Chapter 7

The two detectives drove to the gleaming, brilliantly-lighted delicatessen on Fairfax Avenue in the heart of the Hollywood area's Jewish residential area. Mike Bishop lived in the neighborhood and he loved everything about it; the elderly women who sat outside the pink stucco houses reading Yiddish papers, and the housewives who crowded around the bread, fruit, and fish trucks that cruised the area, delighted him. Like many Easterners, he was bored by the excessive silence of the manicured lawns and homes in Los Angeles.

Because the case bothered him and he wanted to talk it over, he went to the noisiest, liveliest place in town ... Cantor's Delicatessen, the biggest on the West Coast, was full of a Brooklyn type of clatter at six o'clock. It was a hubbub that made Bishop very homesick. Excited bass voices talked about the latest Dodger game. Soprano and alto voices of women begged their young to eat. Close your eyes, he thought, and you could be in Flatbush.

The moment they entered, a heavy fragrance of garlic, salami, kosher sour pickles, and marinated herring filled their nostrils.

Mike Bishop inhaled it reverently, smiling as he doffed his hat.

"I'm home, Irish," he said. "If I close my eyes, I think I'm back in a delicatessen in Brooklyn or the Carnegie Delicatessen near Carnegie Hall. That used to be my favorite Saturday night date, you know; gallery seats at Carnegie, then the delicatessen. Salami and Shostakovich. Nothing like it in the world, kid. Try it some time. Let's grab a booth."

Trask watched his chief with tolerant amusement. He knew Bishop's mind was racing with details of the rape case. The nostalgia of kosher salami and Carnegie Hall was only a front.

Bishop ordered hot pastramis on hot seeded onion rolls, ice cold Black Horse ale from Canada and side dishes of chopped liver.

Trask's eyes widened as the order was recited. Friday night was Helen Bishop's go-for-broke night-when she made a dinner that left her guests gasping. If Mike was passing that up and taking the risk of infuriating her, the case was really bothering him.

"Hey, you're not eating home tonight?" he asked.

"No," Bishop said. "You know even if I hate the bum, Larry Davis is right. I do my best thinking in delicatessens."

"I know. You told me a hundred times. It's your New York upbringing. What's on your mind for tonight, Mike?"

Bishop laughed. "You heard me ask her the question about the art school?"

"Naturally. We going down there?"

"I think we'd better," Bishop said. "I have a feeling that Penny recognized the prowler. The first time she told the story, she almost swore she had seen the guy before. Then she backed down. Why?"

"Maybe it was a mistake," Trask said.

"I don't think so. She backed down sharply after Cliff brought up the art class. There are a couple of other things in the story that bothered me."

"Like what?"

"Never mind for now. I want to mull it over. But did you notice how she over-reacted to the bit about the art class?"

Trask nodded. Bishop put a card on the table. It was a registration card for the Acme Art Center in the name of Donna Tyler and it was dated four months earlier. "You think that makes a little visit to the art school a good idea?"

Trask blushed and grinned. "Son of a gun. That's just like you goddamned New Yorkers. You're not open and above-board like the rest of us. You've been carrying that damned thing in your wallet for days without telling me. What's the idea?"

Bishop shook his head and laughed. "You Californians can't keep anything to yourselves. Besides," he sighed, as he reached for the bowl of chopped liver, "how the hell did I know what it meant? You know me. I put everything in my pockets and hope it adds up later."

He waved the card significantly. "Well, Irish, this just added up. Both these ladies were students at the same art school. The one that died was there a little earlier. And you heard Cliffie. The place is full of sex fiends."

"Oh, you don't believe that jerk," Trask protested. "He probably regards the Miss Universe contest as straight sex. That man's warped. And besides he's insanely jealous of his wife, couldn't you see that? He'd probably like to knife the guy in the supermarket or the bank, too. Anybody who looked at his wife."

Bishop nodded seriously. "I know that. That's why I'm going to do this quietly. I want you to check on the guys in the market and the bank. And guys she talks to. Get their backgrounds. Check to see if they have any records. The way I figure, if she did recognize the guy or he seemed familiar, it could be anyone she might run into occasionally while shopping or something. But even if I don't qualify as an art lover to you, Irish, I know this. Wherever there are stacked nudes to be looked at, you'll find at least one guy who isn't paying the fee just to sketch the models' anatomy. Maybe I'm all wet, but I think the prowler may just be down there. Anyway, we won't make any fuss. We'll just do a little looking ourselves. It's odd that the girls at that school have such a hard time recognizing people they see in class every night."

They were getting out of the booth, when the waiter signaled. "Telephone call for you, Lieutenant. By the cashier's counter."

