County Kill Page 3

  I said to him, “Private is the definitive word there, Mr.

  Ritter.” I turned back to her. “Do you know where your husband is?”

  She shook her head slowly, staring moodily at her drink. “I lied to Bud about the trip. I had to tell him something.” Her chin came up defiantly. “Skip Lund hasn’t been a husband for six months, and he’s been a bad father this past month.”

  “Oh, God!” Ritter said. “June, please! Don’t you realize the ammunition you’re giving this man?”

  I felt a tremor in my knee and a tightness at the base of my neck. I tried to keep my voice calm. “Mr. Ritter, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay out of this conversation. If Mrs. Lund wants a character reference, she can get one from any of half a dozen chiefs of police or her own sister, for whom I once worked.”

  He said coolly, “That’s a good idea. We’ll get the references first, and then if Mrs. Lund still wants to reveal family secrets to you, we’ll arrange a time when she hasn’t had three double Martinis. Is that reasonable?”

  He was a cutie, this one. I almost admired him. I couldn’t think of anything wrong with his suggestion.

  But June Lund said, “We, Jim? Are you acting as my attorney? I didn’t know you were qualified.”

  His face stiffened. “I’m acting in your interests, June. And I’m sober.”

  “That’s your major fault,” she said. “You’re always sober.” She sighed and smiled bleakly at me. “Mr. Callahan, I have no idea where Skip Lund is. I started divorce proceedings three weeks ago.”

  THREE

  IT WAS AN uncomfortable dinner. Bud and I found some communication, the World Series and the football fortunes of U.C.L.A. and Southern Cal. The Rams and Stanford were topics too painful for me to discuss this season.

  Mrs. Lund and her friend (?) maintained an absolute minimum of dialogue; he was still miffed at her revelations to me and she had clearly resented his unsolicited advice. If this was the best she could do as a substitute for her missing husband, it indicated a very low quota of eligible males in this tight little town.

  So what business was it of mine? Warren Temple Lund the Second and Third were my business, and the love life of June Christopher Lund (if any) would have to remain her problem.

  When the meal was finished, Mrs. Lund suggested that we have our coffee in the living room. We were heading that way when Bud asked me if I knew anything about bikes. His handle bars were loose, he said.

  I excused myself and went outside with him.

  There was nothing wrong with his handle bars; he had simply wanted to talk with me privately. He asked, “What did my mom tell you? Did she tell you anything?”

  I said carefully, “Nothing that will help. I’ll check around town tomorrow. Maybe Sergeant Vogel knows something.”

  “He’s no friend of Pop’s, that Sergeant Vogel,” Bud told me. “He’s Mr. Ritter’s buddy.”

  “Buddy?”

  “Sure. They went to high school together. Do you like Mr. Ritter?”

  “I — uh — don’t know much about him, Bud. We’d better go back in.”

  We had turned toward the house when the headlights flashed in from the direction of the road. I said, “Let’s wait. That might be your Aunt Glenys, and she’s bringing up my clothes.”

  “Aunt Glenys?” he said. He didn’t sound happy.

  It was a big black Continental. It came whispering in under the floodlight of the yard and parked behind my faded flivver.

  The tall, slim figure that stepped out from behind the wheel was familiar. And then her jet hair glinted in the overhead light and I said, “Hello, again.”

  “Brock Callahan,” she said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Your grip is on the rear seat.”

  She held the door open; I reached in and took my bag. She was standing close to me and her perfume was expensive and disturbing.

  She looked down at Bud. “And how are you, traveler?”

  “O.K.,” he said. “Fine, thank you.”

  “All the way to Beverly Hills,” she said gently, “and you didn’t even look up your Aunt Glenys. Am I not a friend of yours, Warren Temple Lund the Third?”

  He stared at the ground and said nothing. There was a shadow over him, a bird-of-paradise tree that blocked out the light from the house. He seemed lost in the blackness.

