Indian grinned. "The hooker said she'd get even for her, with the guy that got the law passed. She didn't say how. Maybe he's a customer or something."
Sometimes I just half listen to Indian. He rambles. This time he had my attention. "What's the guy's name?" I asked.
"I don't know. She said, but I don't remember."
"Wellington?" I threw that out to test him.
"Nah, nothing like that."
"Miller? Pasco?"
"Pasco! That's it! You know about him?"
"I've heard of him. He doesn't like psychics."
Indian looked suddenly wary. "It's not against the law in L.A., is it? Nah, couldn't be. Besides, your girlfriend is a psychic."
"Is Becky pretty good at fortunes?" I asked.
"I don't know. I guess. You want yours told?"
"Maybe. Tuuli won't tell me mine. Can I get in touch with this Becky?"
"There's a house on Franklin, on one of those little streets east of Bronson. It's got a little sign in the front yard—House of the Moon. They rent rooms to fortune-tellers to tell fortunes in. It's close enough, Becky don't need no car, or to take the bus or anything. She just walks there from the house about a mile. The hill climbing's good for her."
He told me Becky didn't leave for work till after nine, and gave me the phone number where he lives. So when I got to my office, I called her. A reading, she told me, cost ten dollars, and she'd be at the House of the Moon by ten o'clock.
I was too. She called herself Madame Rebecca, wore a head kerchief, a black satin shawl with white stars and moons, and a dress to her ankles. The face beneath the kerchief was small and pointy, vulnerable looking. I suspect going to jail in Sacramento wasn't her first visit from hard luck.
The fortune she told me was interesting. I'd entered a time of challenge and uncertainty, she said. And if I passed through it safely, I'd overcome the challenge. There was a special person in my life, someone with whom I shared a special communication, who would disappoint me. But if I persisted, I'd win there too. All this with appropriate silences and frowns, and passes at her crystal ball.
The whole thing was general enough to give me a choice of things it could allude to. I could interpret the uncertainty and challenge as the Ashkenazi case, though I couldn't imagine any danger there. The special person in my life I could take to mean Tuuli. We even shared a special communication—Finnish—though hers is a lot better than mine. I learned some of it from my dad, and after he died, I lived with my older brother Sulo and his wife, who talked it to me.
When Madame Rebecca had finished and I'd paid her, I got down to the questions I was really interested in. "Indian tells me you're from Sacramento," I said.
She admitted she was.
"I'm going up there on business next week. A couple of days. Can you recommend a lady I could look up? Someone reasonably nice looking, who's healthy and likes a good time?"
She gave me a name—Marilyn Vanderpol—and an approximate address. She didn't remember the phone number. I gave her another Hamilton and left.
7
Back in the office I checked with the Data Center again and learned that Marilyn Vanderpol had died of a drug-induced heart attack five weeks earlier. Probably not that unusual for a hooker, I told myself. On a hunch I also got the name and number of the investigating officer. I called him, identified myself, and gave him my contract number. Then I asked him about the death of Marilyn Vanderpol.
Sergeant Luciano is the kind of cop that doesn't have to refer to the files. He gave me the information off the top of his head, and I had no doubt he knew what he was talking about. The evidence, he said, would remain on file for at least two months from the time of death, because it appeared to be crime related. In this case drug related. Then the evidence, including the body, would be disposed of.
"You said appeared to be drug related. What did you mean by appeared?"
"It was drug related, but there was no evidence of previous drug use, or even an alcohol problem. But she'd apparently been servicing a john when it happened, and the drug in her bloodstream was HS, Harem Smoke. It doesn't do anything for the woman, but it enables repeated male orgasm and intensifies male climax, so it was probably his. And it's been known to trigger heart attacks." He paused and shrugged. "In males in climax. A coroner's decision is hard to argue with. He's the expert, and . . ." He shrugged again.
"And she was a hooker."
He nodded. And she was dead of a heart attack. Why complicate things? "Look," I said, "I'll fly up tomorrow morning. Can you show me the evidence?"
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
"I know." I could hardly justify the trip as a job expense. I'd have to go on my own time and money.
"I'm on duty till noon," he told me.
"I'll be there by ten."
8
I was there at 9:32, according to Luciano's wall clock. He showed me his brief written report, plus the evidence in a plastic bag. The report included photographs and a diagram. Vanderpol had been sprawled on the floor naked. In the plastic bag was a small fumer with Harem Smoke ash. Dope! I remembered my dad and mom dead in our living room, and feeling my mouth start to twist, took several deep quiet breaths. The opening step in a mental drill my therapist had taught me.
Other items included a Franklin—a hundred-dollar bill that had been lying on an end table; a small, clear plastic pillbox that looked empty; and a plastic needle cap with a flattened tip and ornamental grooves. "What's in the vial?" I asked.
"Semen. Found on Vanderpol."
I didn't get any subconscious twitches from that, but I did from the needle cap. "You know what this is," I said, pointing at it.
"Sure. A needle cap. It was lying on the shag carpet.
"One of the outpoints in the scene was, Vanderpol's arms showed no sign of needle useage, and there wasn't any needle lying around. And Harem Smoke was the only drug in her system. The needle could have belonged to the john, of course, and he could have taken it with him. Odd though."
"It's not that kind of needle cap," I told him. "Unless I'm mistaken, this is off a cork popper. Look at the size of the hole where the needle fitted. Druggies don't use needles that big. Or that long."
He looked puzzled. "Cork popper?"
"Instead of using a corkscrew, you push a long needle through the cork and release a little jolt of compressed air. Pops the cork right out."
Luciano nodded thoughtfully. "Was there a wine bottle there?" I asked.
"Yeah. Two-thirds full, on her kitchen table. But it was Gallo port. They've got a screw cap."
"Hmh!" Something was niggling my mind, just below the surface. "Look. Can you do something for me?"
"Maybe."
"I'd like this stuff sequestered."
Luciano frowned. "Sure. I can do that. What's going on?"
"I'm not sure. I'll let you know as soon as I do. Did you get any prints?"
"Off the bill, the wine bottle, and the screw cap. Didn't do anything with them though. The coroner's report, you know."
I did know. And she was a hooker who died of a heart attack. But the thing about the needle was surfacing in my mind. With Luciano beside me, I borrowed his office phone and used my code card to dial a friend of mine—an assistant L.A. county coroner, at his home. With the phone on speaker. "Elisio," I said, "what would be the effect of injecting a person with a jet of compressed air? With a cork popper."
"Depends on where. In the brain or spinal column or heart, or a major artery, it would kill them."
"Would the injection into one of those give the appearance of a heart attack?"
"An injection into the heart would cause a heart attack."
"If a woman was injected in the heart, what evidence would there be? Assuming she died at once."
"Huh. To start with, there might be a spot of blood at the point of injection. The perforation would be visible anyway, if you looked closely enough. And minor damage to the capillaries in the skin and intercostal muscle, and in the heart. If the needle didn't penetrate into one of the chambers, and the compressed air was released into the myocardium itself, there'd be conspicuous local tissue damage."