County Kill (5 page)

“O.K.,” he said. “O.K., O.K.!” He blew his nose and looked beseechingly up at me. “But how about my pop? What about him?”

“We’ll know all about him when we find him,” I said. I took two dimes off the dresser. “Go get us a couple of Cokes out of the machine. It’s in that playroom next to the pool.”

The fog was thinner now; I could almost see the units on the other side of the court. I hoped that it would clear up after breakfast, because I planned to drive up to Solvang and that was a mountain road.

T
HE DEPUTY SHERIFF’S
office in Solvang was in the Veterans Memorial Building. The fog was gone and it was hot up here.

Deputy Gerald Dunphy was a quiet, tall, and extremely polite man. He had just told me about finding the body of Johnny Chavez, and it had not been pleasant. Rats had eaten on Johnny for some time before he had been discovered by Deputy Dunphy.

“And he was starting to turn black,” I said. “How long does that take?”

“It can vary, depending upon the temperature. They might know how long he was dead down at San Valdesto by now.”

“And who identified the body?”

“His sister.” He looked at some papers on his desk. “A Mary Chavez.”

I imagined that sweet girl looking at the mutilated body of her brother and nausea moved through me. I must have paled.

Because Dunphy said, “Hell, two weeks ago a Cad hit a bridge abutment at a hundred miles an hour over on 101.
We pulled out what was left of four teen-agers. Johnny Chavez would have won a beauty contest up against those four.”

I took a deep breath of the hot air and said nothing. I had decided not to ask him how it had happened that the city had taken over a death that had occurred in the county. Some county officers were reluctant to admit that they lacked the municipal facilities.

He glanced at a clock on the wall. “I usually have a cup of coffee about this time. Be my guest?”

“I could use it, I guess.”

“And some Danish pastry?” he suggested. “The best in the state in our little town.”

The pastry idea hadn’t sounded interesting when it was voiced, but a cup of coffee and some fresh air helped to dispel my queasiness. And it was the best pastry I had eaten in years.

We sat in a booth in the bakery and talked about Johnny Chavez. Dunphy had been born in this area and he knew all about Johnny.

Chavez had been a phenomenal basketball player at San Valdesto High, setting scoring records that still stood. He had gone up to Cal at Berkeley because of them. But his grades hadn’t kept him eligible and he had left school before the end of his freshman year.

“And then,” Dunphy said wearily, “we had a former high-school hero who no longer was. But he was still Mexican, of course, and in this bigoted world that can be galling. He got into trouble, a few bar fights, a married woman whose husband had a knife …” Dunphy seemed to shudder. He sipped his coffee. “Two years ago he was caught selling reefers to high-school kids. That got him ninety days. First offense.”

“And since?” I asked.

“Nothing on the blotter. He wasn’t dumb. He was eating but not working. Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Dope? Maybe he graduated from marijuana.”

“It’s possible. We had no reason to check him. He wasn’t causing any trouble. We can’t check all the people in this county who are eating but not working. We have too many like that. It’s a rich county.”

“But they aren’t young Mexicans, are they?”

“All right, they aren’t — not unless they’ve got a racket. Are you going to look into Johnny’s possible racket?”

“I? Why should I?” I frowned. “The boy is dead. Let him rest in peace.”

“Is Skip Lund dead, too?”

I continued to stare. “Not that I know of. Is he?”

“Let’s start over,” Dunphy said. “You’re looking for Lund, aren’t you? Isn’t that why you stayed in town?”

“Right.”

“Well, then, if Lund didn’t kill his buddy, it could be reasonable to guess that he might be missing because of their little racket, whatever it was. I get the damnedest feeling that they might know more about that racket than they’re willing to admit down at the S.V.P.D. This is off the record, you understand.”

“Of course. I can sound out Vogel on it. He’s the only officer I’ve had much contact with.”

“Vogel,” he said, and sniffed.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t. Purely personal, however. He’s a highly competent police officer.”

“Let’s gossip,” I said. “Why don’t you like him?”

Dunphy finished a piece of pastry, wiped his hands carefully on a paper napkin, and lighted a cigarette.

“I’m discreet,” I urged him.

