Clandestine

I was enjoying my role but her brusque manner was unnerving. "Yeah, sure," I replied.

We walked down a dingy hallway. I could hear great numbers of sewing machines whirring behind closed doors. Mrs. Grover sat me down in a wooden chair in her sparsely furnished office. She lit a cigarette, settled behind her desk, and said, "Poor Maggie. What a godawful way to die. Who do you think did it?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm here."

"I read in the papers that you people think it was a burglar. Is that true?"

"Maybe. I understand you and Maggie Cadwallader were good friends."

"In a sense," Mrs. Grover replied. "We ate together every workday, but we never saw each other socially."

"Was there a reason for that?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, Mrs. Grover, is that I'm trying to get a handle on this woman. What kind of person was she? Her habits, her likes, dislikes, the people she associated with, that kind of thing?"

Mrs. Grover stared at me, smoking intently. "I see," she said. "Well, if it's helpful I can tell you this: Maggie was a very bright, disturbed woman. I think she was a pathological liar. She told me stories about herself and later told stories that contradicted the earlier ones. I think she had a drinking problem, and spent her nights alone, reading."

"What kind of stories did she tell you?"

"About her origins. One day she was from New York, the next day the Midwest. She once told me she had a child out of wedlock, from a 'lost love,' then the very next day she tells me she's a virgin! I sensed that she was very lonely, so once I tried to arrange a dinner date for her with a nice bachelor friend of my husband's. She wouldn't do it. She was terrified. She was a cultured person, Maggie, and we had many lovely conversations about the theater, but she told me such crazy things."

"Such as?"

"Such as the nonsense about the baby back east. She showed me a photo once. It broke my heart. She had obviously clipped it from a magazine. It was so sad."

"Do you know of any men in her life, Mrs. Grover?"

"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.