Dear Irene

Grant, who was supervising children playing at the Olympus Child Care Center, reportedly became infuriated when young Robert Robinson engaged in fisticuffs with her own child, who also attended the center. Grant is said to have given the Robinson child a blow which knocked him into a wall. The boy struck his head and lost consciousness. He was taken to Mercy Hospital, where he died shortly thereafter.

The District Attorney notes that although the only witnesses to the event were other children, their accounts are consistent and are believed to be reliable.

Olympus Child Care Center is owned and operated by Mercury Aircraft, and serves its workers. The center remains closed following the incident.

Now I knew why we hadn’t heard from Robert Robinson: he had been dead for about fifty years. I couldn’t figure out why Maggie Robinson’s name was included among the transfers, though. Maybe she had another child. Or maybe J.D. Anderson felt sorry for her. I decided to ask Hobson Devoe about it; he might recall something more about her if I showed him the article.

The article also said all of the witnesses had been children. I did some quick subtraction. At the time of Robert Robinson’s death, Alex Havens, Edna Blaylock, and Rosie Thayer would have been his same age – eight years old. Were they the witnesses?

I briefly considered the possibility that Pauline Grant was Thanatos. But if her child was at the Olympus Center in 1944, by now she would probably be at least seventy years old. No woman – let alone a woman of seventy – had carried me from the couch to the bedroom that night.

I wondered if her child was a boy. “Engaged infisticuffs.” Well, I did my share of fist-fighting in elementary school, but I had a professional attitude about being a tomboy.

I had to look through a hell of a lot of microfilm, but I eventually found other articles. I learned that Pauline Grant had pleaded not guilty, and repeatedly denied that she had intended to kill the Robinson boy. Only Alex Havens and Edna Blaylock had taken the stand, but apparently they made calm and unflustered witnesses.

As for Pauline Grant, she was sentenced to ten years in prison for manslaughter.

I made copies of all the articles that tied in. Much to the relief of Mr. Seven-Reels-at-a-Time, I left the morgue.

I had a terrific headache from looking at bright screens in a dark room by the time I walked back to my desk, but it didn’t last long. I had a feeling that ran right down to the marrow of my bones: I was getting closer to discovering Thanatos’ identity.

I called Hobson Devoe and asked him about Maggie Robinson.

“I don’t really remember her,” he said. “As I told you, I didn’t meet all of the women. I tend to remember only the ones who stayed with Mercury for a while. Maggie Robinson. Maggie Robinson.” He repeated the name a few times, as if chanting it would bring some image of her back to mind. “Her boy was the one who died, you say? A pity I can’t recall the details. But I’ll take another look at the records.”

I thanked him and hung up. The phone wasn’t in the cradle two minutes when Frank called.

“Good news,” he said. “I think we’ve finally frustrated Thanatos. Turns out Justin Davis has a small plane and was pla

“Thank God Mr. Davis didn’t fly his plane before I read my mail.”

“Yeah. Thanatos’ luck may be changing. I can’t tell you how good it feels to be beating this bastard at his own game.” He didn’t have to tell me; I could hear it in his voice.

“By the way, I’ve got good news, too.” I told him about Pauline Grant and what I had learned. “Let’s compare notes again tonight. For now, I’ll have to transfer you to Mark Baker so you can tell him about what happened at the airport – they’ll have my head on a platter if I try to cover the story myself.”

I transferred the call and then made appointments to talk to Justin Davis, Don Edgerton, and Howard Parker. It was going to take up most of the rest of the day, but I didn’t want to delay seeing them. I’d be meeting with each of them later in the afternoon.

I had a sense of drawing closer to my quarry. I remembered my old beagle, Blanche, and how she’d bay when she caught a scent. If I hadn’t been certain that my coworkers would peg me as an up-and-coming Zucchini Man, I probably would have bayed right there in the newsroom.

I had a couple of hours before my first interview, so I used the time to write a piece on the possible co

I looked at my copy of Thanatos’ last letter and smiled.

“Your fate is linked to mine, all right, Thanatos. But you won’t believe what old Cassandra here envisions for your destiny.”

Aah-whooooooooo.

20

AT JOHN’S INSISTENCE, Mark Baker came with me for the interviews. I wasn’t unhappy about it; I enjoy Mark’s company. Mark had a lot of work to do, but figured that talking to these three men fit in with most of it. Mark is tall and broad-shouldered, so to avoid resting his chin on his knees in my Karma

As we made our way across town to our first stop, Howard Parker’s house, I filled Mark in on what I had learned from the microfilm.

“Did I ever tell you that my mother worked in one of those aircraft plants?”

“No, you didn’t. For Mercury?”

“No. She worked for Lockheed. She worked there for years, just retired not too long ago. She started out on wing assembly. Being able to work in a factory was a big change for her; she had cleaned houses before that. She always said that if that war work hadn’t come along, she’d just be one more black woman working in a rich white gal’s kitchen. War plants paid a lot more than maid’s work, needless to say. Made a big difference to our family.”

“Did your dad work there, too?”

“No, he was in the military during the war years. After that, he went to work for the California Eagle. The Eagle and the Sentinel were L.A.’s African-American newspapers in those days. So now you know why I ended up studying journalism.”

AS WE DROVE down Howard Parker’s street, Mark nodded toward a car parked near a jacaranda tree, about two doors down from Parker’s house. “Gee, two guys in suits sitting in a Plymouth on a weekday afternoon. Don’t suppose they could be the law, do you?”

“You know those guys as well as I do. Reed Collins and Vince Adams. They go drinking with you at Banyon’s on Friday nights.”

He laughed.

When we pulled up in front of the house, Detective Collins got out of the car and walked up to greet us. “Hello, Irene. This guy have any ID?”

“You’d like to forget who I am, Reed,” Mark said. “Like you want to forget that Kings game. So much for honest cops.”

“Baker, you wound me.” Reed reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, then handed Mark a ten-dollar bill.

“Mr. Baker,” I said in mock-horror, “are you going to accept a gambling payoff from an officer of the law right here on a public sidewalk?”

“Absolutely.”

“To hell with that,” Reed said, walking away. “Ask him why he bet against the Kings.”

At my narrowed gaze, Mark shrugged and said, “Edmonton had Grant Fuhr in goal. I can never bring myself to bet against him.”

I have to admit that Mark’s bet was not too iffy. Fuhr’s goal tending often made the opposing team wonder why they bothered to put on their skates.