  Glenys sighed and looked sadly at me.

  “I hear Bobby’s a lawyer now,” I said. “He turned out well for a halfback, didn’t he?”

  She nodded, still looking at Bud. “Aren’t we friends? Aren’t you glad to see me, Bud?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. Why not? Hi.”

  “Hi,” she said.

  I put my bag into the flivver and we walked up to the front door together. As we drew closer we could hear June and Ritter arguing about something, and their voices were harsh.

  Glenys muttered under her breath as Bud preceded us into the room. Bud said, “Aunt Glenys is here, Mom.”

  June Lund was back on the silk sofa, her feet under her once more, a small liqueur glass in her hand. “Glen!” she said excitedly, and started to rise.

  Her feet were tangled and the drink tilted, spilling over the front of her dress and dripping onto the sofa.

  Glenys froze, Ritter mumbled something I didn’t catch, and Bud stared at her in abject shame. Then his eyes misted and he ran from the room and out the front door.

  I left the others and went after my client.

  I caught up to him just before he got to the end of the driveway. He was sobbing and he tried to squirm free of my grip.

  “Easy, Bud,” I soothed him.

  “Drunk,” he said hoarsely. “She’s drunk! Why does she have to drink?”

  “Her feet were tangled,” I said. “It wasn’t the liquor, boy. She didn’t expect to see her sister so soon and she got excited. You’re jumping to conclusions, Bud.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Oh, sure!” He sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of one hand.

  From the lighted front porch now, Ritter called, “Callahan? You got the boy there?”

  “Everything’s all right,” I called. “We’re having a talk, a private business talk. We’ll be in in a minute.”

  “His mother wants him in right now,” he said, and started down our way.

  “We’re coming,” I said. “We don’t need any help.”

  He continued toward us. I must admit now that I was ashamed of the anger that started to boil in me, the almost adolescent rage. This pompous coupon clipper triggered the worst in me.

  The way he was heading, I had a feeling he meant to take Bud’s hand and either lead him or drag him into the house. And I was determined that that would not happen.

  “Come here, Bud,” he said roughly, and started to that side of me, his hand out to take Bud’s.

  I stepped between them and he bumped into me and stumbled.

  He backed off a half step, breathing hard, studying me angrily.

  “We can make it without help,” I said. “I don’t want any trouble with you, Ritter, and if you’re wise you’ll see we don’t have any.”

  “Why — you,” he stuttered; “you — you — ”

  “Yes?” I said quietly. “Say the magic word and go into orbit. One more word will do it.”

  Silence, and Bud broke it. He said in a high voice, “Why don’t you go home? Nobody wants you around here anyway.”

  He stared at Bud and at me and said, “Your mother will hear about your insolence, young man.” He turned his back on us and headed for the house.

  “What a creep!” Bud said quietly. “Jeepers, why is he always hanging around here?”

  I didn’t answer. Who could explain adult taste to an intelligent child? We walked without further dialogue back to the house.

  Glenys met us at the door. She said, “Bud, it’s time for bed. Go in and say good night to your mother.”

  He said stubbornly, “I don’t want to talk to her at all.”

  Glenys
looked hopelessly at me. I said, “Bud, go in and be polite to your mother or I’ll head back to Los Angeles tonight.”

  He looked up at me fearfully, gritted his teeth, and went ahead of us into the living room.

  Glenys stood where we were for a moment and whispered, “Has my sister been drinking much this evening?”

  “I caught her on her last one. According to Ritter, she had three double Martinis before dinner. That wouldn’t make her an alcoholic.”

  “She has the potential to become one,” Glenys said quietly. “Did you have trouble with Jim outside?”

  “Words,” I said. “No trouble. He’s kind of a — dominant type, isn’t he?”

  “I don’t know much about him,” she said. “He comes from a very good family up here.”

  “Good or rich?”

  She sighed. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. Callahan, the professional peasant. Class-conscious Callahan.”