"Hello," Bishop said into the receiver. "Lieutenant Bishop?" a hoarse voice said. "Sergeant Powell here. Some woman just reported a prowler in the same neighborhood as the Bruce woman. I thought it might be your man."

"Give me her name and number," Bishop said quickly. He waved excitedly at Trask.

A moment later he was speaking to the woman on the phone.

A little flustered by all the police attention, she admitted sheepishly that the prowler had not really bothered her, but another woman.

"I saw him looking into the window of a house across the alley from me," she said. "Miss Rosson lives there. Sally Rosson. The man was acting so strange I thought I should call the police."

Bishop thanked her. He dialed Sally Rosson's home and spoke to her for a moment.

"Maybe we've hit pay dirt," he said to his assistant when he had hung up. "This girl may really know the guy."

Their excitement wore off soon after they met the lady.

Sally Rosson was not sure, after all, if she knew the prowler. She had thought it over and she felt now she had made a mistake.

She was a tall, pleasant-faced blonde in shorts and halter. She met them with a disarming smile, and when she spoke, she was calm and self-confident.

"What happened, exactly," she said, crossing her long, shapely legs, "was that I was taking my usual sitz bath at about one o'clock. You see, I'm a physical therapy instructor at a chain of women's slenderizing salons and I have to keep in shape. Well, I do it by eating lots of health foods and taking these special sitz baths. You know what a sitz bath is, don't you, Lieutenant? You fill the tub just enough so your fann-I mean your-well, your bottom is covered and-"

"I know," Bishop said. "Look, Miss Rosson, get to the point, please. You were sitting on yourer-bottom in the tub when he came. Just what did happen?"

"Well, I was sitting there and then I leaned back, you know, when I saw this man's face in the window. Well, you know I'm not the screaming type, so I didn't scream. But I told him to git fast."

"Did he say anything, Miss Rosson?" Bishop asked. "Did you recognize his voice?"

The girl shook her head restlessly and walked about the room, moving ashtrays and couch pillows.

"No, he just laughed." She chuckled. "He didn't really frighten me, Lieutenant. I think he scared the living daylights out of my neighbor across the alley though."

"Well, what did he look like?" Trask asked respectfully. He had been admiring the girl's lithe blonde loveliness ever since he entered the room.

The girl turned her china-blue eyes toward him and smiled in a way that sent a tingle down his spine.

"Well, he was tall, I guess, Sergeant. Around thirty-five or so, maybe more. Dark hair, wore glasses and wore an ordinary suit."

"Well, why didn't you phone us?" Bishop asked irritably. "You knew a murder had been committed by a prowler in this area. And you knew another attack had been made this afternoon, a few blocks away."

Sally Rosson looked surprised. "No, I didn't know about that one. Was she killed, too?"

Bishop shook his head. "No. But this may have been the same guy. If you'd called us, we might have nabbed him."

The blonde laughed. "I guess I didn't think it was anything to call the police about. I hate women who are always running to people for help. Besides, I guess I thought if he did anything or tried anything, I could handle him."

She flexed a muscle. "Feel that, Lieutenant."

Bishop felt it. It was as hard as steel.

She let Trask feel it. The big Irishman flushed as he felt the taut strength in the girl's arm.

"Don't get too cocky, ma'am," Bishop said. "These guys sometimes carry guns or knives. They wouldn't give you much time to try handgrips. Not some of the boys I've known."

The New Yorker's eyes narrowed. "Now let's get back to the prowler in your alley. You sounded on the phone like you might know the man. Now you say you didn't. Are you positive he wasn't someone you've seen before? Think hard, Miss Rosson. This is very important."

The blonde athlete's lips tightened and her face colored slightly. She began forming words with her lips, then suddenly shook her head firmly. "I don't know him."

"I don't believe you," Bishop said slowly. "You did recognize him. Who was he?"

The girl's features again registered a momentary indecision, but she said nothing.

"You're protecting a dangerous criminal, Miss Rosson. Now who was it?"

She shook her head firmly. "No one, I tell you. All right, I thought I recognized someone. But I'm not sure. And I'm not going to put some innocent man in a police net."

"Let us decide if he's innocent," Trask said.

She shook her head. "No. I once knew a man who was falsely accused. It ruined his life. He had to quit his job, his wife left him-everything."

Bishop stared at her another moment and, sighing, rose. It was apparent that this stubborn girl wasn't going to tell them anything else. He nodded reluctantly to Trask, who was staring raptly at her, and was turning toward the door when he saw a jar with paint brushes through the kitchen door. His heart skipped a beat.

"Do you paint?" he asked casually.

