“No, Officer, none. I really do believe she died a virgin.”
“Well,” I said, standing up, “thank you for your time, Mrs. Grover. You’ve been very helpful.”
“She deserved so much better, Officer. Please find her killer.”
“I will,” I said, meaning it.
I wasn’t much good on the beat that night. My mind was elsewhere. I knew I would need a very fast transfer to day watch in order to continue my investigation at night. I thought over my options_requests to Jurgensen? To the head of the Detective squad? Going on sick leave? All too chancy.
The following morning I drove to the station and knocked on Captain Jurgensen’s door. He greeted me warmly, surprised to see me in the daytime. I told him what I wanted: I had a very sick friend from my orphanage days who needed someone to look after him at night while his wife went to work at Douglas Aircraft. I wanted day watch temporarily, to help out my friend, and to better acquaint myself with the area I was serving in.
Jurgensen put down his copy of _Richard III_ and said, “Starting today, Underhill. We’ve got a man on vacation. No solo, though. No golden boy stuff. just walk the beat with a partner. Now go to work.”
At eleven-thirty that night I committed my first crime as an adult. I drove up to Hollywood, parked in a gas station lot and walked up to Maggie Cadwallader’s apartment on Harold Way. Wearing gloves, I picked the lock on the door and made my way through the dark apartment to the bedroom. I carried a pocket flashlight, and by risking using it every few seconds I could tell that all of Maggie’s personal belongings had been cleaned out, presumably to better show the apartment to prospective new tenants when the publicity of her death died down.
In the bedroom, holding the flashlight awkwardly, I unscrewed the bedpost that had contained Maggie’s “priceless love gift.” It was gone. I replaced the post and unscrewed the other one: nothing there. The two remaining ones were solid, melded into the bedstead. It was as I had hoped. Still, there was double-checking to be done.
I drove to Hollywood Station, parked, walked in and showed my badge to the desk sergeant. “I’m with Seventy-seventh dicks,” I told him. “Is there anyone upstairs I can talk to?”
“Give it a try,” he replied, bored.
The squad room was deserted, except for a tired old cop writing reports. I walked in like I owned the place, and the old-timer looked up only briefly from his paperwork. When I didn’t see what I wanted lying around in plain sight, I cleared my throat to get his attention.
He looked up again, this time displaying bloodshot eyes and a weary voice. “Yes?” he said.
I tried to sound brisk and older than my years. “Underhill, Seventy-seventh Street dicks. I’m working South Central pawnshop detail. The loot told me to come up here and check the property report on that dead dame, Cadwallader. We find a lot of stuff pawned down in the Seventy-seventh that got clouted in Hollywood and West L.A. The lieutenant figured maybe he could help you out.”
“Shit,” the old-timer said, getting up from his chair and walking to a row of filing cabinets. “That was no burglary caper, if you ask me. My partner and I wrote that report.” He handed me a manila folder containing three typewritten pages. “There was nothin’ missin’, accordin’ to the landlady, and she knew the stiff good. Could be the guy panicked. Don’t ask me.”
The report was written in the usual clipped department style, and everything from cat food to detergent was listed–but no mention was made of a diamond brooch, or any other jewelry.
There was a signed statement from the landlady, a Mrs. Crawshaw, stating that although the apartment had been in complete disarray, nothing seemed to be missing. She also stated that Maggie Cadwallader, to her knowledge, had not owned jewelry or stocks and bonds, nor had she secreted in her apartment large sums of money.
The old cop was looking at me. “You want a copy of that?” he asked wearily.