According to the overnight report filed by night tour almost two weeks before, two backpackers who claimed they were looking for a camping spot in Palisades Park had reported finding a body lying hidden in the deep shadow under a spacious, old-fashioned latticed arbor built long ago to shade park passersby. One of the young men had stayed with the body, they later told police, while the other ran to a pay phone situated outside a public restroom in the park nearby. Time of the call-in was logged at ten minutes after midnight—a fact which night-tour detectives subsequently chose to find significant.
The victim, identified by a driver’s license in his wallet as Charles Taylor—white, male, twenty-three years old, a local resident—had been bludgeoned to death, apparently only a short time before discovery. Blood at the scene was still coagulating, and at the edge of the sticky mess some footprints, later identified as belonging to the backpackers, were found. According to technicians on the scene, the series of violent blows dealt the victim would have caused his assailant to be copiously splashed with blood, but except for the soles of their heavy walking sandals, neither backpacker showed any sign of blood on his clothing. Nevertheless, detectives took them both into custody.
Reading the report the next morning, Casey had been baffled by the arrests, even more by the charge which was—of all things—trespassing. Obviously night tour must have decided it was worth alienating possible witnesses in order to keep them on hand with a phony charge. There was no reason otherwise to make a point of the fact that Palisades Park was officially closed between midnight and 5 a.m.—“closed” being a euphemism, since the long narrow bluffside park was unfenced, and unless the backpackers had happened to notice one of the scattered warning signs, they’d have had no way of knowing they were trespassers after midnight.
Both young men had been able to identify themselves as Berkeley students, residents of the San Francisco area, and both had enough money to disqualify them as vagrants. Neither had any sort of record, not even the little busts for possessing pot which were usual with students. Either somebody had gone off the deep end because they were long hairs, Casey had decided, or night tour was keeping secrets.
Police routine had turned up a record for the decedent, Charles Taylor—also known as “Tay”—as a drug user and possible pusher. Also a uniformed search team had located the murder weapon at the foot of the high bluffs which the park skirted. Obviously the murderer had thrown the length of ordinary plumber’s pipe over the railing at the edge of the cliff. There were no fingerprints, only smudges indicating that the assailant had worn gloves.
By noon a motorcycle registered to the decedent was found parked at the curb on Ocean Avenue less than a block from the spot where the body had been discovered. And that afternoon they had a citizen’s call from a late-night dog walker who lived not far from the scene. He reported seeing a motorcycle about eleven-thirty the night before. He’d noticed a car also, he claimed, parked nearby across the street from the motorcycle. A foreign car, he couldn’t place it any closer. The reason why he had noticed it in particular was that a man had been sitting behind the wheel when he passed with his dog and it had made him a tiny bit wary, what with all the crazy things going on you read about in the papers. On his way back home, however, he had noticed that the car was empty.
The possibility of a drug-buy rendezvous which had turned into murder had begun to look like a good bet to everyone by this time. And criminals killing criminals lessened the psychological pressure around the bureau. One thing was sure by day tour’s end that next day—nobody was interested any longer in the two backpackers. They had paid their fines and left town fast, all their indignation about police brutality and violated civil rights wasted on the busy municipal judge, who fined them lightly for trespassing. Clearly, if they were needed later as witnesses, the chances of cooperation were nil…
Lousy police work, Casey thought again. But pot did not call kettle black here. Haynes’s typewriter was rattling like a machine gun, but refusing the challenge, Casey kept pecking slowly, translating the scribbles in his notebook into flat official language. Myrick, Stephen. Another dead-end case? he wondered. Too early to tell yet. A lot of leads on this one. Loose threads. And maybe, just maybe, one would tie up somewhere.
“How d’you spell ‘subsequent’?” he heard Haynes asking.
“If you can’t spell it, don’t use it,” Zwingler replied.
“Thanks a million.”
“Kellog”—Timms’s barking voice echoed across the squad room—“Can I see you?”
