The Blue Movie Murders (6 page)

“Do you know Mann, Governor? He seems to be the big-wig around here.”

“I may have heard the name, but I don't remember meeting him. Mike, the reason I called—”

“Yes, Governor?”

“The morning paper here carries an account of Ben Sloane's murder. Somehow the reporter who wrote it found out that you've gone up there. His last paragraph reads: ‘Governor Holland's personal troubleshooter, Micah McCall, is rumoured to be on his way to Rockview, to personally handle the investigation on the Governor's behalf.'”

“Oh, great!”

“It might not make you too popular with the local police, Mike.”

“Don't worry. I'll handle them.”

“There's one other thing, Mike.”

“More good news?”

“Cynthia Rhodes and her people are sniffing around this whole business. If they catch on to the blue-movie angle you could have them in your hair, too.”

“All this on an empty stomach!”

Governor Holland chuckled. “Sorry I got you up, Mike, but I thought you'd want to know.”

“I did. Thanks for calling, Governor.”

He hung up and sat for a time simply staring out of the window. He had to admit there was beautiful country around Rockview, with the distant pine-covered mountains still showing final traces of the winter's snows.

He went downstairs to breakfast and then decided to drive down to Police Headquarters. It might be wise to see Powell again before the lieutenant got wind of the story in the newspapers.

Crossing the parking lot to his car he remembered that it was just twenty-four hours since Ben Sloane had been murdered at this motel. He paused and glanced back at the low two-storey building, letting his eyes pass over the windows curtained against the morning sun. The motel seemed blank, impassive, already scrubbed clean of its involvement in crime.

As he watched, a car with New York plates drew up across the road and a bearded man in a turtleneck sweater climbed out. He had a camera and he took a few quick shots of the building's exterior. Ben Sloane had been an important man—important enough to bring the New York press onto the scene.

McCall didn't feel like conversing with reporters just then, so he ducked behind his car, waiting for the man to drive away or go inside. That was when he noticed something glistening in the mud, just beyond the asphalt portion of the parking lot. He glanced up to see the bearded cameraman had entered the Rockview Motel, and then went over to look more closely.

It was a large metal button with a scratched red background and white lettering, and he had a mate to it in his own pocket. It read
Cynthia's Raiders
, and he wondered what it was doing there.

Lieutenant Powell was not at headquarters, but Suzanne Walsh was. He found her pacing the hallway, grim and impatient. “I didn't realize you were still in town,” he said.

“Mr. Sloane had no relatives. I'm waiting to claim the body and make arrangements for it to be flown back to California. But they insisted on doing an autopsy, and there's so much red tape.”

“Murder is very inconvenient,” McCall sympathized.

“Then there was that girl with all her questions.”

“Which girl? A reporter?”

“I don't know. She wouldn't say. She just wanted to know what we were doing here, and about the murder. She came to my room last evening.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. I sent her away. I didn't like her at all.”

McCall remembered the muddy button. “Was her name Cynthia Rhodes?”

“No, nothing like that. It was a month. April, I think. April something.”

McCall shrugged—he knew no April. She might be one of
Cynthia's Raiders
. “Are you waiting for Lieutenant Powell?”

She nodded. “He has to release the body.”

In a city like Rockview, far removed from the spiralling crime rates of more densely populated areas, the police department was a relatively quiet place at nine o'clock on a Thursday morning. While they waited, only one prisoner was brought in—a long-haired youth who'd been found with marijuana in his possession.

“Even here,” Suzanne Walsh commented with a brief clucking sound. “What's the country coming to?”

“Maturity, I hope. But sometimes it's a long and tortuous process. For all of us.”

Powell came in then, looking tired and angry. He saw Miss Walsh first, and started to speak, but then his eyes lit on McCall and he barked, “What in hell are you doing back here? Taking over the investigation like it says in the papers?”

“You've been in this business long enough not to believe everything you read in the newspapers, Lieutenant.”

“I was just talking to a reporter out at the murder scene. He told me that's why you're here—because the Governor doesn't think we can handle the case.”

“Well, I tell you that's wrong. The death of Ben Sloane had very little to do with my coming here. I'm much more interested in the reason for his visit, and the present whereabouts of Sol Dahlman.”

Powell's eyes narrowed dangerously. “Yesterday I was willing to co-operate with you, but today is different. I want you out of this building, McCall. Out of this city.”

“I haven't done anything yet.”

“You've been bothering people.”

“People like Xavier Mann? Or Mayor Jordan?”

“Don't push, McCall.”

Powell turned away and motioned Miss Walsh into his office. McCall shrugged and left. It always seemed to work out the same—local lawmen resented any kind of state interference. McCall was the first to admit that all was not perfect on the state level, yet he felt that officials in cities like Rockview were resentful without real cause.

Across the street from headquarters, near the coroner's office, he recognized the sandy-haired cab driver he'd met during his first minutes in Rockview. He strolled over to chat with the man.

“How are you? Remember me?”

The driver smoothed the flowered pattern of his sports shirt. “Sure. From yesterday.”

“My name's Micah McCall.”

“I know.”

“Oh?”

“Driving a taxi, you get to hear things around town, especially with all these reporters coming in.” He stuck out his hand. “I'm Ron Kozinski.”

“Kozinski? Do you have a kid brother working out at Mann Photo?”

The cabbie's face brightened. “Yeah, Jack! He's working there while he finishes school. But with the strike and all, it's tough.”

“He helped me out yesterday. Showed me Xavier Mann's home.”

“He's a nice kid.”

McCall thought of something. “You didn't by any chance take a girl out to the Rockview Motel last night, did you?”

Ron Kozinski thought about it. “Not me. But there are plenty of other cabbies in town.” Then his forehead wrinkled. “You mean the one who's asking all the questions?”

