Ticket to Ride (20 page)

All he had for me was a contrived smile. “Doesn't feel good, does it, McCain? I figured this one out and you didn't. You won't have bragging rights on this one.”

“Does that mean that you know who killed Roy Davenport?”

He kept the smile. He made it wide and irritating. “Now, you don't think I'd tell you, do you? I'm a sworn officer of the law.”

“I guess I was wrong.”

That got his attention. “What? Wrong about what?”

“I just told somebody waiting to see you that even you wouldn't be stupid enough to think these murders weren't committed by the same person.”

At least I got rid of his smile. “You tell a lot of people I'm stupid. And you've been telling them since you hung out your shingle. And you know what? I'm still chief of police and you're still a failure as a lawyer. You want to hear what some of the successful lawyers say about you?”

“I could give a shit what they say.”

“Now that's a lie and you know it.” He looked right at me. “Any more than if I was to say that I don't give a shit about some of the things you say about me.”

I wanted to say something smart, but his honesty surprised me. He was admitting that all the scorn hurt him. He had no right to tell me this, because, at least for the moment here, I had to feel bad about making fun of him all the time. Cliffie was supposed to be a cartoon. It pissed me off that he'd forced me to see him as a human being.

Then he did me the favor of reverting to type. “It's my turn here, McCain. My turn. I'm going to solve two murders at the same time. And all the people who make fun of me behind my back will have to eat a big barrelful of shit. Hot steamy shit. And I'll guarantee you, I won't have just one killer, I'll have two. And whether you like it or not, I've already got the mouthy bastard who murdered Lou. He's sitting in a cell right down the hall there.”

“He didn't do it. I don't like him much better than you do. I wish he'd never come to town, and I can barely stand to be around him for more than a minute or two. But he didn't kill Bennett. That much I'm sure of. And I don't care if you ‘win' this one or not, Chief. It probably is your turn. All I want is to see that the right man goes to prison.”

“He should be going to the gallows. But thanks to you and your liberal friends, we don't have capital punishment in this state any more.” Then: “What's so funny?”

I hadn't realized I was smiling. “Just the way you manage to give little political speeches every chance you get. I know how you feel about the death penalty. You rag me about it all the time.” What I'd really been smiling about was how good it felt to return to our usual adversarial relationship. He'd only gone human on me for less than thirty seconds. That amount of time I could handle. But not any more.

I walked to the door. “You'd better get out there and talk to them. They're getting restless.”

“If I had my way, we'd shoot every reporter in the state on sight.”

“Be sure to mention that when you're talking to them.”

“You know, McCain, someday if I'm real lucky I'll be a cool guy just like you think you are.”

“That's right, Chief,” I said. “If you're lucky.”

I didn't talk to Molly on my way out of the station. I just waved and hurried on. I didn't want to be around when she learned that Doran was not going to be released.

“I guess I don't understand, Mr. C.”

In her berry-red miniskirt and white blouse, Jamie was a decided distraction. She seemed to have become even more carelessly erotic since her eighteenth birthday. Or maybe that was because I could now legally look at her as a woman. She was stretching to put a law book on the third shelf above our tiny refrigerator. The position outlined her body all too well.

“What I meant was, I'm happy to give you an advance if it's for you. Something you need or your family needs. But I'm pretty sure this is for Turk, isn't it?”

She shoved the book back on the shelf, then ended her stretch. She faced me. “He really needs this outfit. He's pretty sure a big record producer's going to be in the audience.” She walked over and sat down at her desk.

“He was sure there was going to be a big record producer the last time he played this bar.”

“Well, like he says, this producer is real busy. He has a lot of big stars to worry about. Sometimes he can't get away.”

I wanted to point out the obvious to this girl-woman-child. I wanted to say that no record producer would ever be found checking out a bar band in Black River Falls, Iowa. I wanted to say that either Turk was living in a fantasy world or he was creating a fantasy for Jamie as a means of prying more money out of her for his “outfits.” But I couldn't, because she wouldn't believe me. And because she might very well start crying. I did not need any tears on this particular morning.

“Tell you what, Jamie. How about Turk going halvsies?”

“What's ‘halvesies' mean?”

“You pay half and he pays half.”

“But he doesn't have any money, Mr. C.”

“Well, doesn't he get paid for these gigs? He must earn something.”

“Well, he earns a little bit. They have to split it up between four guys, remember. But he needs that for cigarettes and beer and stuff like that.”

“Are you keeping track of how much he's borrowed from you?”

“Oh, he's not borrowing, Mr. C. I'm just giving him the money. When he gets his record deal and the money starts coming in, it's like Turk says. We'll get married and then he'll make sure I get paid back every cent.”

“But you're not keeping track of what you give him. How will you know how much—” I stopped myself. Pointless to go on. “You've already borrowed against your next check, Jamie.”

“He really needed those new boots. They're like the Beatles wear. Turk said people wouldn't take him serious if he didn't have boots like that. Record producers can always tell if you're up to date, Turk says.”

“All right. I'll tell you what. I'm going to give you your full paycheck. We'll call what you've borrowed a bonus, all right?”

“Gosh, thanks, Mr. C.”

“But there's a catch.”

“There is?” She was suddenly a little girl afraid of hearing some imminent bad news. “Like what?”

“Like you won't give more than twenty percent of your check to Turk.”

“How much will that be?”

