County Kill (18 page)

Was there an alternate trail?

Pablo Chun had said, “Johnny was always in hot water…. If it wasn’t money, it was women.”

Love and money, lust and greed….

I undressed slowly and climbed into bed, shivering for no reason at all except the general state of the world. Love or money….

It had been love for June and money had almost destroyed it. It had been money with Glenys and love came late and fraudulently. With Jan the money didn’t stop the love but the lack of it prevented the marriage. That dopey Jan….

In the warm bed I stayed cold, tossing, fretful, as tag ends of dialogue came to me, remembrances of attitudes and slights, of humiliations and small successes.

Damn it, I was too dumb for this business! Big enough, but too dumb. I dozed and saw Mary Chavez looking up at
me, Bud Lund looking up at me, and the horizontal Glenys looking up at me. To hell with all of them. Except Bud.

I dozed and began to perspire, still chilled. I fell asleep.

I wakened suddenly. I was still perspiring, still chilled, but now I was also frightened. From the black-top parking area behind my room came the sound of a stealthy footstep. I tensed, listening for another.

I heard a voice mumbling incoherently and then the scrape of another footstep. Some drunk coming home?

My peasant’s prescience assured me that it was not that innocent.

I slipped quickly and quietly out of bed and over to my valise holding the.38. I took it with me as I padded in my bare feet to the door and pressed one ear against it.

I could hear hoarse breathing now and then the scratch of a match and a whispered, “Ah!”

There was a muffled knock.

“Who’s there?” I asked softly.

“Open up, you bastard!” the voice said — the voice of Lars Hovde.

I opened the door. He had a jacket over his sport shirt; otherwise, his uniform was the same. Something glistened in his right hand and I brought the gun up quickly.

It was a bottle. I lowered the gun.

“What’s wrong, Red?” I asked quietly.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “You stay away from that Juanita, you understand?”

“Come in,” I said, “and keep your voice down. People are trying to sleep.”

He studied me warily and came in. I closed the door behind him and tried not to inhale the odor of wine that had come in with him.

I asked quietly, “Who gave you my address?”

He grinned slyly. “I’ll ask the questions, peeper. Why
you bothering Juanita? You leave her alone, see?”

I lifted the gun and he must have seen it for the first time. His face grew even uglier and he stared at me without any visible fear. “What the hell’s that for? Put it away, gutless.”

I shook my head. “Who sent you here, Red? Not Juanita.”

“Never mind who sent me. Put that goddamned gun away!” He raised the bottle in his hand, an empty wine bottle, a quart.

He was too drunk to be scared. I kept the gun on him. I said quietly, “I think the edge is mine. I’ve used this gun. I don’t like to, but I have. You’re trespassing, Red, and I’ll use it if I have to. Once more now — who sent you here?”

He pointed at his belly with a thumb. “I sent me here. And that gun don’t scare me. I’m warning you, Irish — ”

I lifted the gun higher and extended my arm. The business end of the barrel was now about a foot from his nose. I said, “Shut up!”

It was probably not fear that came to his glazed eyes — only the beginning of caution. He was momentarily silent.

“Who sent you?” I asked again. “This wasn’t your idea, coming here, and it wasn’t Juanita’s. She and I are working together.”

“Huh!” he said. “You don’t fool me.”

“Nobody does,” I said patiently, “but you’re mistaken if you think I won’t shoot you. I want some answers, Red.”

He dropped the empty bottle on the carpeted floor and it came rolling and bouncing my way.

I said, “Don’t move. I’m calling the police.” I kept the gun on him and took half a step toward the phone.

“Huh!” he said once more, and turned his back to me, heading for the rear door.

“Stay where you are,” I said, but he kept moving.

He opened the door and turned. “You don’t fool me,” he said once more. “You ain’t got the guts to pull the trigger.”
He went out and slammed the door behind him.

I stood there for a few seconds, shaking and wet. Then I went to the door and opened it. I could see him in the overhead light, walking toward the darkness of the highway.

Then a pair of headlights went on down there and Red disappeared into the shadows. I heard the slam of a car door and saw the headlights begin to move, but it was too dark for me to identify the car.

And then, from the south, another pair of headlights came along and illuminated the car that was leaving. It was an ancient and faded two-door Rambler.

