girl
had got him; the twins, and now the new one (who would turn out to be
another redhead, of course), that dog, and now a vast (well, for
L.A.) estate, the feudal retainers, and now more livestock. What
next, he wondered. But she'd said she was going to take up painting
again, with a real studio. That might quiet her down a little; one
never knew.
They made a dash for the Ferrari through the rain:
not a downpour, but the steady kind of rain that brought a lot of
water down.
The address on Twenty-seventh Place—this was one of
the solidly black areas—was an old stucco house on a narrow
residential street. It wasn't an affluent-looking block, but all the
houses were well enough kept up, with strips of lawn and Bower beds
in front. This one was painted pink, and at the largest front window
were crisp white priscilla curtains, visible from outside. There was
a squad parked at the curb, with Patrolman Barrett waiting in the
front passenger's seat. Beyond the square front porch the front door
of the house was open.
" What have we got?" Mendoza and Galeano
ducked into the back seat of the squad.
"Something damned queer," said Barrett.
"Rather you than me, try to figure it out. These two women are
at home—they're sisters—and the doorbell rings, woman says she's
selling something and gets let in, and a minute later brings out a
gun and shoots one of them. A Mrs. Leta Reynolds. That's about all I
got—the other one was pretty shocked and upset. There's a little
girl there too. The other girl asked if she could call her mother and
I said she'd better wait for you. She seems a pretty good type—maybe
she's got over the shock enough to answer some questions. I left Ray
with her."
Down here they ran two-man cars.
"Queer isn't a word for it," said Mendoza.
"We'll want a lab truck." They arranged for that; he and
Galeano went up the front walk and into the house. Patrolman Wiener
was just inside the door, which led directly into a living room. He
said, "The girl went into the bedroom. Wanted to get the kid
away from the body."
" Understandable," said Galeano. This was a
pleasant, homey room, with a worn American-Oriental rug on the floor,
old-fashioned upholstered furniture in shades of green and beige, a
real brick hearth. It was clean and neat, except for the body; and at
first glance you might have thought Leta Reynolds was merely asleep.
She was a nice-looking young woman, chocolate brown,
with neat regular features and a slim figure. She was wearing a
dull-orange sheath dress and black patent-leather pumps. There was a
gold bracelet on one arm, a gold wrist watch on the other. She was
lying back on the couch, looking quite comfortable. There was a dark
stain on her left breast—not a very big stain.
" She said she heard three or four shots—didn't
realize what they were," said Wiener. "I'd guess a small
caliber, twenty-two or something." He went into the hall. "Miss
Corey, the detectives are here. They'd like to talk to you."
She came to the door of the living room. Wiener
introduced them formally and she nodded. "I'm Melinda Corey."
She looked about twenty; she was more handsome than pretty, with
rather sharp features, a great knot of hair coiled on top of her
head; she wore a smart dark-green pantsuit. "Please—we don't
have to stay here? I mean—" she glanced at the body,
gulped and turned away.
" We'd rather not," said Mendoza. "There'll
be some technicians here in a while."
" The kitchen," she said. "There's
Lily—" She opened a door and looked into a bedroom. "You
just stay there awhile, honey. Don't be scared at any noises—there's
just some people coming to—to help Mommy."
" Will she be all right?" The little girl
looked about six; she had big black eyes and neat pigtails tied with
red ribbons.
" I think so," said Melinda. "I'll be
back after a while."
She shut the door and led them down the hall to a
square kitchen big enough for a table and four chairs. There was a
little stack of dishes in
had got him; the twins, and now the new one (who would turn out to be
another redhead, of course), that dog, and now a vast (well, for
L.A.) estate, the feudal retainers, and now more livestock. What
next, he wondered. But she'd said she was going to take up painting
again, with a real studio. That might quiet her down a little; one
never knew.
They made a dash for the Ferrari through the rain:
not a downpour, but the steady kind of rain that brought a lot of
water down.
The address on Twenty-seventh Place—this was one of
the solidly black areas—was an old stucco house on a narrow
residential street. It wasn't an affluent-looking block, but all the
houses were well enough kept up, with strips of lawn and Bower beds
in front. This one was painted pink, and at the largest front window
were crisp white priscilla curtains, visible from outside. There was
a squad parked at the curb, with Patrolman Barrett waiting in the
front passenger's seat. Beyond the square front porch the front door
of the house was open.
" What have we got?" Mendoza and Galeano
ducked into the back seat of the squad.
"Something damned queer," said Barrett.
"Rather you than me, try to figure it out. These two women are
at home—they're sisters—and the doorbell rings, woman says she's
selling something and gets let in, and a minute later brings out a
gun and shoots one of them. A Mrs. Leta Reynolds. That's about all I
got—the other one was pretty shocked and upset. There's a little
girl there too. The other girl asked if she could call her mother and
I said she'd better wait for you. She seems a pretty good type—maybe
she's got over the shock enough to answer some questions. I left Ray
with her."
Down here they ran two-man cars.
"Queer isn't a word for it," said Mendoza.
"We'll want a lab truck." They arranged for that; he and
Galeano went up the front walk and into the house. Patrolman Wiener
was just inside the door, which led directly into a living room. He
said, "The girl went into the bedroom. Wanted to get the kid
away from the body."
" Understandable," said Galeano. This was a
pleasant, homey room, with a worn American-Oriental rug on the floor,
old-fashioned upholstered furniture in shades of green and beige, a
real brick hearth. It was clean and neat, except for the body; and at
first glance you might have thought Leta Reynolds was merely asleep.
She was a nice-looking young woman, chocolate brown,
with neat regular features and a slim figure. She was wearing a
dull-orange sheath dress and black patent-leather pumps. There was a
gold bracelet on one arm, a gold wrist watch on the other. She was
lying back on the couch, looking quite comfortable. There was a dark
stain on her left breast—not a very big stain.
" She said she heard three or four shots—didn't
realize what they were," said Wiener. "I'd guess a small
caliber, twenty-two or something." He went into the hall. "Miss
Corey, the detectives are here. They'd like to talk to you."
She came to the door of the living room. Wiener
introduced them formally and she nodded. "I'm Melinda Corey."
She looked about twenty; she was more handsome than pretty, with
rather sharp features, a great knot of hair coiled on top of her
head; she wore a smart dark-green pantsuit. "Please—we don't
have to stay here? I mean—" she glanced at the body,
gulped and turned away.
" We'd rather not," said Mendoza. "There'll
be some technicians here in a while."
" The kitchen," she said. "There's
Lily—" She opened a door and looked into a bedroom. "You
just stay there awhile, honey. Don't be scared at any noises—there's
just some people coming to—to help Mommy."
" Will she be all right?" The little girl
looked about six; she had big black eyes and neat pigtails tied with
red ribbons.
" I think so," said Melinda. "I'll be
back after a while."
She shut the door and led them down the hall to a
square kitchen big enough for a table and four chairs. There was a
little stack of dishes in
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