She smiled, relieved that he had dropped the other matter. "Some. I'm taking lessons."

"At the Acme Art Center?" Bishop said, just as casually.

"Yes," she said. Bishop exchanged a quick glance with Trask and smiled at her. "Are you going there tonight?"

She nodded.

"What time?" he asked softly.

The smile drained from her face. "About 8:30," she said slowly. "Why?"

Bishop's eyes studied hers. "You know why. The man is a student there. Isn't he?"

She shook her head violently.

"Then tell us who he is," Bishop said.

"No," she said adamantly.

"Well, we'll see you down there then," Bishop said.

"Please don't come there, Lieutenant. You might make him do something desperate. He's very insecure, and I know he's tried to commit suicide once."

Bishop's patience broke. "For God's sake, ma'am, stop trying to play psychologist and tell us who it is you recognized. You may be playing with a murderer. A murderer who might be trying to strangle someone right now. Can't you get that into your head?"

She hesitated. "I'll tell you what I will do, Lieutenant. I'll watch him tonight, and if I really feel certain it was him, I'll tell you."

The New Yorker shook his head. "You're playing with TNT, lady. If he thinks you're out to finger him, you're cooked. He'll go for your throat like a starved eagle. Do you know what it feels like to have a madman tighten a stocking around your gullet? Or carve you up with a knife? Slowly, maliciously?"

"Leave it, Mike," Trask said, sensing the girl's discomfort. "Maybe we can give her idea a try."

"No, damn it," Bishop snapped, angrily. He stared at Sally. "For the last time, what's his name?"

Sally Rosson looked at him. At last she shook her head. Bishop walked angrily out of the apartment.

Trask patted the girl's hand sympathetically.

"Keep your door locked, Miss Rosson," he said. "And don't let the lieutenant throw you. He's all worked up about this case."

She flashed him a warm smile. "I'll be careful," she said, "and thanks."

When they reached their car, Bishop called headquarters. "If that bastard saw us go in there, she's in serious danger."

He ordered another car to patrol Sally's area. When he hung up a few minutes later, he turned to Trask excitedly. "Listen, I just got some interesting poop. You know this guy Swaller we talked to? He's been married three times and was involved in a Mann Act case a couple of years ago. Took some girl out of the country and shacked up with her."

"What happened with the Mann Act case?" Trask asked.

"It was thrown out of court. The dame was proved to be a call girl and, besides, she insisted she paid her own way. They spent some time in a plush hotel in Mexico City and came back. She was a twenty-two-year-old kid. He's at least forty, I'd say."

"What's your point?" Trask asked, as they cruised slowly through the homecoming traffic.

"Nothing much. Only it takes a certain type to pay the tab for a thing like that. All his ex-wives accused him of continuously playing around with secretaries, clerks-anybody he'd run into. One of the wives said the guy's desire for women was insatiable."

Trask nodded. "Very interesting. Want to have him picked up for more questioning?"

"No," Bishop said, as they drew up to the station house near Hollywood and Vine Street. "We'll be seeing him later if we want him."

Trask looked quizzical. "We will? Where?"

"At the art school." Bishop looked at his assistant's expression and grinned. "I forgot to tell you. When I looked through his wallet, I saw the Acme school card in it. Well, it figures, doesn't it? He's got another nude to stare at for several hours."

A few minutes later, in his office, Lieutenant Bishop sighed and called his wife.

"I won't be home until late, Helen," he said softly.

"How late?" his wife asked suspiciously. "Shall I wait dinner?"

"No," Bishop said. "I'll be too late. Listen, Helen, you remember my mentioning some sex offender who used a camera?"

"I'm not sure," Helen said. "Why?"

"Well, there's a guy in this case. Well, not really involved in it yet. But he uses a tiny camera. One of those German jobs-Minox. I remember about two or three years ago they picked up a guy who had been working in one of these slenderizing joints-you know, where women go to take pounds off. This guy with the small camera-now it may have been a Minox or it may have been something bigger. Anyway he was a handyman around the place and he used to take pictures of the girls in the nude. I believe he used to drill a hole in the wall or something. Damn it, I almost know the guy's name. But there are so many around here to remember."

"Well, don't ask me to remember," his wife said bitterly. "I have better things to do than remember such people."

"Don't get sore, honey," he said. "I only asked you because you always recall these things."

"I don't recall anything," she said irritably.

"If you could only remember this guy with the camera," Bishop began, "it might-"

"I don't remember," Helen snapped, "and I don't want to hear any more about your damned cases. I'll be interested in hearing about your work when they make you a captain and put you onto some sensible duty." The phone slammed onto the hook.