Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [104]
Joanna was taken aback, both by Irma Mahilich’s abrupt manner as well as by her unexpectedly detailed memories of D. H. Lathrop.
“I suppose you’re here to ask me more questions,” Irma continued. “They send that social worker around from time to time to bother me. She’s so young she looks like she should still be in high school. She asks me things like who’s the president of the United States and other such nonsense. I don’t know who the president is because I don’t care anymore. Those politicians are all just alike anyway. But it’s like she’s trying to find out how much I know about what’s going on around me. If I knew everything, then I wouldn’t need to be in a place like this, now would I?”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I don’t suppose you would.”
“So what do you want?” Irma demanded again. “For Pete’s sake, spit it out, girl. And while you’re at it, have a seat. I don’t like it when people hover over me.”
Joanna sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table with a clear view of the lid to the two-thousand-piece puzzle that featured a stained-glass window in brilliant primary colors—jewel-tone blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Just looking at the tiny, intricate pieces was enough to give Joanna a headache. The round-edged border was all in place but not much else.
“We’re working on a case,” Joanna said quietly. “A homicide case. I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What homicide?” Irma asked. “Somebody here?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s a relief then. So who died?”
“Three women, actually. A woman was murdered over by the San Pedro last week. Two additional victims were found in New Mexico the next day.”
With her hand trembling, Irma picked up a piece of the puzzle and put it unerringly in the proper spot, sighing with satisfaction as it slipped neatly into place.
“That lets me out then,” she said as she resumed studying the other loose pieces. “I’ve been shut up in here for years, so I can’t possibly be a suspect.”
“No,” Joanna agreed, “you’re not a suspect, but we thought you might be able to help us find the killer. Your grandson thought the same thing.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“Bob.”
“You mean Bob Junior,” Irma said, nodding. “That boy’s always giving me far more credit than I’m due.” With that, Irma put down her magnifying glass and stared at Joanna. “Now tell me, how could I be of help?” she asked.
“All three women were murdered with the same weapon,” Joanna answered. “They were shot with ammunition that dated from 1917. We have reason to believe that the ammunition, and maybe even the weapon, may have come from a cache of weapons that was once stored in the safe in the General Office.”
“Oh, those,” Irma breathed. “The ones from the Deportation. I remember telling Mr. Frayn, my boss, at the time they opened that safe—I remember saying, ‘We need to get rid of those things, Mr. Frayn. Burn them if need be. They were bad news when they were used in 1917, and they’re bad news now.’ But Mr. Frayn—Otto Frayn, his name was—wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We’ll just hand them out to whoever wants them,’ he said, and that’s what he did. Passed them along to the people who worked there.”
“Which is why I’m here talking to you, Mrs. Mahilich,” Joanna said. “We need to know who all was working there with you at the time.”
“You should contact the company for that,” Irma said, picking the magnifying glass back up and resuming her careful examination of the puzzle pieces.
“We already tried that,” Joanna explained. “At the moment they’re unable to locate any official records that date from as long ago as 1975, but your grandson suggested we talk to you. He said you’d probably remember who worked