Death Was the Other Woman (6 page)

I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE
and choked out my standard greeting, hoping I didn't sound as flustered as I felt. “Good afternoon, Dexter J. Theroux, private investigator, how may I help you?”

“I'd like to make an appointment to see Mr. Theroux, please.” The voice was feminine and self-assured. In our business that was a combo that paid the bills.

“Of course,” I said easily, as though I made appointments for Dex every minute of the day. “When were you thinking? I'll see if I can adjust his schedule.” I pulled the vast wasteland of Dex's empty appointment book toward me.

“I'd like to see him as soon as possible.” It seemed to me that the self-assurance had slipped somewhat. “Would he have time for me tomorrow afternoon?”

“Well,” I said, flipping through the empty pages noisily, “Mr. Theroux's schedule tomorrow
does
look very tight.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“But I think I can squeeze you in at three p.m. You might have to wait until three fifteen. I'll try to avoid that if possible though.” None of this was subterfuge for its own sake. I have discovered that clients are more willing to pay and pay well for a busy, in-demand detective than they are for a mook who spends most of his days looking at the world through the bottom of a glass and checking his eyelids for faulty weather stripping. I told myself it wasn't exactly a lie, more like a teensy misdirection. And Marjorie had told me the day before that the stove had been acting up. We were going to need a new one or at least a repair. I had to do everything I could do to make sure Dex had cash on hand.

“Three o'clock will be fine,” she said, sounding grateful. “Thank you.”

I pushed a smile into my voice when I replied, “Oh, you're welcome. Can I get your name, please?”

“Lila Dempsey,” she said. “Mrs. Lila Dempsey.”

Dempsey. The name hit home right away. I quickly weighed the possibility that this Lila was connected with the Dempsey we'd found in the tub on Lafayette Square. Then I weighed the possibility that she wasn't. But even with all that weighing, I came up with nothing flat. Sometimes thinking about a thing doesn't help at all. Sometimes you just have to wait and see.

“Very good, Mrs. Dempsey. We'll see you tomorrow.” While I replaced the receiver, I pushed all that weighing out of my head. I could still hear the voices coming out of Dex's office. I hoped I hadn't missed too much. I retuned my ears to the conversation, clattering a smattering of letters on the typewriter for good measure while I did so.

“Listen, fellas,” Dex was saying. “I don't know what you're gettin' at. You guys know me: I'm a law-abiding citizen. Believe me, if I'd seen a dead guy, your number is the first one I woulda called.”

“I'm tellin' you, Theroux,” said the gravelly voice, “the broad said you told her you went in the house and found Dempsey dead.”

“I don't know what tune she's singing,” Dex said, sounding sure of himself, “but I didn't hand her the sheet music.”

“So let me get this straight.” It was the gravelly voice again. “You were not in Harrison Dempsey's house on Lafayette Square last night?”

“That's right,” Dex responded, sounding confident. “Not last night and not ever. But I will tell you this ...”

The phone rang again. And I jumped again.

“Good afternoon, Dexter J. Theroux, private investigator,” I chirped. “Can I help you?”

“Hey, kiddo, you sound chipper.” It was Mustard.

“Do I? I don't mean to. I think I'm trying to sound like I'm not
not
chipper, if you follow.”

“Not really,” he said, sounding comfortable, “but I can live with it.”

“OK,” I said, deciding that
I
was OK with
that.
All I wanted to do now was get rid of Mustard so I could get back to my eavesdropping while there were still things left to hear. “Dex is in a meeting right now, Mustard. Can I get him to call you?”

“A meeting, huh?” Mustard sounded as though he might play with the euphemism—get to the bottom of it—but then decided he had more pressing concerns. “Actually, Kitty, I called to talk to you.”

“To me? What for?” I tried to hide my surprise, but it wasn't easy. Mustard never had business with me.

“You have a rooming house, don't you?”

“Well, kinda. Not exactly. Let's just say I live in one. And the owners are good friends.”

“Is there a room open?”

“I'm not sure. Why, Mustard? You suddenly need a place to live?”

“It's not for me,” he said. “I've got a friend in a bit of a jam. It's . . . well, it's a long story. But she needs a place to stay. She can pay all right. But she needs a place in a hurry. You got something for her?”

