County Kill Page 13

  This was not the bedroom Glenys I was talking with; this was the matriarch. Some strain settled in the room and carried over to the later steaks on the patio. June tried to be chipper, and the non-alcoholic June was a naturally cheerful girl.

  Despite June, the meal was as uncomfortable as the first meal I had eaten in this house. Bud was quiet and abstracted, Glenys disturbed by the thought of June’s getting once more emotionally involved with the hot-rodder.

  I had more reason than June to be cheerful; I wasn’t as involved with Lund as she was. But I was more involved with the realities of life than she was and I didn’t share her optimism about his eventual and certain release.

  Her view of the law was conditioned by her background. Where she had grown up, in Beverly Hills in one of the big houses, the law had been politely on her side since birth.

  My view of it was closer to Skip’s — the poor man’s view, a more pessimistic prism.

  Well, he still had Farini. And, of course, Callahan.

  The phone rang and everybody sat and then June must have realized that there were no servants in the house. She went to answer it.

  She came back to tell me that the call was for me — a Captain Dahl.

  It was the name Officer Montegro had mentioned, the third party in the triumvirate aware of Juanita’s transportation service.

  He said, “They told me at the motel where you could be reached. I guess you know where Lund’s apartment is, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Is that where you are?”

  “That’s where I am,” he said, “and I’d like to see you here.”

  “What’s happened, Captain?”

  “Pete Chavez has been murdered,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  DRIVING INTO TOWN, I reflected that the murder of Pete Chavez, with Skip in jail, could indicate to some minds that Skip was now less likely to be guilty of the original Chavez murder. But the police mind is not that gullible. All it would prove to the police was that Skip was not guilty of killing Pete.

  And why had Dahl phone me? Perhaps someone had told the police that I’d talked with Pete last night — but what someone? A neighbor wouldn’t be that nosy. If the S.V.P.D. had learned it by following me, Ritter would have mentioned it this morning, I was sure. Perhaps Pete had beefed to Skip about my visit and Skip had told the police or they had overheard.

  There were two Department cars parked in front of the adobe apartment building, and a knot of buzzing citizens clustered on the sidewalk, under the bottle-brush tree. I pushed my way through these inquisitive taxpayers to the covered, ground-level porch that served all four units.

  A uniformed officer was guarding the door to Skip’s apartment. I told him, “Captain Dahl sent for me. Would you tell him I’m here? My name is Callahan.”

  The man pointed to a tall, thin man in a gray suit standing next to a covered body. He moved aside to let me in.

  Captain Dahl had high cheekbones, freckles, and eyes of an extremely vivid blue.

  “Callahan?” he asked, and I nodded.

  A momentary silence, which I filled. “Not another.30-.30, I suppose. This was a city kill.”

  “He was stabbed,” Dahl said. “What was your beef with him?”

  I frowned. “Beef? None.”

  His voice was harsh. “You threw him off the pier, didn’t you?”

  I remembered the counterman and his glasses. Had he reported this? I said, “Yes. In self-protection. I bore him no grudge.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About seven o’clock last night.”

  There was interest now in the bright-blue eyes; it almost looked like hope. He asked quietly, “Was he alone?”

  I killed the hope by saying, “No. There was a girl with him.”

  “What was her name?”

  “I don’t know, Captain. I wasn’t introduced.”

  He stared at me skeptically.

  I said, “I’m sure she lives in town. He sent her to some place he called Gino’s for ham and rolls and pickles. It’s in the neighborhood. Maybe they know her.”

  “We’ll check that,” he said. “Hang around.” He went over to talk with the man at the door.

  The uniformed man left and Sergeant Bernard Vogel came in. He didn’t seem surprised to see me. Behind him came the boys with the wheeled stretcher.

  The body was lifted and taken out while Vogel and Dahl talked together near the door to the bathroom. Occasionally they glanced my way, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that they were discussing me. My hole card was now about a seven or eight.

