Walkers (16 page)

Joana squared the picture on the table in front of her and stared at it. A tiny frown of concentration creased her forehead. "No, I'm sure that was the first time."

"You never ran across him in your work? Or socially in any way?"

"No."

"A casual meeting, in a store, or a theater, or a gas station?"

Joana shook her head. "I'm sure I never saw this man before last night."

"How about you, Glen?"

"He was a stranger to me. I would have remembered a big man like that."

Olivares sighed. "I really didn't expect you to know him, but I hoped Joana might have seen him before. She was obviously the one he was after, and it would help if we could make some connection."

Joana shivered suddenly. Glen reached over and gave her hand a squeeze.

"Have you made any enemies, Joana?" the sergeant continued. "Made anybody mad enough so they might want to hurt you?"

"Oh, no," Joana said emphatically. "I've had my differences with people from time to time, but never anything serious. Surely nothing that would lead to this...no, it's not possible."

Olivares wrote something in a pocket-size notebook, then looked up and smiled pleasantly. "That about does it. Thanks for coming in."

"That's all there is?" Joana asked. "We can go now?"

"Sure."

Joana and Glen stood up and walked around the table to the door. Joana looked back at Dr. Horde, a question in her eyes.

"I'm going to stick around and talk to the sergeant for a while," the doctor said.

"We're old friends," Olivares explained.

"Will we be seeing you later, Doctor?" Glen asked.

"I'll call you this evening. I'd like the three of us to have a talk."

The young couple said quick goodbyes and left, obviously anxious to be out of the oppressively bland room.

When they were gone, Sergeant Olivares slid the photograph over in front of Hovde. "What do you think, Doc?"

Hovde looked down at the fuzzy image of the big, smiling man with the guileless face. "From what I saw at the hospital, I couldn't swear this is the same man."

"It's him, all right. We got the photo from his landlady. It was taken a year ago when the two of them were dating each other. That's been over now for months, according to the landlady."

"Who is he, anyway, Dan?"

Olivares pulled several stapled sheets out of the attaché case. "Edward David Frankovich," he read. "Born Muskegon, Michigan, March 1, 1931. Served in the army during the Korean War, discharged with rank of corporal. Purple Heart. Married in 1958, divorced 1959. Employed past four years at McCoy's Auto Repair on Figueroa. Lived alone in Huntington Park. No close relatives, no close friends, no arrest record outside of routine traffic citations."

"Not much to sum up a man's life," Hovde said.

"At the end, what do any of our lives add up to?" Olivares said.

"Is there any history of mental illness?"

"We didn't turn up any."

"Too bad."

"Why?"

"Because then we'd have some kind of explanation for his weird behavior."

"Yeah." Olivares sat looking at the doctor. "You said you might have some information for me."

"It's more in the nature of a suggestion," Hovde said. "And I'm not quite ready to make it yet. What's your next move?"

"I'm going out to the garage where Frankovich worked and talk to his boss."

"Mind if I come along?"

"It's all right with me." Olivares gathered up the cassette recorder, the photograph of Frankovich, and the stapled-together report sheets and shoved them into the attaché case. He looked up at Hovde. "Can I ask you something, Doc?"

"Go ahead."

"What's so special about this homicide? Why should a doctor take half a day off from his practice to follow a detective around?"

Hovde thought a moment before answering. "I've got myself involved with these young people, Dan, without trying to, and without really wanting to. It's like the old Oriental custom that says when you save somebody's life you're responsible for that person forever afterward."

"Did you save the girl's life?"

"I'm not sure."

"What kind of an answer is that?"

"It's an evasive answer, Dan, and I'm sorry. Let's go on out to where Frankovich worked, then I'll try to tell you about it."

McCoy's Auto Repair occupied a lot on a cluttered block of Figueroa. On one side was a wholesale plumbing supply house; on the ether was an abandoned Gulf station with weeds growing up through cracks in the asphalt. Sergeant Olivares parked the unmarked police car next to the dead gas pumps and got out. Dr. Hovde followed.

They walked up behind a skinny blonde youth who was up to his elbows in the engine of a battered old Chevrolet.

"Where can we find the boss?" Olivares said.