“Yes, sir, right away.” Casey saw that the huddle in the corner had broken up. He passed Krug and William Myrick on their way out, receiving a surprising wink from his partner. Myrick looked exhausted, and if he had been angry, he was no longer.
“Follow up on this as soon as you can.” Timms tossed a piece of paper across the desk. “The brother says this might be Lila.” He squinted at Casey. “You call that Allman woman?”
Casey admitted he had forgotten.
“All right, catch it later. Myrick says this Lila used to call herself Delila in San Francisco. Show girl, I guess. Says she married the headwaiter at some joint she was working in up there. Guy named Angelo, he thinks. He heard they came down here, so if Allman doesn’t know, we start looking for the needle in the haystack.”
Mrs. Allman’s phone didn’t answer, and hoping for a break from Lotte Haas, Casey called her sister’s number. But there was no answer there, either. Have to do it the hard way, he decided, and starting with Local 814 on Colorado Avenue, he called all the branches of the Culinary Workers and Bartenders Union he could locate in the various Los Angeles directories.
“Waste of time,” Krug declared later when he returned and they continued their outside follow-ups. “Isn’t enough we got the old patients, the new patients, the goddamn group and all the dropouts from that—Now we got to find some Frisco fan dancer? For Chrissake, she could be married six times by now!”
“I know, Al, but the lieutenant said—”
“So let him find her. I say let’s keep hitting these kids.” He sucked in his breath. “The way you drive, I’ll be a basket case before I ever get a chance to put in for my pension!”
“A little excitement’s good for your circulation.” Casey double-clutched and the tires screeched. “How about the brother, Al? Any leads there?”
“You got to be kidding—from a lawyer?” Which closed the subject. “Been thinking about those girls, though,” he said a minute later. “Why they both dropped out of that pill-head setup. Could be the kicker, hah?”
Casey agreed it was possible.
“Let’s try Simmons first, she’s closest. Sandra Simmons. Head for Ninth and Georgina, and you’ll just about hit it.”
TEN
“They said the inquest might be Wednesday or Thursday.” William Myrick kept rubbing his forehead, thin, unsteady, parched-looking fingertips digging at the bone. “But I’m due in court in San Francisco Thursday, and I’m not at all sure I can get a postponement. These damn judges and their prerogatives. Not that I can help here any.” He tried to smile at Adrian, but his lips trembled so that the smile was instead a painful grimace. “The toils of the law. God, the complications! They’ve got the house sealed, so I can’t do anything there. All I’ve been able to accomplish is a call to a mortuary. They’ll take him—take the body as soon as it’s released.”
“Will you…” Adrian hesitated. “Will the funeral be in San Francisco?”
“No, I don’t see any point. We’re from Michigan originally, and there’s no family left.” Again he tried to smile. “These are the times when one could loathe modern life. No home places anymore. No last resting places full of ancestors.”
Aware of something volatile and vaguely alarming behind his quiet grief, Adrian made no comment. He had called from the police station saying he had formally identified his brother’s body, made arra
ngements, now he wanted to see her. Or was it, she thought, that the police wanted him to? Was this a snare of some sort? She had a feeling he was working up to something, and as they both watched the cat stalking a shadow in the corner, tension built in her unbearably. Then Myrick leaned back into the creaking Naugahyde sofa, closing his eyes, and she relaxed slightly.
“Still can’t believe it,” he murmured, sounding dazed now. “When I think I talked to him less than a week ago.” He drew a shuddering breath, and without opening his eyes, said in a different, hard-edged voice, “They killed him, didn’t they? You know they did.” His eyes flew open, glaring at her wildly. “You know, don’t you? Yet you’re hanging on to those tapes, protecting them!”
Shocked, Adrian started to protest. But this was what he had come to her for, she realized. A fight, a confrontation. As reasonably as she was able, she said, “Surely as a lawyer you know I can’t part with privileged material.”
Myrick groaned. “Do you really believe you can circumvent the law for some contemptible—Listen,” he cried, “I know him—knew him better than anyone! You think I don’t realize he was in over his head? He was always a pipe-dreamer. Always in the clouds. Good God, he was no more qualified to deal with those addicts than I am!”