“It doesn't matter. We'll figure it out. But I want you to make that agreement with me. No more than twenty percent. And that goes for every check I give you.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. C, but I don't think Turk'll like that.”

“Fine. Tell him to come and see me.”

Her cheeks bloomed pink. “Well, I don't think you'll want to see him after you get the letter.”

“What letter?”

She folded her hands and sat up straight. I'd never seen eyes cower before, but that's exactly what her eyes were doing. Cowering. “You know Mr. Dodsworth?”

“John Dodsworth, the lawyer here in town?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“What about him?”

“Well—” Her gaze fell to her lap. “Well, Turk says that Mr. Dodsworth is going to send you a letter suing you for what happened to Turk. You know, in your office here.”

The phone rang. Relief replaced the fear in her eyes. She even managed to address the caller properly. “Good morning, the law offices of Sam McCain.” Pause. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Hughes. Just a moment, please.”

I had to clear my anger before I had enough room in my head to register surprise that William Hughes had actually called me back. I'd called him half an hour ago at the Bennett estate and left a message. I'd have to deal with Turk later. I had plenty of time to murder him. I didn't even have to buy extra bullets. I planned to strangle him. After breaking several of his more critical bones.

“Thanks for returning my call, William. I appreciate it.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. McCain? The funeral's tomorrow morning, and we're all pretty busy around here.”

“I just wondered how well you knew Roy Davenport.”

“He was Mr. Bennett's business partner for several years. Naturally I got to know him. Why?”

“Did you ever see him with Fire Chief DePaul?”

“Of course. Chief DePaul and Roy were out here a lot, using the tennis courts and going to parties.”

“Were they friendly?”

“I'm not sure what that means, Mr. McCain. I never saw them argue, if that's what you're talking about.”

“Do you think they spent time together when they weren't at the mansion?”

“Now, how would you expect me to know something like that? I didn't follow either of them around.”

“DePaul and Lou were good friends, though.”

“Yes. But Mr. Bennett was good friends with people he thought could do him some good. I don't say that as criticism. That's just the way business is done.”

The obvious question—obvious to me, anyway—was did Bennett know DePaul well enough to ask him to lie about the origins of a fire?

Then Turk was there, and I had to force myself to concentrate on talking to William Hughes. Jamie grabbed her purse. Lunch time. She waved good-bye to me. And so did Turk. The devious prick. Bye-bye, McCain. I'm going to be taking you for everything you've got.

“Mr. McCain, I really am busy. There'll be a gathering here after the burial, and we need to get everything in order. I'm sure you can understand that.”

“Do you recall seeing Chief DePaul out at the estate close to the date that Karen Shanlon was killed in the fire?”

He didn't answer right away. “Exactly what are you asking me?”

“I'm just wondering if DePaul was hanging around out there after the fire.”

“That's an accusation, not a question. And I resent it for Mr. Bennett's sake.”

“People have speculated about the fire, William.”

“No, they haven't. You have speculated about the fire.”

“Bennett didn't think she was suitable for the family.”

“Not wanting her in the family is very different from wanting her dead. The man just died, McCain. At least give him his due and let him rest in peace.”

He was gone then. He didn't slam the phone. He hung up quietly, which was his style.

Then all my anger about Turk came flooding back. Good old Turk, shiftless no-talent bum and wanna-be surfer. I'd give him the honor of drowning him in the river, which was as close to an ocean as he'd ever get.

21

S
HE WAS PARKING HER BLUE
S
CHWINN BICYCLE AS
I
LEFT THE
office. In a Western-style red shirt and Levi cut-offs, she appeared older than she had at her stepfather's house. Or maybe it was the hair, which she'd managed to turn into a pageboy. The heavy glasses worked against all of it. She was still the lonely kid who loved The Great Gatsby.

“Hi, Mr. McCain.”

“Hi, Nina.”

“My stepfather'd kill me if he knew I was here.”

“I think you're probably right about that one.”

She approached me with the awkward grace of a leery animal. “I heard what you and my stepfather were talking about. He and my mother really got into it after you left. Then she found out he had a gun in the house.”

“Let's talk inside. You like a Pepsi?”

“That'd be great. It's so hot.”

“C'mon in. It's cooler there.”

The first thing she did inside was look at my books. She passed quickly over the law tomes and went to the small bookcase where I kept novels. “We sort of have the same taste. Hemingway and Carson McCullers and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald and Malamud and Algren. But who're these writers, Jim Thompson and Charles Williams?”

“They write crime fiction.”

“Is it any good?”

“Some of the best writing in America, but the critics are too snobby to review it. They think it's trash.”

“Some of the covers are pretty wild.” She was examining a copy of All the Way by Charles Williams.

“The covers are usually a lot wilder than the books themselves.”

After getting her seated and pushing a Pepsi into her hand, I sat down behind my desk and got a smoke going. “You were telling me that your stepfather has a gun in the house. Doesn't he usually?”

“No. Never. My mother's little brother was killed when he found her dad's pistol and accidentally shot himself. My mother absolutely won't tolerate a gun in the house.”

“Not even a hunting rifle?”

“Huh-uh. She made Ralph promise that before they got married. And my mother's never let him forget it, either.”

“Did he say why he thinks he needs a gun?”

She sipped her Pepsi. Her face still gleamed from the sweaty ride over here. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “He's afraid of something. I've never seen him like this. You know how he is. I'm not putting him down—not exactly, anyway. There're a lot worse stepfathers than Ralph.”