“Well, like I said Mustard, it's not my place. I think we've got something open, but I can't give the yes or no, you understand.”

“Can you call and find out?”

“No phone.” Lots of people in the Southland were getting phones right then. But phones cost money, something we didn't have a lot of, so Marjorie had figured we could go without. It didn't bother me any. I had the phone at the office I could use anytime, and with cash as scarce as it was, there were plenty of other things on which we could spend the little money we had. “I can check tonight and let you know tomorrow though.”

“Sure, sure,” Mustard said, hiding his disappointment. I felt bad. Mustard had done a lot for me.

“Listen, I can give you the address, and you can take your friend up there and check it out. See if there's an opening. Maybe use my name if you think it'll help.”

Mustard sounded brighter at the suggestion. “Thanks, Kitty. But like I said, this friend is in a bit of a jam, and I'm tied up for the rest of the day. Can I send her over to you there at Dex's? Then maybe the two of you can check things out, and I'll swing by your place tonight. If it's a no-go, I'll take her with me . . . figure out something else.”

I hesitated only because I had the feeling there was something larger at work here. That this might even be Mustard in action, fixing something. I reminded myself again that I owed him a thing or two and relented. He'd said if things didn't work out, he'd come and get her later, so what could it hurt? “Sure,” I said, “send her by.”

“Great, Kitty. Thanks.” The relief was plain in his voice, and I wondered anew. “Her name is Brucie Jergens. You'll like her; she's a sweet kid. Expect her there at the office within half an hour or so. I'll tell her you'll take care of everything.”

Mustard hung up before I could ask him what he thought I'd be taking care of.

I WASN'T ABLE TO THINK
too much about Mustard and what the fixer might be fixing, because as I hung up the phone, the pair of flatfoots in Dex's office started making sounds like they were getting ready to leave and I knew I'd missed the best part.

O'Reilly and Houlahan moved through the office with a disgruntled air, and neither of them spared me even a glance. I noticed that Dex didn't escort them out.

As soon as the outer door had closed behind them, I made my way into Dex's office, quick as you please.

Dex was still at his desk with a couple of fingers of whiskey in front of him. The glasses the cops had used were still where they'd left them. Both, I noted, quite drained.

“What'd I miss?” I asked, plunking myself down in one of the vacated chairs. The seat was still warm.

Dex shook the bottle at me, a question in his face, but I waved it away. He pulled yet another clean glass out of his desk, dropped a couple of ice cubes into it, poured an inch or so of rye over them, and pushed it in front of me. I looked at the glass questioningly, but I didn't say anything and I didn't drink.

“What did you miss?” he repeated absently. “Quite a bit. Not much.”

“Well,
that
covers it,” I said dryly.

“It doesn't really, does it? Ah, well. Here's the thing: our Rita—”

I interrupted. “Now she's
our
Rita?”

“Do you wanna hear this or not?”

I did. “Sorry. Go on.”

“OK.
Our
Rita didn't waste any time when she left here. She went straight to the cops and told them I'd found Dempsey's body at his house.”

“She did?” I couldn't imagine why she'd do a thing like that. Why she would even have wanted to.

Dex nodded. “She did. But wait, it gets better. She gave them the address on Lafayette Square, and these two flatfoots get the call and head down there. What do you figure they find?”

“No body?” I volunteered.

Dex looked surprised or impressed, I couldn't tell which. Maybe a bit of both. “How'd you know that?”

“I heard some of it,” I admitted sheepishly. “It sounded like it was going that way.”

Dex squelched whatever miffed feelings he had about his spoiled surprise and went on. “So, OK, no body. That's easy, right? Someone could have gone to the house after we were there, dumped Dempsey into the Los Angeles River, and he's halfway to China by now. Or maybe they throw him in the Tar Pits or bury him in the mountains or—”

“I get the idea,” I said, interrupting him again.

“Yeah, well. . . my point is, absence of a body is not
that
big a deal. There are ways of explaining it, right?”

I nodded.

“But get this: the cops told me Dempsey's wife says he packed up and took the
Harvard
to San Francisco yesterday.”

