me.
I played it right. I didn’t turn, just kept looking at a big gold one with bulging eyes and a mouth that opened and closed over slightly brackish water.
“Fish are fascinating,” I said.
“Why?” asked Lieutenant Steve Seidman of the Los Angeles Police Department.
“You need a soul to understand, Lieutenant,” I said, turning to him with a sigh.
“That explains it,” he said flatly. There was no expression on his pale skeleton face. For years there had been rumors that Seidman had a rare disease and would soon be gone, but other cops faded and died around him and Seidman went on, a pale shadow beside his boss, my brother, Captain Phil Pevsner of the Wilshire District.
“What we have here is one hell of a coincidence,” I said. “Or …”
“Phil-wants to see you,” he said, looking at the fish but seeing nothing that interested him.
“Should I ask?”
“I would,” he said.
“Right. Why does he want to see me?”
“Fellow named Hower got himself killed down in Pacific Palisades. Found the body about an hour ago,” Seidman explained. “We got a call about thé same time suggesting that you might know something, about it.”
“And my brother had you …”
“And four other detectives,” he interjected.
“… come out looking for me. You got lucky.”
“No,” said Seidman. “Phil called people you know and found out that Ann got back to town today. He figured you’d come here looking for her. Said you couldn’t stay away from her.”
“Betrayed by love,” I said.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said. “I’ve been a cop all my life. Let’s go.”
And we went. Seidman trusted me enough to let me drive my Crosley ahead of him. We got to the Wilshire Station in fifteen minutes, bucking the traffic. The Wilshire had been the hotbed of police activity back in 1923 when my brother Phil joined the force. Phil had come in during Prohibition when the department was at its most corrupt. He became a cop the same month the city fathers appointed August Vollmer, the father of police science, to a one-year term to clean up the L.A.P.D. Vollmer, a clean-living police chief from Berkeley, got nowhere, and when his term was about to expire in September of 1924, billboards began to appear all over the city, saying: “ THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER WILL BE THE LAST OF AUGUST .” And it was. I remember seeing the signs and asking Phil what they meant. I remember he rapped me in the head and told me to shut up.
I parked in a space on the street and met Seidman in the lobby. The desk sergeant was a young balding guy named Rashkow who’d had his brains shaken and his left leg peppered with shrapnel defending some small island in the Pacific a year before. He was back now and doing desk duty.
I waved at him and he waved back. Rashkow was busy with an angry little woman in a cloth coat and an enormous fat man with a baby face. The fat man was rocking from
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