  “And Glenys Christopher,” I answered, “the professional socialite. You changed Skip Lund’s name for him, I understand.”

  She flushed. She glared at me.

  I said, “We’d better go in or they’ll think we’re necking.”

  “God,” she said wearily, and we went back to the living room.

  Bud was leaving as we came in. I told him, “I’ll phone you tomorrow, boss. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “O.K.,” he said, and waved a good night.

  Why wasn’t I married, so I could have a boy like that? Because Jan was so absurd about solvency — that was why.

  In the living room I said, “Thank you for the fine dinner, Mrs. Lund. I guess it would be better all around if I took off now.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “I get along with you.”

  Ritter said nothing, looking grim. Glenys said, “You don’t know him as I do. Good night, Brock.”

  “Good night, Miss Christopher,” I said coolly. “Good night, all.”

  I was to the archway that led to the entry hall when Glenys said, “If we need you, where can we reach you?”

  “At the Deauville Dobe,” I told her. “The winter rates are now in effect.”

  June was the only one who laughed.

  • • •

  The road that led back to the highway was narrow and winding, overhung with trees, and deep in moving shadows as the headlights’ beams struck at different angles. Gate posts glimmered like tombstones in a restricted cemetery, half lost in the heavy foliage.

  Montevista, the land of the drinking dead. As I came up the ramp to the highway again, the lights of traffic were reassuring, the blat of the big diesels comforting.

  At the Deauville Dobe the tourists were already asleep, the adulterers drinking their way to the big moment. It was only ten o’clock and I wasn’t sleepy. I turned on the TV to a Los Angeles news commentator.

  His report on Bud’s adventure came near the end of his fifteen minutes and basically followed the story we had cooked up in Chief Harris’ office. I received some publicity; for a background slide they used a picture of me in Ram uniform. According to the commentator, I had been called in by Glenys Christopher to return Bud to his family. That was a switch from our line, but not serious.

  In the next unit a girl giggled and a man laughed. I thought of Glenys Christopher, for some reason, the composed, the competent, the long-legged Glenys Christopher. She had made a man out of Bobby but hadn’t quite made a lady out of June. Could she keep Bud on the right road?

  She had acted as head of the family; her parents had died when she was twenty. And now she had had her marriage annulled. When I had known her best, she had been in love with a real phony, a reading-fee agent and vanity-press author, a double phony who had lived (and died) under the name of Roger Scott. His murder had brought Glenys into my office.

  It had been a strange vulnerability, her blindness about a man so obviously worthless. But he had been handsome and articulate, and perhaps his worthlessness had not been as obvious as I’d thought.

  I had one shoe off and was starting to take off the other when there was a knock at my door.

  I put the shoe back on and went over to answer the door.

  A girl stood there in the court light, a thin girl with a tricky hairdo and brown eyes big enough to swim in. She was in basic black, a sheath, and the voice that came out of this elfin darling was deep enough for a big-bust contralto.

  “Mr. Callahan?” she asked.

  I nodded, trying to look into the shadows behind her, looking for a car or a man.

  She must have read my glance because she said, “I came alone, Mr. Callahan. Nobody knows I’m here. My name is Mary Chavez.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, and hesitated. Then, “Do you want to come in?”

  She nodded and came in, the sister of the dead man, the girl identified by Skip’s wife as a very special friend.

  I closed the door and pointed to a chair near the TV. I asked, “How did you learn I was staying here?”

  “Through a friend,” she said; “but that isn’t important. Do you know who I am?”

  I nodded. She sat in the chair and I went over to sit on the bed. With her brother’s body discovered only yesterday, I wondered at her composure.

  She stared at the carpeting and said, “Skip didn’t — didn’t do — Skip was Johnny’s best friend. The police in this town don’t care about that. They’re looking for an easy case.”

  “Possibly. Didn’t you tell them about Johnny and Skip going up to that lodge together? I think I read that in the paper.”