He smiled uncomfortably. “All right. I’m probably class-conscious,
but he hangs around the money. He has some mighty rich friends for a police sergeant.”

“James Edward Ritter, do you mean?”

“That’s one.”

“Sergeant Vogel went to high school with Ritter.” “So did I.”

“What’s Ritter’s background?”

Dunphy shrugged. “Rich kid. Mamma’s boy. His father died when Ritter was a baby. He never had to work, but he tried a few years of insurance and served a term as mayor down there. He’s typical of the Montevista crowd, I’d say.”

“You really
are
class-conscious,” I kidded him. “Did that start in high school?”

He didn’t smile. He said, “I guess I was born in the wrong county. Well, good luck, Callahan.”

“Thank you. Any parting advice?”

“Better take 150,” he said. “There’s a lot of construction on 101.” A pause. “Oh, and you’d better drop in to see Chief Harris when you get back to town. He’d like to talk with you.”

“Did he tell you that? How did he know I’d come here?”

Dunphy shrugged. “He phoned half an hour before you got here. It’s possible you’re under observation in San Valdesto. That’s off the record, too.”

The fog was gone, the day was bright. Dunphy’s story of finding Johnny Chavez’ body moved uneasily through the back of my mind and I tried to concentrate on the bright day.

Skip Lund’s disappearance was beginning to show overtones that made me regret my promise to Bud. Johnny Chavez had been identified by his sister as Skip’s best friend and Johnny wasn’t shaping up as the local Citizen of the Year exactly. If I found Lund, there was a possibility that the image the boy had of his father would be destroyed.

The flivver breezed along happily; we had been traveling downhill for five miles. White smoke from all the unignited gasoline belched from her tail pipe as we slowed for the intersection at the bottom of the grade.

We were at the north edge of town now, near the motel, but I drove on toward Headquarters and Chief Chandler Harris.

He wasn’t alone in his office. Sergeant Bernard Vogel was talking with him when I entered.

Harris said irritably, “Would you wait outside? The sergeant and I have some things to discuss.”

I went out again, my neck hot. In the corridor two uniformed men went by and one of them said something to the other in a voice too low for me to hear. They probably weren’t talking about me, but my annoyance increased.

My reputation, such as it was, had cost me money occasionally and made me some enemies worth having. No man in my trade can afford lily-white ethical standards, but no reasonable police officer who knew me considered me an outsider.

It had been painfully built, this lighter than gray reputation of mine; I had a right to resent the contempt implicit in Chief Harris’ manner.

Slow, now, and easy, idiot guard
, I cautioned myself.
Your temper has never earned you anything but lumps, Callahan. Be bland, be smooth, be effective
.

And don’t fight City Hall. Even in the small cities. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, thinking of daisies.

A mahogany-tinted man in uniform came along the corridor, smiled pleasantly at me, and walked into the chiefs office. I exhaled heavily and inhaled lightly.

He came out in about a decade and a decade after that Vogel came out to tell me, “Chief Harris will see you now.”

He went down the corridor as I went into the office.

Harris was reading some kind of report; he nodded to a chair without looking up.

I sat in the chair and thought grimly of lilacs.

After a year or two, he looked up and said, “Well!”

I smiled blandly.

“Been busy, haven’t you?” he said.

I shrugged.

His voice was sharper. “What did Mary Chavez want?”

“First tell me why I’m under surveillance, Chief.”

“We’re looking for Lund. We had a hunch you might know where he is.”

“It was a bad hunch.”

“O.K. Now tell me what Mary Chavez wanted.”

“She wanted to tell me that Lund and her brother were buddies and that Lund was no killer. She told me that she thinks now that Lund lied to her about going to the cabin with her brother.”

“Oh? And how did she find out where you were?”

“I don’t know. How did you?”

“That was our job. It’s logical to guess she doesn’t have access to the same investigative techniques. You contacted her first, didn’t you?”

“No, sir.”

He glared at me, his pudgy face tight, his white hair seeming to bristle.

“When I asked her how she found me, she said a friend had told her where I was. Only Mrs. Lund, her son, Miss Christopher, and Mr. Ritter were told by me where I was staying. You could question them.”

