1970 - There's a Hippie on the Highway (21 page)

‘You’re sure you want to come?’ he asked.

‘Of course. It’s marvellous in there. I’ve only seen it twice in about four years.’

He went along the deck until he could get a clear view of the island as they approached it. He could see it was of volcanic rock, rising steeply out of the sea and with many sea birds: gulls, cormorants and pelicans, on the rocky shelves.

Twenty minutes later, Nina was steering the boat into what seemed to Harry to be a large split in the rock wall. It was a tight fit, but she handled the boat well and then they were in a sheltered harbour, the rocks towering above them and a small landing jetty on which hung a number of old motor tyres to act as buffers at the far end of the harbour.

Nina cut the engines and Harry, taking a line, jumped onto the jetty and secured the boat.

‘We have a walk and a climb,’ Nina said as she handed up the aqualung equipment. She pointed to a narrow path that rose steeply and then disappeared around the side of the rock. ‘Over there and we come to the Funnel.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Harry said. ‘You told me a boat could get through when the tide is right.’

‘So it can. In a boat, you get to the Funnel on the other side of the island,’ Nina explained. ‘This is the quickest way when the tide is high.’

‘Give me my bag, will you?’

She handed it to him.

‘That’s heavy . . . what’s in it?’

‘Stuff.’ Harry smiled at her, and as she picked up the bag containing their lunch, he caught hold of her hand, swinging her onto the jetty. ‘You lead the way.’

They set off, climbing the path until they reached the top.

From there, Harry could see down into a lagoon with access to the sea.

‘There it is . . . that’s the Funnel.’ Nina pointed to the face of the rock.

‘I don’t see it.’

‘You won’t. It’s under water. When the tide’s right, the sea goes down some twenty feet, and then you can see the entrance. See the overhanging rock? That’s where the entrance to the grotto is. We swim to that, then dive. There’s a long tunnel and it takes us right into the grotto.’

Harry studied the overhanging rock.

‘You’re still sure you want to come?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, okay, let’s get down there and change.’

She led the way down the steep, narrow path to a platform of rock just above the lagoon. While they were climbing down, Solo’s boat bobbed at its moorings. It wasn’t until Nina’s voice had died away that there was a sharp sound from the boat of a bolt being drawn. The cabin door swung open.

Fernando Cortez a .22 target rifle under his arm, stepped cautiously into the early morning sunshine.

* * *

Lepski opened his eyes and stared with bewilderment at the curtained window opposite him, seeing light filtering around the edges of the curtains. The curtains seemed oddly familiar,

then he realised with a sense of shock that he was in the guest room of his own house.

He sat up. A blinding pain crashed through his head, making him groan. He had to lean forward, his head in his hands for some moments before the pain receded. Then cautiously he got out of bed, startled to find himself in pyjamas.

He looked at the clock on the dressing table. It showed 06.35.

For some moments he stood still, too dazed to think, then he remembered Cortez, the blow on the head and until now, complete blackness.

Where was Carroll? What the hell was he doing in the guest room?

He walked unsteadily across the passage and into the main bedroom.

‘Don’t come near me, you drunken brute!’ Carroll said dramatically from the bed. ‘Go away and hide yourself!’

Lepski touched the back of his head, wincing when his fingers came into contact with a horribly tender spot.

‘What happened? How did I get home?’ he snarled.

‘You were carried here . . . drunk!’ Carroll sat up in bed. She was also fighting a headache, but she was so angry to see her husband again on his feet and remembering what had happened the previous night, she was determined to inflict a tongue-lashing even if it killed her. ‘I’ve never been so ashamed! I promise you, Lepski, if this ever happens again, I’m going back to mother! I warn you. I . . .’

‘Shut up!’ Lepski barked. ‘What happened?’

Carroll stared at him in amazement. He had never spoken to her like this before. She immediately concluded he was still drunk. She gave a wail, turned over and buried her face in her pillow.

Lepski grabbed hold of her, and in spite of the raging pain in his head, turned and shook her.

‘What happened? Don’t tell me you’re such a goddamn pinhead you thought I was drunk! I was sapped! What happened?’

Carroll broke free, not believing her ears.

‘Are you daring to call me a pinhead?’ she demanded shrilly.

‘I’ll call you something a damn sight worse if you don’t tell me what happened?’