“Wait,” I said. All of this was almost too much information. “There's a wife? How come no one mentioned a wife before?” I thought about Dex's three o'clock appointment for the following day: Lila Dempsey. Dempsey was a moniker that hadn't been far out of my head since I'd first heard it. Could Lila be Harrison's missus? I was going to ask Dex—and tell him about the appointment—but his mind was heading someplace and he took me with him.

“Hell,” Dex replied, “there's a mistress, right? Stands to reason there's a wife someplace. You can't have one without the other.”

I ignored him. “If Dempsey took a steamship to San Francisco yesterday, who was the stiff in the tub?”

“That's the big question, isn't it?”

I nodded. “It is.”

“Too bad I don't have a big answer. But get this: the cops say they got an anonymous phone tip about the same stiff at that address this morning.”

I tried to drop a neutral mask over my face when I realized what Dex was saying. I wasn't sure I succeeded. Drunk or no, Dex was a detective. I couldn't tell if Dex figured it was me who made the call. He didn't say so, just looked at me kind of probingly. I held my mask and hoped for the best. Dex didn't ask, so I didn't tell. He had taught me a couple of things after all.

“Say, I booked an appointment for you while you were busy.” It was true that I was trying to change the subject a little bit. But it was also true that Dex needed to know.

“Well,
that's
good news. Let's hope this case doesn't resolve itself as quickly.”

“The person you're seeing is one Lila Dempsey.” I watched Dex's face while I told him, but nothing registered beyond what had probably been on mine when I heard her name: mild recognition followed by curiosity.

“Well, that
is
interesting,” Dex said.

“Do you think it's Dempsey's missus?” I asked.

Dex shrugged. “Could be, I guess.”

“Well, if it is,” I insisted, “why would she wanna see you?”

Another shrug. “Here's where you might find patience a useful thing, kiddo.” I checked Dex's face; he was definitely kidding me. “We'll just have to wait until tomorrow and see.”

“So how'd you answer them?” I asked, changing direction completely.

“Who?” Dex asked, properly perplexed.

“Houlahan and O'Reilly. What did you tell them about the body?”

“I told them Rita made it up.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, lit a cigarette, and tossed the match into the ashtray on his desk. “I told them if I'd seen a body, I would have called them straight off. But
of course
I didn't see any body. To see a body, I would have had to illegally enter that house, and they know I'd never do that.”

“Hoo, boy,” I said. “And they bought that?”

“Sure. What's to buy? There was no body.”

“But, Dex—” I started.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. There
was
a body. But do you want the cops thinking I'm up to some monkey business with bodies they can't even find?”

He left the question open and I didn't reply. It wasn't the kind that needed one.

“So whaddaya think?” he asked me. While I considered my answer, I watched in fascination as he sent a whole platoon of smoke rings marching toward the ceiling.

I was flummoxed by the whole business—with Dempsey, that is, not the smoke rings. I knew what I'd seen. I'd felt the blood on my hands, seen the vacant eyes of the corpse in the tub. Seen, even, the driver's license Dex had pulled out of the wallet. Harrison Dempsey, it had said. There'd been no mistake.

“Dead is dead,” I said finally. “I know what I saw. What
we
saw.”

Dex nodded thoughtfully. “That's what I've been thinking. And that's why we're going to the Zebra Room tonight.”

“Who are?”

“We are. You and me, kid. I want to have a look around, maybe talk to some people. I figured it might be fun for you to see the inside of a place like that. And it'll seem less fishy, a good-looking couple like us out on the town, instead of just me waltzing in there stag, asking questions no one wants to answer.”

My hands flew to my dress. “I don't have anything to wear,” I said.

Dex just grinned. “You'll think of something. I'll pick you up at your place at nine.”

I started to get up, my mind already rummaging through my meager wardrobe, when another thought hit me.

“Why, Dex?” I asked him. “The guy you were supposed to be tailing is dead. You don't even have a case anymore.”

“That's true,” he agreed, without hesitation. “But Rita gave me eighty-three bucks. I offered her part of it back. She wouldn't take it. I feel like I oughta do more for the money. Besides, you said he's dead. His wife says he ain't. And the body we saw is gone. Doesn't it make you wonder?”

I shrugged and then I nodded. When I thought about it, it kind of did.