  Vogel went out again and Dahl came over to tell me, “We’ll go down to the station and wait for Vogel to check out your alibi.”

  “Alibi?” I could feel my hackles rise. “Alibi? That was a strange choice of words, Captain. Am I being charged with something?”

  “Not yet,” he said lightly. “If this Gino, or whatever his name is, can name the girl and she corroborates your story, well — ”

  “You’ll think of something else,” I finished for him. “I don’t like any of this, Captain.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” he said, “if I were in your shoes. Let’s go. We’ll take your car.”

  A number of hot words came to my mind, but I voiced none of them. We went meekly out to my car, through the dispersing crowd.

  “Don’t sulk,” Dahl told me in the car. “We have to have you fingerprinted, don’t we? We lifted a good one in the room.”

  “You must have found a hundred of them,” I said. “What does that prove?”

  “The good one,” he said, “was in blood.”

  I carefully controlled the tone of my voice. “And you are suggesting that the bloody fingerprint could be mine?”

  “I’m sure it isn’t mine,” he said in his casual and superior way. “Are you suggesting that we haven’t a right to take the print of a man who admits being there last night?”

  “I think it constitutes harrassment,” I said, “and I here and now request permission to phone my attorney, Joseph Farini, as soon as we get to a phone.”

  “Permission granted,” he said. “We’ll take the prints first.”

  They took the prints and I phoned Farini at his home. There was no answer. I thought of calling Glenys but decided to wait until Vogel came in after questioning the people at Gino’s.

  In the small room off the front hall I waited for Vogel and his report. Johnny Chavez and now Pete…. Was Juanita losing her army? Or had Pete been the victim of a personal enemy, a man who had some reason to hate the Chavez family? I thought of Mary and hoped that this last was not the answer.

  I had been in the small and unoccupied room for about fifteen minutes when Vogel came in with the officer who had been guarding the door to Lund’s apartment.

  Vogel said, “No luck at Gino’s. Come with us.”

  We went into the chief’s office. Harris wasn’t there. Captain Dahl sat behind his desk and Skip Lund sat in a chair nearby. Vogel pointed out a chair for me and took one himself. The other officer said something quietly to Dahl and then went out.

  Skip asked me, “Is it true — about Pete?”

  I nodded.

  Dahl said to me, “I’d like a physical description of this girl you saw in the apartment last night and any other facts about her that might help identify her.”

  I gave him a physical description. I thought of her mentioning that she knew Mary Chavez and decided not to repeat that. Mary had already had enough trouble with Vogel. I did tell him that the girl admired Skip.

  Dahl looked at Skip. “You know the girl, then?”

  Skip was pale and obviously shaken by the news of Pete’s death. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, “I met a girl who looked like that. I only met her once. She was with Pete. I don’t remember her name.”

  “Where did you meet her?” Dahl asked.

  “In front of the First Security Bank on Rodeo Street.”

  Dahl said acidly, “That�
�s a big help. If we find out you’re lying, Lund — ”

  “What will you do?” Skip asked. “Put me in jail?”

  It was a bitter comment. But I had to smile.

  Vogel said sharply, “What’s so goddamned funny, Callahan?”

  Anger bubbled in me. I shrugged.

  “You’re just asking for lumps,” Vogel went on.

  I shook my head. “I’m getting them. Spiritual lumps. You boys have been destroying my ego. I think you’d better lock me up before I belt somebody.”

  Captain Dahl looked perplexedly at Vogel and coolly at me. “If there’s a rational explanation for that last remark, could we have it?”

  “You’re new to the Vogel-Lund-Ritter-Callahan relationship, Captain,” I told him calmly. “None of it has anything to do with efficient police investigation.”

  He was frowning now and he glanced at Vogel. I thought Vogel colored. I knew he glared at me.

  Dahl asked me quietly, “Why was the name Ritter brought into this?”