“I guess that's the one.”

Kokinski nodded. “Says her name is April Evans. She was around a few places last night.”

“Reporter?”

“Probably, but she's not saying. A real looker, you know? Built like a chorus girl, only not tough at all. A cute face.”

“You seem to have studied her quite closely.”

“I was having coffee at the motel last night when she was in there, asking questions.”

“What sort of questions?”

“If any of them had seen Sloane before he was killed. I guess she didn't get much information, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, she didn't stay long. And I heard her tell the cashier that the motel was so inefficient it was a wonder all the guests weren't murdered in their rooms.”

“Is she still in town?”

“Sure. But she's not at the motel. She's got a room at the Parkview.”

“Thanks.” McCall slipped him a folded bill. “If you hear anything else I can use, let me know.”

He crossed the street and walked down the block to the Parkview House.

SIX

Thursday, May 13

The Parkview was old, with its lobby furnishings centred around a statue of the state's first governor—a fat bald man who'd been made to resemble a Roman emperor. McCall passed the statue, aware of the musty odour that seemed to emanate from it, and asked the room clerk for April Evans' number.

“Oh, we don't give out that information, sir. But you can call her on the house phone.”

McCall thanked him and went to a line of phones in one corner of the lobby. She answered on the first ring, with a voice that reminded him of a girl he'd dated in high school. “McCall?” she replied to his hasty introduction. “I don't know any McCall.”

“I'm here to remedy that. If you could give me your room number—”

“I'll meet you in the lobby, Mr. McCall. In ten minutes.”

It was a long ten minutes, but when she finally appeared it was well worth the wait. She wore a sleeveless blue dress that revealed a nice tan and well-proportioned arms. The dress fell to just above the knees, but from what he could see the legs were just as good. Her hair was blonde, nicely set off by the tan, and she had an upturned nose some men would have called cute. McCall guessed her age in the late twenties, and noted with satisfaction the absence of any ring on her left hand.

“So you're Mike McCall,” she said, gripping her tiny purse with both hands. She wasn't the sort of woman to shake hands.

“And you're April Evans. I've been hearing about you all over town.”

“Only good things, I hope.”

Her smile was wide and somehow as blonde as her hair. She was shorter than he usually liked his women, but he was almost ready to make an exception. “Enough to make me want to meet you,” he replied.

“I've heard your name too,” she admitted. She lit a cigarette and offered him the pack.

“I'm trying to give them up,” he said, waving it away.

“You're going to ask me what I'm doing in Rockview.”

“Smart girl.”

“Then I'll tell you. I'm looking for Sol Dahlman too.”

“Oh? Why?”

She gave him a big smile as he held open the street door. “That would be telling.”

“What makes him suddenly so important after all these years? How do you even know he's still alive?”

“Sloane thought he was, and got killed for his curiosity. I might have better luck.”

“You worked with Sloane in California?”

She gave him a sharp look. “No. Why did you ask that?”

“Suntan, a sleeveless dress. I'd say you came here from the south or southwest. May can be pretty chilly in this climate.”

“You are a detective, aren't you?”

“You're making fun of me?”

“Just a little,” she admitted.

“You think Dahlman's here, in Rockview?”

She nodded.

“What have you found out since last night?”

The smile became a grin as she looked up at him. “That you're the Governor's troubleshooter. That you're a romantic Irishman who likes the ladies but mostly keeps his mind on his work.”

“When did you learn all that?”

“Just in the last few minutes. I'm something of a detective too.”

He nodded.

“Last night I found out there's a man around town with a bandaged hand. He claims you and a black man tried to kill him. True?”

“Not exactly. His name's Tanner and he's a troublemaker. Have you had breakfast yet?”

“No, but you must have.”

“Some days I eat two or three breakfasts. Today's one of them.”

Over scrambled eggs and toast and coffee he saw Jack Kozinski sitting alone at the counter. But Tanner was nowhere in sight, and he turned his attention back to the girl. “How about some explanations?”

“I can't,” she answered seriously.

“How do you know anything about Dahlman?”

She dipped a hand into the little purse and came out with a carefully folded letter. “I imagine you've already seen this.”

McCall nodded. It was the letter Ben Sloane had sent out a week before his death. “Who gave it to you?”

“Mayor Jordan, but that's not important. The important thing is that someone didn't want Sloane to find this man, or to find out anything about the blue-movie industry here in Rock-view.”

“You know a great deal.”

She leaned back in the booth, sipping her coffee and studying his face. “Whatever possessed you to go to work for Sam Holland?” she asked finally.

He shrugged. “Why not? The pay is good and I like the work.”

“The pay is good? In this state?”

“The Governor pays me out of his own pocket.”

“An unusual arrangement.”

“But it works.” He grinned at her. “It makes me incorruptible.” She reminded him more and more of that girl he'd dated in high school, and sitting there in the booth he had a distinct sense of
déjà vu
, of having lived through all this before.

“Have you ever seen this film?” she asked.

“
The Wild Nymph
? No. I never even heard of it before yesterday.”

“What's the next move in your investigation?”

“To find out what you're doing in Rockview,” he told her with a grin.

“Let's just say I'm a reporter. It's easier that way.”

“All right. Then what do
you
think should be my next move?” He leaned over and took one of her cigarettes.

“I thought you'd quit smoking.”

“I only said I was trying to.”

“Well, to answer your question, I think I'd check the newspaper morgue and the library files—to see if there's any trace of Sol Dahlman. The library would have a complete set of old directories and telephone books.”

McCall gazed at her with admiration. She was a girl with a good head on her shoulders. “Come with me,” he suggested. “We'll do it together right after breakfast.”