Those lights had gone on before Red had reached the car. So somebody had been waiting for him. It might have been the somebody who knew where I was staying; it could have been the somebody who had prompted Red’s irrational visit.

I closed the door again and locked it and put my gun back in my bag. In the bathroom I washed my sticky face.

I considered phoning the police but decided that I could tell them about it tomorrow. I checked the front-door lock and went back to bed.

It must have been one o’clock before I finally fell asleep.

• • •

Monday dawned hot and dry, perfect tourist weather. I went to Headquarters from the downtown restaurant where I had eaten breakfast.

Captain Dahl, in a smaller office, was gloomy and pessimistic. He said, “No match for the print and no gun for the slug. Maybe Washington can help us on the print.” He took a deep breath.

I said, “A fingerprint will be mighty handy
after
we find a killer. And that.30-.30 slug might be, too. Could I see your file on Johnny Chavez?”

He sighed. “I don’t know what you could find there. No lead that I can see. Sergeant Cloda will show it to you.”
He looked at me bleakly. “You keep us informed, now, at all times.”

“Absolutely,” I said, and went to look up Sergeant Cloda.

It was a skimpy file. But it was also more than that. It lacked a story I had heard, a throwaway line. I tried to remember — hadn’t Vogel told me about the knifing?

And then I remembered. It had been Deputy Dunphy, up in Solvang.

I asked Sergeant Cloda, “Doesn’t your Department co-operate with the Sheriffs Department on exchange of information on local citizens?”

He nodded, frowning. “Why? Something missing from that file?”

“I heard something from Deputy Dunphy that isn’t in here.”

“If Dunphy had a record of it, we’d have it. Was it a rumor or a
fact?
I mean, of course, an
official
fact.”

“Maybe it was a rumor. I don’t know. I’ll have to check with Dunphy, I guess.” I put the file back. “Could I use your phone to call Solvang?”

I could and I did, but Dunphy was not in his office. I went back in to see Dahl.

I told him, “Wasn’t Johnny Chavez knifed once, or threatened with a knife? Dunphy, up at Solvang, told me something like that.”

Dahl rubbed the back of his neck and put down the papers he’d been studying. “If it’s not in his file, we have no record of it. Do you think it could be important?”

“Maybe not. Lacking anything solid, I’m looking for straws.” I paused. “You know, the way Vogel came charging into what should have been a county case, there’s a possibility that we’re lacking important information.”

“Easy, now,” he said. “I know you don’t like Vogel much, but let’s not use him as a whipping boy.”

I hesitated and then said, “I’ll tell you somebody else who doesn’t like Vogel — Deputy Gerald Dunphy.”

The bright-blue eyes began to frost. “Any police officer worth his salt works with any other police officer whether he likes him or not. Both Dunphy and Vogel are first-class officers.”

“But also human beings,” I said. “Dunphy has a right to resent the way Vogel took over.” I paused. “Because of his pal Ritter.”

Silence. Captain Dahl was angry, I could tell. But I had a hunch he was also thinking hard, digesting what I’d said.

I added quietly, “I’m not being arrogant or malicious. I’m simply trying to explain why there might be a gap in our knowledge on Johnny Chavez.”

After about ten seconds of silence, he said, “It’s Monday. Dunphy could be at the courthouse. He often is, on Mondays. Why don’t you run over there?”

It was only a block away; I walked over. Dunphy was in town as Dahl had guessed, but he was in court and not available until noon.

I went-back and reported that to the captain. He said, “Maybe you and Vogel could meet him for lunch and see if there are any gaps.” He smiled.

“Wouldn’t that be cozy?” I commented. “Why don’t I meet Dunphy without the help of Vogel? It would probably make all three of us happier.”

“A good suggestion,” he said. “I’m glad to see you’re finally working with the Department. Carry on, Callahan.”

He was a cutie, that Dahl. He was undoubtedly the Department comedian, in his dry way. But how was his loyalty? I had helped him. When the time came, would he remember that?

And would the time come that I might need him? What was I working on? A hunch, an instinct, a nothing. Routine
and detail — that was the municipal route. It was the most efficient way to function. It took men and equipment and leg work — and
all
the details.