  “He was a high-school buddy of Sergeant Vogel’s,” I explained. “He and the sergeant have maintained the friendship through the years, and when Ritter fell in love with Mrs. Lund the two of them must have decided to get Skip out of the way.”

  Vogel was up out of his chair immediately and facing me. “Get on your feet, you bastard! Nobody talks that way about me.”

  “Sit down,” I told him calmly. “I’m not armed, but I’m sure if I started on you, I’d kill you with my hands. And too many have died already. Now sit down or I will get up.”

  He reached a hand for my neck — and Dahl said, “Sergeant, sit down!”

  Vogel drew back his hand, glaring at me, breathing heavily.

  “Sit down or turn in your badge,” Dahl said. “Right now!”

  “Or give the captain your gun,” I suggested, “and you and I will go into that room down the hall. The boys can make bets on who comes out.”

  Dahl said gratingly, “Callahan, watch it! That’s the last warning.”

  I took a deep breath and slumped in my chair. I didn’t look at anybody. “I’d like to phone Mr. Farini again.” I paused. “Or another attorney, if he’s not available.”

  Dahl’s voice was softer. “Simmer down. You’re not being charged with anything yet.” To Vogel, he said, “Sit down, Bernie.”

  Vogel sat down. Lund stirred in his chair and coughed quietly. Dahl looked doubtfully at me. “I’ve heard that you threatened Sergeant Vogel this morning with police complicity in something illegal. Are you ready to document that now?”

  I met his doubtful gaze. “If you’ll give me two hours. I don’t like to do it unless I’m forced to, however. I’m not here to cause trouble. My sole business in this town is finding the murderer of Johnny Chavez. I had expected police co-operation in that. I was told not to investigate it by Sergeant Vogel.”

  “And Chief Harris,” Vogel added.

  Dahl looked at Vogel and I could guess that he was remembering that Chief Harris didn’t know what Dahl and Vogel (and Juan Montegro) knew about Johnny Chavez.

  A silence.

  I asked, “Haven’t my fingerprints been checked against the bloody one yet?”

  Dahl nodded. “You’re clear there.”

  “Thank you,” I said dryly. “I was worried.”

  Dahl glanced coolly at me and looked again at Vogel. “Bernie, Mr. Callahan has a very solid reputation down south.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Vogel said. And added, “From him. It’s your decision, Captain. I don’t think we should call the chief in on this.”

  Captain Dahl’s bright-blue eyes moved from Vogel to Lund and then to me. “Do you think you might be able to find that girl who was with Chavez last night?”

  “I might. With your permission, I’ll try.”

  “Go,” he said wearily. “Try.”

  I stood up. “How about my client? Doesn’t tonight’s murder clear him of the other?”

  Vogel muttered. Dahl looked at me and smiled.

  I smiled back at him. “O.K., Captain. You can’t blame a man for trying even the absurd. I’ll keep in touch.” I winked at Skip. “Chin up.”

  He smiled and gestured weakly.

  Outside, I stood for a minute looking at the Sunday traffic, sparse and leisurely traffic. Where would I start? Where but the hub of the web? I climbed into the hot flivver and headed for Chickie’s.

  • • •

  There were two couples at two tables and one couple at the bar. The guitar player was sitting on a straight chair in a corner, drinking a glass of wine. His guitar leaned against the wall next to him.

  “Pancho!” Juanita greeted me. “And what’s new?”

  I said, “Bad news. Pete Chavez has been killed.”

  Her hand gripped the bar and she stared at me in shock.

  “Stabbed to death,” I said, “in Skip Lund’s apartment.”

  Her full bosom rose and fell. “No — no!”

  The couple at the bar glanced our way.

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “Is there someplace where we could talk more privately?”

  She nodded toward the small table we had shared before. She said something in Spanish to the guitar player and he finished his wine and came over to stand behind the bar as we went over to the corner table.

  There, when we were seated, I said, “It has to be connected with your business now. First Johnny and then Pete. What other connection could there be?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No! That’s not true.”