  “I did. But now I realize they were probably both lying to me.” She shook her head impatiently. “Those two — they — ” She broke off, fighting her emotion.

  “They lied to you often?” I prompted.

  Her voice was muffled. “I’m sure they did.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head again and shrugged.

  “Are you in love with Skip Lund?” I asked.

  She looked up to face me defiantly. The brown eyes were wet. “Why do you want to know? So you can tell his wife? You’re working for her, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m working for Skip’s son. I’m not getting paid and I don’t intend to. When did Skip leave his wife?”

  “About three months ago. He took an apartment downtown.”

  “And what did he do for a living?”

  “I don’t know.” She took out a piece of Kleenex and wiped her eyes and nose. “But at least he stopped living on his wife’s money. At least he became a man!”

  “Didn’t he ever have a business up here?”

  “Not until he left her.”

  “And you’re not sure he got one after he left her. You’re not making sense, Miss Chavez.”

  We stared at each other and I lost, drowned in those eyes. I said softly, “I’m sure you’re not lying to me. I’m sure you don’t know what his business was. But did you suspect it was something illegal?”

  She continued to stare at me, immovable as stone.

  “I’m not out to harm him,” I assured her. “I want to find him for his son. I swear to you that that is my sole interest in this case.”

  After what seemed like minutes but was probably only seconds, she said, “I — think I know somebody who knows what Skip’s business was. I’ll try to find out tomorrow morning. Do you think it might help you find him?”

  “It could. This someone — is it the same person who told you I was staying here?”

  Another long pause and then she nodded and stood up. “But you aren’t a meddler, are you? Finding Skip — you said that was all you were interested in.”

  “It is. But I have to warn you. I cut a corner here and there, but I never do anything seriously illegal or withhold important information from the police. You have to understand that before you tell me anything you might regret later.”

  She said sadly, “I’ll talk to my friend.”

  I went to the door with her and watched her walk out of the circle of light toward the street.
A minute later I saw a pair of headlights go on out there and I closed the door again.

  Active little town, this San Valdesto. Deceiving, this sleepy, self-sufficient mission town of no middle class, divided between the millionaires and the Mexicans, with no apparent class war. Apparent to outsiders, that is.

  I fell asleep easily and dreamed of Glenys Christopher. I wakened to a world of fog.

  It pressed at the windows and completely obscured the outside world, thick as country milk. All sounds were muffled; my room was like a bomb shelter.

  And there was another knock at my door. One thing was sure; even trivial news traveled fast in this town — news as trivial as the address of Callahan.

  It was my client, and it looked as if he had been crying.

  “Ye gods!” I said. “How did you get here, Bud?”

  “On my bike.” He sniffed. “I found last night’s paper. Mom tried to hide it from me, didn’t she?”

  “Come in out of that soup,” I said. “Did you tell your mother you were coming way over here?”

  He came in, still sniffing. I gave him a couple of tissues and said, “Blow your nose. There’s nothing to cry about. Your dad hasn’t been officially charged with anything.” And added to myself, Not yet.

  “They’re looking for him,” he said. “The police are looking for him.”

  “Because he was a friend of Chavez’. That doesn’t mean — ” And I stopped. Because I suddenly realized what else it could mean. It could mean that Skip Lund, too, might be dead.

  It must have occurred to Bud at the same moment. He sat on the bed and clenched both hands tight. He was fighting tears, making a real manly effort not to be almost twelve years old.

  I said, “Partner, you hang on. We’re going to find your dad.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He reached in under his blazer and brought out a six-by-nine photograph. It was a lean-jawed, crew-cut young fellow, handsome in a rural, western way, with sun-bleached eyebrows and some arrogance in the taut face.

  I said, “Good-looking guy. Your dad, huh?”

  He nodded. “You won’t lose it, will you? It’s — the only picture I have.”

  “I won’t lose it. How did you find me, Bud?”

  “I didn’t go right to bed last night. I stayed up and — ”