Two starlet types in red-and-white bathing suits were standing on a little perch to keep from falling out, waving blue high hats, while a loudspeaker over the cab was blasting Kate Smith’s “God Bless America” loud enough to raise the dead.
Ski started grousing. “I hate Kate Smith,” he snapped. “I really hate hearing her bellow when I’m not fully awake yet.”
Smith wrapped her song and Irving Berlin’s forlorn voice began moaning, “Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning.”
“I hate that, too,” he growled.
“Why should you care,” I said. “You’re forty-two, you got a wife and three kids, and you’re sixty pounds overweight. They’ll be drafting blind men before they get to you.”
“Christ, you’re thirty-four. They’ll never get to you either. Besides, you’re a cop. Immediate deferment.”
“That sounds unpatriotic,” I said.
“I think you want to go if we get into it with the Krauts,” he said. “Mr. Gung Ho.”
I started laughing and he finally broke up, too, and turned back to the paper.
“So what’s the plan for the day?” he asked.
“I go to the bank, you check where she worked. We’ll meet at the Kettle for lunch.”
“How about Moriarity?”
“What about him?”
“It’s an accident. He’s gonna want to know what the hell we’re up to.”
“Let’s see what we come up with. Then we’ll worry about the lieutenant.”
“Great, just great,” Agassi moaned.
CHAPTER 5
The drive to the West Los Angeles National Bank took me past the entrance to Pacific Meadows. There was a small sign beside the road into the neighborhood that read:
Pacific Meadows no solicitations speed limit 10 we have children
It was a nice touch, the kind of understated warning you usually find in snottier neighborhoods with a lot of flowers around the entrance gate, and private police who patrol in unmarked cars and make more in tips at Christmas than I make in a year. Across the main drag from the entrance was a strip of necessity stores: a candy store and newsstand, dry cleaners, drugstore, greengrocer, butcher shop-which I assumed was where Verna Wilensky got Rosebud’s bones-a shoe cobbler, and a burned-out shop on the end, with an empty lot beside it.
A few blocks farther on was a small nameless village that was showing the signs of restoration. Freshly painted shops mingled with shuttered stores that were still waiting for tenants getting back on their feet from the Depression.
The West L.A. National was on the ground floor of a freestanding, three-story building that had professional offices on the upper floors. The entrance was in the middle of the block and had brass-trimmed, etched-glass doors and a small plaque next to it that told me the bank was founded in 1920 by Ezra Sutherland. It was cheerier than most old banks I was familiar with. The teller cages were mahogany. The high glass partitions, which had become popular when John Dillinger and his pals were fond of making sudden withdrawals from banks, had been removed. There was a long table down the middle of the room where depositors could fill in their slips. A vase of fresh flowers held down its center. On the right side, behind a hand-carved railing, were several desks where clerks made loans and did whatever else clerks do in a bank. All boasted freshly cut flowers in vases. Four towering cathedral windows lined the walls, providing warm sunlight to the big room. A large glass chandelier hovered majestically overhead.
In the far corner on the left was a stainless steel Standish- Wellington vault, its door standing open. In the center of the far wall was a door, which I assumed led to the president’s office, and another, probably to a secretary’s office. A pleasant-looking woman in her mid to late thirties occupied a large desk in front of the big shot’s office. A single red rose, flared out in all its glory in a fluted bud vase, sat on a corner of her desk. It was a pleasant room, less threatening than most banks.
I took off my fedora and walked the length of the bank to the woman with the red rose. Her nameplate said she was Amy Shein, executive secretary, and a plaque on the door behind her told me the office was occupied by Rufus Sutherland, President.
“Good morning, Miss Shein,” I said and showed her my buzzer. “Sergeant Bannon, Los Angeles Police Department. Is Mr. Sutherland busy?”
She looked a bit alarmed when she saw the badge but got over it quickly and smiled.
“May I tell him what this is about?” she asked pleasantly.
“It’s a routine matter,” I said. “Nothing serious. No crime has been committed.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” she said, and went into the office. She was gone for less than a minute, then came out and stood at the door and motioned me in.
“Mr. Sutherland, this is Lieutenant Bannon from the police department,” she told the boss.
“Sergeant,” I said. “But thanks for the promotion.”
Sutherland smiled from behind a teak desk that wasn’t quite as big as a basketball court and just as barren: a leather blotter holder, a pen and pencil set, and a telephone. There were two large, framed Audubon originals on the wall behind his desk. One was an eagle. I didn’t recognize the other bird which was red and black and quite a bit smaller. Behind him, on top of a cabinet that matched the desk, were a dozen framed photographs of all sizes, family pictures. Otherwise the room was as impersonal as a form letter.
Sutherland was a tall, erect man in a blue summer suit with a white breast-pocket handkerchief. His salt-and-pepper hair was a little too long for a banker’s and he had a tennis player’s tan, manicured fingers, and brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Rufus Sutherland,” he said, extending his hand. We shook and I took the chair he motioned to. I could feel tension in his hand.
“I hope this isn’t something serious,” he said. “My daughter.. ”
“Nothing like that,” I interrupted. “It has to do with a customer of yours. Verna Wilensky.”
He seemed relieved and then: “Is something wrong with Verna?”
Obviously the news had not reached the bank yet.
“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said. “Mrs. Wilensky is dead. An accident at her home.”
“Oh my God,” he said, sitting up even taller in his chair. “What happened?”
I gave him as much information as was necessary without getting into bloated faces floating under bathwater and other lurid details. I could tell the news upset him.
“She was one of our most dependable depositors, certainly the most loyal,” he said. “Came in once a month to go over her statement. Never complained. A lovely lady with more than her share of bad luck. I assume you heard about her husband.”
I nodded. “Are you familiar with her account, Mr. Sutherland?”
“Well, no more than for most of our depositors. The tellers and secretaries handled her everyday affairs. But she always stopped in to say hello. Used to come in with that big dog of hers.” He leaned forward and a smile played the corners of his mouth. “Big old stud named Rosebud, can you imagine?”
“We’ve met,” I said with a smile.
“Well, what can I do for you, sir?”
I picked up my briefcase, sat it on a corner of the massive desk, and snapped it open.
“We found these papers in her desk. Mostly banking things. She has quite a sum of money on deposit and we haven’t been able to locate a will.”
“Oh my goodness,” he said. “Hard to believe she was intestate, she was meticulous in all her dealings.”
“Apparently both she and Frank Wilensky were only children. I’d like to locate survivors if there are any, before the state gets its greedy hands on her estate: life savings, house, car, et cetera.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“I understand she came here from Texas.”
“Well, I’m not real sure. It’s been a long time. My father was director at the time. That was back in the early twenties. He died several years ago and after that Millie… Miss Harrington… handled her affairs.”