  “An outsider,” I guessed, “getting rid of your team, one by one.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “There is no reason to think like that. I have talked with Pablo Chun. His stepfather has no interest in this town, except to live here, if the police will let him.”

  The thin bartender with the scar came in from the kitchen and went behind the bar. The guitar player went back to his chair and picked up his instrument.

  Juanita said, “You will be looking now for the one who killed Pete. You will learn it has nothing to do with our trade.”

  “How can you be sure? Do you know something you’re not telling me, Juanita?”

  She shook her head. Her brown eyes welled with tears and she rubbed them with the back of a hand. “Pete,” she murmured. “Peter, Peter … who, who, who?”

  “I don’t know. The police have asked me to find the girl who was with him last night. I promised them I’d try.”

  “You? You working with the police?”

  “Every time they’ll let me,” I said. “I told you that the first night. A few of them down at Headquarters know about you and your little charity, don’t they?”

  “Not much. They might suspect, but they don’t want to know. When did you get so friendly with the police?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She called out in Spanish to the bartender and he nodded and poured a tall glass of beer. He brought it to the table and set it in front of me as the guitar began to send sad music through the room.

  “Thank you,” I said to the bartender. I looked at Juanita. “Do you know who the girl was?”

  She didn’t answer me, staring gloomily into space.

  “A chunky, blond girl,” I said. “She knows Mary Chavez and she knows Skip. Skip couldn’t identify her and I didn’t tell the police about Mary. I figured Mary had been bothered enough already by the miserable Vogel.”

  Some interest in her sad eyes. “I thought you were working for them.”

  “With them,” I said; “not for them. My work is private and if they don’t respect that privacy, I don’t even work with them.”

  The guitar went from the sweet sadness to the pure sirup and I sipped my beer.

  “You will protect me?” Juanita said. “You have no reason not to protect me.”

  “Protect you how?”

  “If I find out the name of this girl, you will not tell the police where you learned it?”

  “I can promise that.”

/>   She stood up and looked down at me for a few seconds. Then she turned and walked through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

  She was quite a woman, growing more attractive in my mind as I knew her better. If I had met her in my less sophisticated youth, there was a possibility that I would be behind that bar tonight. I knew she could cook; I had tasted her food. Even a bigoted slob like Lars Hovde was not immune to her charms.

  The guitar followed my mood, sensual and ruminative, and I turned to study this psychic strummer. His long, thin face acknowledged nothing, his bony fingers plucked on, his expression as empty as the wine glass on the floor next to his chair.

  Juanita came back and handed me a slip of paper. “The name and address are there. Remember now …” She put a finger in front of her pursed lips.

  “I promise.” I stood up. “Juanita, this is the end of your misguided charity. You can’t hush up a murder.”

  “The murderer will be found,” she said confidently, “and everything will go on as before.”

  What was it to me? It wasn’t even my town. We stood gazing at each other while the guitar strummed softly. Sweet music and the big H, mantillas and murder.

  “You go see that girl,” she urged, “that — anglo.”

  I sighed and argued no more. She was the queen and we lived in a matriarchate. I nodded a good night and went out to look up the imitation blonde.

  FIFTEEN

  HER NAME WAS Rita Wollard and she lived in the north end of town, a section given over to new tract housing and stucco apartment buildings, a raw area alien to the older parts of town.

  It was a little after eight now and a Sunday night. She might have a date, though I doubted it. How many men in this town could be as hungry as Pete Chavez had obviously been?

  On one of the stucco apartment buildings her name was paired with another on a mailbox. The other name was Helen Garden, and the apartment was listed as Number 23.

  I went up the outside stairs to a roofed runway that served the second-floor apartments. Their apartment was on the end, with an unobstructed view of the supermarket parking lot.

  I could hear voices through the door, a man’s voice and a woman’s. The woman’s voice didn’t sound like Rita’s, as I remembered it. I rang the bell.