"Inside," said the boy without looking up. He pointed a greasy elbow toward a low cinder-block building that seemed to overflow with broken-down automobiles.

"Thanks," Olivares grunted, and led the way into the building.

Inside, a badly tuned engine was being gunned and eased with a machine-gun popping of backfires. Above the din a man's voice could be heard shouting. Olivares and the doctor followed the voice and found a short fat man with a sweaty bald head confronting a frightened-looking dark-eyed boy. The bald man waved his stubby arms up and down to emphasize his words.

"Goddamn it, don't you understand a simple fucking parts order? Are you so fucking stupid you don't know a head gasket from a rocker-arm gasket? Jesus, no wonder you people haven't got fucking shit." He paused in his tirade to acknowledge Olivares and Dr. Horde. "Yeah?"

"You the boss here?" Olivares said.

"My name's McCoy, and that's the name on the sign, so I guess that makes me the boss."

"Like to talk to you."

"Just a minute." He returned his attention to the boy, whose eyes darted around as though searching for an escape. "Now get your ass over to the fucking parts house and this time come back with the right fucking gasket. Comprenday?"

The boy bobbed his head up and down, and with an embarrassed glance at the other two men, he hurried out.

McCoy pulled a crusty handkerchief from the pocket of his coveralls and ran it over his glistening scalp. "Stupid fucking Mexicans," he said. "You can't teach them shit. Come up here and take our welfare and spray-paint their fucking names all over our property, but just try and get one of them to do a day's work. They're born lazy and they die lazy."

"That so?" said Sergeant Olivares. "Here's my identification." He flapped open his wallet to show McCoy the L.A.P.D. badge and I.D. card. He held it out long enough to be sure the fat man had time to read his name.

"Uh—look, nothing personal, Sergeant. I wasn't talking about all Mexicans. Hell, some of them are fine people. I mean, I've had Mexicans over to my place for dinner..."

Olivares let the man run down, then said, "Forget it. Is there someplace where we can talk?"

"Yeah, sure," said McCoy, eager to please now. "We can go in the office."

The "office" was a plywood cubicle sectioned off from one corner of the garage. It had a high counter with an old hand-crank adding machine and a litter of bills and invoices. A single high stool stood behind the counter. Taped to the walls were poster-size calendars from parts manufacturers that featured glossy 1940s-style pin-ups.

"Things are hectic around here today," McCoy said. "My best mechanic got himself knocked off last night, and I have to make do with these stupid—" he broke off and glanced at Olivares. "I have to get along with temporary help."

"Your mechanic was Edward Frankovich?" the detective said.

"Yeah."

"That's what we want to talk to you about." McCoy looked relieved.

"There was already a couple of cops here this morning. They told me what happened to him. You could of knocked me over with a feather. Who'd of thought a thing like that would happen to Big Ed? That's what we called him, Big Ed, on account of his size."

"Would you say he was a violent man?" Olivares asked. "Did he have a temper?"

"Big Ed? Hell no. He didn't have a violent bone in his body. Smiled a lot, didn't have much to say. He was a damned good worker. Never sick, never came in late. You could of knocked me over with a feather."

"Did you ever hear him mention the name Joana Raitt?" Olivares asked.

"Nah. But then, he never talked much about his personal life. He didn't have much of a personal life, if you ask me. He did his work. That's all I care about in a man." McCoy mopped the perspiration from his head again. "And now he's dead. That's a funny coincidence."

"What do you mean?"

"For a while I thought he was a goner last Friday, right in front of my eyes."

Dr. Hovde felt a chill between his shoulder blades. "What happened?" he said.

McCoy looked at Hovde as though seeing him for the first time, then switched his eyes back to Olivares.

"He's with me," the detective said. "Go ahead and answer the question."

"Well, what happened, we was eating lunch out in the back, me and Big Ed. We had sandwiches that we bought off the caterer's truck. There's no place around here where you can buy a decent sandwich. All they got is tacos and that shit." He glanced suddenly at Olivares, cleared his throat, and went on. "Anyhow, all of a sudden I hear Ed go 'Hut!' like that, and I look over to see him floppin' his head around with his eyes bugged out to here. At first I thought he was havin' some kind of a fit, then his face starts turning blue and I know what's happened. He swallowed something and got it caught in his throat. I ran over and pounded him on the back, but it didn't do no good. He kind of staggered around the yard out back, grabbin' at his throat, and all the time gettin' blacker in the face. Then all of a sudden he goes down,
whop
, like a sack of potatoes.