Carroll had never heard Lepski’s cop voice before nor seen such white heat of rage in his eyes. He completely cowed her. Quickly, she told him how Manuel had come to her table, saying he (Lepski) had passed out, how she had found him in the Wildcat, had driven him home and with Harry Mitchell’s help, had got him to bed.

‘You really believe I was drunk . . . ME?’ Lepski shouted indignantly.

‘You stank of whisky. . . you were drunk!’

‘I was sapped! They poured whisky over me! It’s the oldest, corniest gag in the world! You ought to be ashamed of yourself . . . a cop’s wife falling for that one!’

He left the room, stumbled down the stairs and entered the living room. Here he paused. He thought of Beigler and Hess. How would they react to such a yarn? He cursed under his breath. This could be goodbye to his promotion. He snatched up the telephone receiver and dialled police headquarters.

Half an hour later, he was driving fast down the highway.

Ten minutes later, he walked into the Detectives’ room at Headquarters.

To his surprise, Beigler looked at him with concern.

‘Are you all right, Tom? You haven’t got concussion or something?’

Lepski had laid it on strong over the telephone and he was pleased he had made an impression.

‘I’m all right,’ he said, looking brave.

‘You look like hell.’

‘Never mind how I look . . . what’s going on?’

‘There’s an alert out for Cortez. Fred is now with Mr. and Mrs. Carlos. I’m just off to talk to Solo.’

Lepski showed his teeth in a snarl

‘I’ll come along. It’s my bet Solo sapped me. I’m going to rip that fat punk’s guts out and tie them around his goddamn neck!’

‘Well, okay if you’re sure you’re up to it.’ Beigler took his jacket from the back of his chair and slipped it on.

‘I can’t wait to get my hands on him!’ Lepski said and meant it.

The Telex across the room began its noisy chatter, Jacoby left his desk and went over to the machine.

‘Report on Harry Mitchell, Sarg, coming in from Washington.’

Beigler and Lepski joined Jacoby. Leaning forward they read the brief report, word by word, as; it appeared on the paper:
Harry Mitchell. Sergeant (Tech ) 3rd Paratroop Regiment.

1st Company. Served Vietnam 12 3.67. Killed in Action 2.4.67. Photocopy dossier follows
.

Beigler reread the Telex, stood back and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Well, what do you know? The guy’s dead!’

‘So who’s this punk who calls himself Harry Mitchell?’ Lepski demanded. ‘Come on, Sarg, let’s pick him up! We’ll give him the treatment.’

But Beigler wasn’t to be rushed. He had had reports from Washington before and knew Washington wasn’t infallible.

‘Get a repeat on this, Max,’ he said to Jacoby. ‘Then call the Chief and report. Tell him Tom and I are on our way to the Dominico restaurant and we’ll bring Mitchell in.’

‘And we’ll bring Solo in too,’ Lepski said.

As they turned to leave the room, they paused. Standing in the doorway, looking scared and uneasy, was a short, thin man with hair down to his shoulders. Lepski immediately recognized him as Solo’s guitar player and barman.

‘Hold it, Sarg,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘This could be interesting.’

He went to the dividing rail and opened the swing gate.

‘You want something?’ he asked, staring at Randy.

Randy licked his lips.

‘Yeah . . . I’ve got things on my mind. I reckoned it was best to come here and talk to someone.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Randy Roache. . . I work for Solo Dominico.’

‘Is that right?’ Lepski gave him his cop stare. ‘Okay, Randy, come on in and take a chair. What have you got on your mind?’

Randy moved through the gateway, hesitated, then when Lepski waved him to a chair by Beigler’s desk, he sat down. He wiped his sweating face with a grubby handkerchief, then his sweating palms.

Beigler went to his desk and sat down. Lepski pulled up another chair and took out his notebook. Although his head was aching violently, he ignored it.

‘Well now, Randy,’ Beigler said. What’s it all about?’

‘I’m a draft dodger,’ Randy said miserably.

‘So?’

‘Harry told me to beat it, but I got thinking once the cops started investigating I’d be on the run and I know what it means to be on the run, so I’ve come here to tell you about it.’

‘You know what it means? Have you been on the run before, Randy?’

‘No, but I know friends who have, and anyway, Harry said you could never get away from the cops once they start looking for you.’

‘Who’s Harry?’

‘Harry Mitchell. He also works at Solo’s place.’

‘What do you know about Mitchell, Randy?’

Randy looked startled.

