CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Russ Millard supplied the Short case epitaph.
Adrenaline-fried, I left the death house and drove straight to City Hall. The padre had just gotten in from Tucson with his prisoner; when the man was ensconsed in a holding cell, I took Russ aside and told him the entire story of my involvement with the Spragues–from Marjorie Graham’s lez tip to the shooting of Georgie Tilden. Russ, dumbstruck at first, drove me to Central Receiving Hospital. The emergency room doc gave me a tetanus shot, said, “God, those bites look almost human,” and sutured them up. The scalpel wounds were superficial– and required only cleansing and bandaging.
Outside, Russ said, “The case has to stay open. You’ll be canned from the Department if you tell anyone else what happened. Now let’s go take care of Georgie.”
It was 3:00 A.M. when we got to Silverlake. The padre was shaken by what he saw, but held his composure ramrod stiff. Then the best man I ever knew astonished me.
First he said, “Go over and stand by the car”; then he fiddled with some pipes on the side of the house, paced off twenty yards and emptied his service revolver at the spot. Gas ignited; the house went up in flames. We highballed out of there without headlights. Russ shot me his line: “That obscenity did not deserve to stand.”
Then it was incredible exhaustion–and sleep. Russ dropped me at the El Nido, I dived onto the bed and into twenty-odd hours of pitch-black unconsciousness. Waking up, the first thing I saw was the four Sprague passports on the dresser: the first thing I thought was: _they have to pay_.
If health and safety code violations or worse came down, I wanted the family in the country where they would suffer. I called the U.S. passport office, impersonated a detective captain and put a police hold on passport reissues for all four Spragues. It felt like an impotent gesture–a slap on the wrist. I shaved and showered then, extra careful not to wet my bandages or sutures. I thought about the end of the case so I wouldn’t think about the shambles my life was in. I recalled that something Madeleine said the other day was off, wrong, out of sync. I played with the question while I dressed; going out the door to get something to eat, it hit home:
Madeleine said that Martha called the police with a tip on La Verne’s Hideaway. But: I knew the Short case paperwork better then any cop alive, and there were no notations anywhere pertaining to the place. Two incidents sparked me then. Lee getting a long call during our phone-answering stint the morning after I met Madeleine; Lee going directly to La Verne’s after he cracked up at the stag film showing. Only “Genius” Martha could give me answers. I drove to Ad Agency Row to brace her.
o o o
I found Emmett Sprague’s real daughter alone, eating lunch on a bench in the shade of the Young & Rubicam Building. She didn’t look up when I sat down across from her; I remembered that Betty Short’s little black book and pictures were taken out of a mailbox a block away.
I watched the pudgy girl-woman nibble a salad and read the newspaper. In the two and a half years since I’d seen her she’d held her own against fat and bad skin–but she still looked like a tough distaff version of Emmett.
Martha put the paper down and noticed me. I expected rage to light up her eyes; she surprised me by saying, “Hello, Mr. Bleichert,” with just a touch of a smile.
I walked over and sat down beside her. The _Times_ was folded over to a Metro section piece: “Bizarre Fire in Silverlake Foothills–Body Found Charred Beyond Recognition.”
Martha said, “I’m sorry for that picture I drew of you that night you came to dinner.”
I pointed to the newspaper. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“Poor Georgie. No, I’m not surprised to see you. Father told me you knew. I’ve been underestimated all my life, and I always had a feeling Maddy and Father were underestimating you.