“I’d rather question you. What did Dunphy tell you?”

“You ask Dunphy,” I said, and stood up.

“Sit down,” he said. “The Beverly Hills Department warned me about your arrogance, Callahan, but I won’t take
a minute of it. Now sit down!”

Our glares locked, angry as eighth-graders’.
Be bland, be smooth, be effective
. I sat down.

“What did Dunphy tell you?”

“He told me that Johnny Chavez had been eating but not working for the last couple of years. He told me he pulled four kids out of a Cad who looked worse than Chavez when he found him. He told me Solvang had the finest Danish pastry in the state, and I think he was right. That’s about it, sir.”

“That’s
all
of it?”

“All I can remember now. If I remember more, I’ll be sure to tell you. Why don’t you trust me, sir?”

“I don’t know you.”

“You know my reputation. You checked it.”

Silence.

I said quietly, “This was a county matter. How was it transferred to municipal jurisdiction?”

“Unless there’s been some change recently, Mr. Callahan, we have always worked very closely with the Sheriffs Department. Did Deputy Dunphy complain about jurisdiction to you?”

“No. It was a personal question. If I’m to look for Warren Lund, I would like to do it with police co-operation. If I can’t get that here in town, I’ll have to work with the county.”

“Do you
always
work with police co-operation?” he asked skeptically.

“Always — when I can get it. Didn’t they tell you that in Beverly Hills and Los Angeles?”

Another silence.

I said steadily, “I swear to you, sir, that my only client
is young Bud Lund, that he is not going to pay me a dime, and that I am not going to accept a dime from anyone else on this case.”

Finally, “Are you ready to tell us now who your
real
client is in this business, Callahan?”

He shook his head wearily. “Callahan, I wish I’d had a tape of that. Even you would realize how stupid it sounded if I could play it back.”

“I won’t argue with you, sir. But consider this. Miss Christopher was involved in my first case and I helped her. She is very prominent socially in Beverly Hills and her kind of people are the only kind who can afford my rates. I can use friends like Miss Christopher in Beverly Hills.”

“You’re making more sense now,” he said grudgingly.

I had expected to. Cynical motives for cynical men. I said nothing, trying for blandness.

His voice was more restrained. “Until the recent immigration from your area, Mr. Callahan, we had an exceptionally well-policed sanctuary up here. Perhaps a part of our current problems is due only to increased population. But a few of the immigrants bear watching.”

“Hoodlums?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Let’s say they are people who have rather hazy connections to organized crime.”

“There’s no Syndicate strength in Los Angeles,” I protested.

“It’s bound to come. There’s plenty in Vegas. Some of those newcomers were friendly with Johnny Chavez. And Lund was very close to Chavez.”

“Two things come to my mind when you speak of the Syndicate — gambling and narcotics.”

He nodded in agreement. “However, the — the doubtful citizens who have settled here have gone into more respectable lines, into real-estate speculation and small businesses, businesses too small to support their style of living.”

A uniformed man came in, put some papers on his desk, and went out.

I said, “Do you have the address of Lund’s apartment?”

He nodded. “Why?”

“If he’s around, he might try to sneak back for some clothes or something.”

He rummaged through some papers and found the address. I put it down in my notebook. He said, “Chavez was shot with a.30-.30 rifle from a distance. He’d been dead for about three days when Dunphy found him. The second I learn you are keeping even the tiniest scrap of information from this Department you’ll be in extremely hot water. Good afternoon.”

Police co-operation, San Valdesto variety.

“Thank you, sir,” I said smoothly and blandly, and went out to the friendlier world beyond his door.

So, a small-town man who was getting big-town problems and undoubtedly knew he wouldn’t be a match for them. I was only one target for his burning sense of inferiority; there were probably others.

I went out to the hot flivver and pointed it toward Montevista.

My client’s Aunt Glenys was out in the yard, digging up some bulbs for one of the flower beds near the house. She was wearing shorts, and lust moved through me lazily. She was not the kind who usually moved me; it must have been her unattainable composure that acted as a challenge.

She stood up as I parked the car. She pulled off her heavy work gloves and came over.