Because of Vogel’s desire to move into this case involving his buddy’s married loved one, one of the details could have been lost in transference. There was no reason to think it was an important detail.

I sat in the courthouse park, watching the pudgy tourists photograph this prime example of Spanish architecture, waiting for noon and lunch with Dunphy. I had left a message for him to meet me at a nearby restaurant.

Because of Dahl, I was finally feeling like a citizen. Because of Montegro, I had gained the forced acceptance of Dahl. But they were still cops — and I wasn’t. I hadn’t forgotten that.

Finding the killer of Johnny Chavez wouldn’t get Skip off the hook they hoped to keep him on. But it would force them to make a new decision — a new charge on which to hold Skip. And then I would need a reasonable enemy if I couldn’t find a friend in the Department.

Dahl might never be a friend, but he was beginning to shape up as a reasonable enemy.

Deputy Gerald Dunphy was waiting in the bar for me when I got to the restaurant. He smiled and said, “I was surprised to learn you were still in town. Get a new client, did you?”

“The man I was looking for decided to hire me. I’m working for Lund and
with
the San Valdesto Police Department, finally.”

“Oh? And the great Vogel has decided he needs county help?”

“No. This was my idea. Let’s go in and get a table.”

When we were seated in the restaurant, Dunphy said, “I don’t know how I can be of any help. The Department here
has everything we have on Johnny Chavez. We don’t have anything on his cousin.”

“It was a remark you made,” I said, “in your office. You mentioned someone who had attacked Johnny Chavez with a knife.”

He frowned and I thought his face looked guarded.

I tried to recall his words in that hot office. “Let’s see … you said something about bar fights and then — oh, I remember. A woman whose husband had a knife.”

“So?” Dunphy said.

“So there’s no record of a knifing of Johnny Chavez at San Valdesto Headquarters and I wondered about it.”

Dunphy said quietly, “We haven’t any record of it either.” He seemed embarrassed. “That was some time ago. I … happened to be around, though not on duty, that Sunday when this husband tried to knife Chavez. I didn’t think it should go on the kid’s record; he already had enough strikes against him.”

“Logical enough,” I agreed. “But what was the man’s name?”

Dunphy stared at the table and then up at me. “So help me, I’ve forgotten it.”

I sighed.

“It was a nothing,” he insisted, “a two-minute incident. You’re not thinking it has any connection with his murder, are you?”

“There’s not much reason to think so.” I paused. “Except that the police down here have kept an eye on Johnny for a long time. And with all that background they’ve come up with absolutely no lead. So we’re looking for leads they didn’t have. This was one of those.”

The waitress came and we ordered. Dunphy was lost in thought.

I said, “All I have now is an accumulation of remarks from people that were dropped during my questioning and that didn’t seem related to the trail we were on. That one about the husband and the knife was one.”

“And what happened last night — does that fit in?”

“Pete,” I said, “was probably looking for Johnny’s killer. He made a remark to a girl friend that the law wasn’t seeing what was right under their noses. Well, the law doesn’t overlook the obvious. So it occurred to me that what Pete thought the law knew had never been recorded.”

Dunphy said, “I’m almost sure I can find out the man’s name for you. I remember some other people who were there now and they’ll know his name. I think it was Jose. I’ll check those people. Where can I phone you?”

“I don’t know. Couldn’t I phone you?”

He would be in court until two-thirty and he would need an hour after that, he estimated. He gave me a phone number where he could be reached at four o’clock.

That was three hours from now, and I decided to look up Lars Hovde while I waited.

At Headquarters they had Red’s home address and the name of the place where he was employed. It was the lumberyard near the home of Mary Chavez.

The manager there told me that Lars had phoned this morning and reported himself too sick to work. “He quite often does,” the manager added, “on Mondays. I only put up with the slob because he’s such a demon worker when he’s sober.”

At the rooming house where Lars lived his landlady told me, “He was in bed until one o’clock. Then he said he had to go out and get some medicine.”

Medicine, eighty-six proof, blended…. I asked, “Does he drive a Rambler?”

“He don’t drive nothing,” she said scornfully. “The law took away his driver’s license and the finance company took away his car six months ago. He don’t drive nothing and he ain’t got nothing.”