He Done Her Wrong: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Eight) (Toby Peters Mysteries) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

I spoke with emotion of the honor of his presence at the gathering and concluded by saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, His Excellency, the Japanese ambassador.’ I corrected my error too late and compounded it later that evening during the presentation to John Ford, a navy commander, whom I addressed as Major Ford. On the way home that night, my wife remarked, ‘Well Cecil, at last you have done something that Hollywood will remember.’ While I can display some amusement about that night now, I’d like to do something that Hollywood will indeed remember, perhaps a film tribute to our fighting men, a tribute I can best complete if our Mr. Ressner does not interfere.”
    He led me to the door and opened it. A car pulled up and De Mille shook my hand.
    “The driver will take you wherever you are going,” he said. “Take care and let me know how it comes out.”
    “Can I suggest that you keep these doors locked?” I said, stepping into the drizzle.
    “Would it really do any good?” he said with a smile.
    “Probably not,” I shrugged, “but we don’t like to make it easy for our enemies.”
    “Indeed not,” agreed De Mille with a genuine smile. “I’ll keep them locked.”
    I had the driver take me to my office. The Farraday was dark and reasonably silent on a Sunday afternoon. I opened the front door with my key and went through the dark lobby, trying to keep my mind on Ressner and the case, but knowing where it was headed. I went up the stairs in near darkness and fumbled at the door to Shelly’s and my office. Inside I hit the lights and listened to my footsteps move across the floor.
    A note was pinned to my cubbyhole door. I tore it down and saw that Shelly had scrawled, “What do you think of it?”
    “It” was an ad torn from a newspaper. The ad was no more than an inch high and one column wide. In the top of it was a drawing of a tooth with lines sticking out around it like the lines kids make to show the sun’s rays. The ad copy read:
DR. SHELDON MINCK, D.D.S., S.D.
DENTAL WORK WITH THE PAIN REMOVED
A Clean Healthy Mouth Is Your Patriotic Duty
Appointments Now Being Taken
Very Reasonable Rates For All
Discounts For Servicemen, Their Families,
City Employees and The Aged
    The ad closed with our address and phone number. I went into my office and dropped it on my desk.
    I had the number for Grayson’s in Plaza Del Lago and I tried it. It rang and rang and rang, but I held on. Eventually a voice, male and serious, came on.
    “Grayson residence,” he said.
    “Miss Ressner, please, or Miss Grayson, whatever she wants to call herself,” I said.
    “Are you a reporter?” the man’s quivering bass voice demanded.
    “No, a suspect. My name is Peters. Just tell her, cowboy, and let her decide if she wants to talk to me.”
    “You’re the one who killed Harold,” he spat.
    “I didn’t kill Harold or anyone else. Just put Delores on and go back to whatever you were doing. This is my nickel, remember.”
    The phone went down hard on wood, and I waited. Out the window the sun peeked through a couple of clouds, didn’t like what it saw, and went back in again. Delores came on the phone.
    “Hello,” she said, full of confidence.
    “Were you going to tell them the truth at some point, or are you planning to let me hang for your father’s crime?” I said sweetly.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You—”
    “The L.A. cops and I are going to find your old man, and it won’t be long. We have enough on the time of death from the coroner, the questions about the stolen Packard, and the fact that his fingerprints are on the knife to nail him.”
    “There were no fingerprints on the knife. The police said …” Somebody was kibitzing behind her, but she shushed him.
    “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But if you keep this up, when we grab your old man and crack this, you are going to be in trouble as an accessory to murder. I’m having a bad day, maybe a bad decade, and I’m in the mood