‘Not much. We met on the road. He saved my life so I got him this job with Solo. I telephoned Solo, telling him Harry was an Olympic swimmer and a veteran from Vietnam so Solo jumped at him. I don’t know anything else about him.’

‘Let’s have the story, Randy, Never mind the draft dodging. I want to know how, when and where you met Mitchell, how he saved your life . . . the works.’

As Randy began talking, Beigler pressed a button under his desk that started a tape recorder, concealed in his desk drawer.

When Randy got to the moment he and Harry stopped the Mustang, he paused, hesitating whether to go on or not.

‘Keep going, Randy,’ Beigler said. ‘You’re doing fine. So Harry saw car headlights and he signalled. . . then what?’

Randy took the plunge.

‘This might not sound like the truth to you,’ he said, ‘but it is the truth.’

‘Keep going, Randy, we’ll talk over the details when you’ve said your say. Just keep going.’

So Randy told them how they had stopped the Mustang, towing a caravan, how the girl had handed over the wheel and had got into the caravan, how they had stopped at a cafe, how a Mercedes had pulled up and then taken off, and that Harry had thought the girl had gone off in the Mercedes.

‘We stopped at another cafe outside Fort Lauderdale,’ Randy went on. ‘Harry went in for coffee and I went to wake this girl.’

He gulped, then described finding Baldy’s body, how they had driven to Hetterling Cove and buried him, dumped the caravan and then later, the Mustang.

Beigler leaned forward.

‘It’s a nice story, Randy, but it could read different, couldn’t it?’ He stared for a long moment, then went on, ‘Suppose this mysterious doll never existed? Suppose Baldy gave you two a ride and you knocked him off?’

‘Harry said you’d say just that,’ Randy said bitterly. ‘Well, we didn’t! I’m telling you exactly how it happened. If you don’t believe it, I can’t help it, can I?’

Beigler grinned at him.

‘Take it easy. I do believe it. I’m sure Baldy would never have stopped to pick up two guys wanting a ride. I just wanted to see your reaction.’

Randy heaved a sigh.

‘Cops!’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t trust your own mothers!’

‘Watch your mouth, jerk,’ Lepski said, ‘or I’ll watch it for you!’

‘Go on, Randy,’ Beigler said, signaling to Lepski to keep out of it. ‘So you two buried Baldy, and then what?’

‘We got rid of the Mustang and the caravan like I said. Then . . . no, wait a minute. I forgot. When Harry was burying the body, this dead guy’s wig fell off and in the wig was a key. This was for a left luggage locker at the airport,’ Beigler and Lepski exchanged glances.

‘Go on,’ Beigler said.

‘Well, Harry went to the airport and collected a suitcase and inside the suitcase was a slip of paper. The message said something about Sheldon Island and the Funnel.’

‘What else did he find in the suitcase?’

‘A gun and a box of slugs,’ Randy said. ‘Clothes . . .’

What was written on this slip of paper . . . I want it exact.’

Randy thought for a moment, then shrugged.

‘I don’t remember. Something like this: Sheldon. The Funnel, and there was a date . . . I don’t remember what the date was.’

While he had been talking the Telex had been chattering, now Jacoby came over to Beigler’s desk and gave him the message that read:
Washington. 07.38. Our 3488769 Cancel. Ref. 3488768. Harry Mitchell. Sergeant (Tech) 3rd Paratroop Regiment 1st Company. Served Vietnam 12.3.67. Rpt missing in action. 2.4.67. Released POW 7.7.67. Discharged 5.5.69. Dossier follows
.

Beigler snorted and handed the Telex to Lepski.

‘So they bring him back to life again. Even in Washington, they have dopes.’

Lepski read the Telex.

‘Who hasn’t?’ he said, tossing the message on the desk. ‘But we still bring him in?’

‘Stop leaning on it!’ Beigler said curtly. He was longing for a cup of coffee but knew he would be wasting valuable time sending out for it. He turned to Randy and regarded him as he lit a cigarette.

‘Well now, Randy, you have said your piece, now I want you to tell me why you’ve said it.’

Randy shifted forward in his chair.

‘I came here because Harry saved my life . . . I like him and I owe him something. Now, he’s in trouble. I thought the best thing was to come to you and for you to take care of the trouble.’

Beigler squinted at him.

‘What trouble?’

‘Harry has got mixed up with Nina Dominico. I warned him. He has gone off with her to Sheldon Island in Solo’s boat. When Solo finds out . . . and he will . . . he’s going to kill Harry.’