"I got down next to him and I seen he ain't breathin' at all. I felt for his heartbeat and didn't get nothing. I said to myself, 'Oh, shit, this guy is dead or damn close to it.' I ran around to the front and got a couple of the guys to come back with me. When we got out there I'm damned if Big Ed ain't on his feet and walkin' around."

"He was ali right?" Hovde asked.

"I didn't say that. He was up on his feet, but he sure as hell didn't look good. His face still had that purplish color, and his eyes didn't seem to quite look at you, if you know what I mean. I asked him if he was okay, and he said yeah in a funny voice."

"Funny in what way?" said Hovde.

McCoy shrugged his meaty shoulders. "Thin, kind of. Flat. Like it was just coming from his mouth, not his chest. Anyway, I didn't like the way he looked at all, so I said why don't he take the rest of the day off. He said yeah again, and just walked out. Didn't even take his toolbox. I yelled 'See you Monday,' after him, but he didn't answer. I never saw him again."

Dr. Hovde looked over and saw that Olivares was watching his face.

"That's all I have," he said.

The sergeant turned to the garage owner. "That's it for now, Mr. McCoy." He handed over a card with his name and telephone extension. "If you think of anything else, give me a call."

"Absolutely, Sergeant. I've always been ready to cooperate with the police.''

"Sure you have," said Olivares. He turned and walked out of the building. Dr. Hovde followed.

When they were back in the car, Olivares sat behind the steering wheel and watched Hovde expectantly. He said, "All right, Doc, I saw how you picked up on it when the fat boy told us how Frankovich choked on his sandwich Friday. You ready to let me in on it?"

Hovde squirmed in his seat. "I don't know quite how to say this."

"Just put it in simple, elementary English. Something a Mexican cop can understand."

Hovde laughed, but without mirth. "All right, here it is. What would you say if I told you Ed Frankovich actually died last Friday out in back of McCoy's garage when he choked on that sandwich?"

Olivares peered at him with lowered lids. "I'd say you are making a very bad joke."

"No joke," Hovde said. "You asked me, I told you. From what I've seen it's my opinion that Ed Frankovich was a dead man Friday afternoon."

"Uh-huh. And who, in your opinion, was it that broke into Joana Raitt's house Sunday night and got his brains beat out?"

Dr. Hovde shifted uncomfortably. "Ed Frankovich. Same guy."

"Kind of an unusual situation," said Olivares drily. "Suppose you explain to this Mexican cop how such a thing could happen."

"I can't explain it," Hovde admitted. "I can only tell you that last night Joana Raitt was attacked by a dead man."

"Oh, shit," Olivares said in a groan.

"I know how it sounds, Dan, believe me. But the pathologist's findings at my hospital will bear out what I said. Frankovich died of asphyxiation, and he had been dead more than forty-eight hours when he was brought in late Sunday."

Olivares pinched his eyes together the way a man does when he feels a headache coming on.

"And there was another one," Hovde continued, unable to stop now. "A woman who almost drove her car into Joana last Thursday, The autopsy showed that the woman had died hours before the accident. I talked to her husband, and he confirmed that there was an accident with an electric hair dryer that could have killed her. She was already dead when she steered her car at the girl."

Olivares held up a hand. "Hold it."

"You wanted to hear."

"Okay, so now I've heard. And what I am going to do next is forget what I've heard. My advice to you is to do the same."

"I can't forget it, Dan, I'm involved."

"If you are, I'm sorry for you. I don't want any part of it."

"But you're a policeman."

"That's the point exactly, I'm a policeman. What I've got here is a simple case of homicide. Justifiable homicide, from the looks of it. My report will go in with the recommendation that no charges be filed."

"Aren't you even curious about what happened?"

"I
know
what happened, Doc. An ordinary guy went berserk. Happens every day. He attacked a citizen, got chilled by the citizen's boyfriend. Simple and straightforward."