“But that’s not—”
“Miss Crewes, I’m able to add two and two as well as the next one,” he said, overriding her protest. “And I know he was in trouble. You both were. Can you deny that you’d been arguing? Can you? Or that you threatened to quit?”
“That’s ridiculous. We disagreed, yes. But it was a professional matter. There was no question of my not continuing with the project.”
“Then more fool you for not knowing his limitations. And why was he so distressed if you weren’t quitting?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. “He told me those savages were completely out of hand. The whole silly so-called project was falling apart.”
“Hardly silly when you consider that a major publisher—Oh, never mind,” Adrian sighed, “I won’t argue with your prejudice. I can only assure you that nothing was, as you say, falling apart. Only his own anxiety made Steve think it was.”
“But he said one of them dropped out, and then the others forced him to get rid of another one.”
“And that’s why we argued. He was so anxious to keep the rest of the group together until the book was finished that he let them blackmail him. Result”—she gestured—“of course he lost control.”
“So they turned on him. It’s the Manson thing all over again. A bunch of mind-blown kids—”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Can’t I? Tell me this,” he went on, icily calm now, “was the fact that they’d be part of a book made clear to the group? That whatever they said in those meetings would be printed, made public?”
“No, that would have defeated Steve’s purpose. It was essential that they be absolutely unself-conscious.”
“So presumably they didn’t know every word they said was being taped?”
“Whether they did or not doesn’t matter, since we weren’t planning to use names.”
“Oh, yes, anonymity.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Rather meaningless, isn’t it? When you consider that they wouldn’t know unless they were told? And they weren’t told, were they? So if something or someone persuaded them that Steve was using them, betraying their confidences…”
“No, you’re wrong,” Adrian said helplessly. “You’ve got it all wrong. It was his own fault that the group—”
“His fault! Yes, you’d believe that, wouldn’t you? You damn bleeding hearts are all the same. The murderers are the victims, not the poor bastards they slaughter in cold blood!” He snatched up his hat and headed for the door. Then he stopped and turned around in the doorway. She could hear his heavy breathing. “Miss Crewes”—his voice came at her savagely quiet, a weapon—“whatever your purpose in hanging on to those tapes, you’d do well to keep this in mind: if Steve wasn’t safe from them, neither are you. Don’t forget that tonight when you’re here all alone.”
ELEVEN
Even after the door had closed and she knew he was gone, the room still seemed filled with his lacerating presence, the terrifying idea he had summoned, genielike, out of his anguish. Don’t forget tonight. A pulse fluttered in her ears, and she started to yawn uncontrollably. When you’re here all alone. Her scalp prickled. “Fool,” she whispered. “More fool you.” Then, bittersweetly, tears came. But whether she cried for the dead or for herself she didn’t know.
Imagine my surprise, she had written her sister a few days after she arrived, after all that claptrap about no lady collaborators, the misogynist greeted me with open arms. Paranoia set in at once, of course. I’m a cripple therefore genderless? Well, the hell with it. Those who come to laugh and stay to cheer (or to satisfy curiosity) deserve whatever doubts they may have. The fact is, the man is fascinating. An enigma. Maybe even a paradox. But, you know, I believe he’s a genuine sorcerer!
Adrian had liked Stephen Myrick’s house at first sight, for it looked old and substantial and Eastern to her. And the street where it was located seemed quiet and sedate. In fact, nothing she saw that first day came anywhere near her preconceived ideas of what life in California might be like. And Myrick himself was the biggest surprise of all…
“The ancient if not honorable art of animal magnetism,” he said humorously when they were settled over a drink in his oddly impersonal living room. “You know, I suppose, that it was lost to the Western world for centuries after the end of the ancient Egyptian civilization? Then Anton Mesmer rediscovered the trance as a method of treatment. Mesmerization. It was a doctor named Braid who first called it ‘hypnosis.’ ”
“Do you still use the word ‘trance’ professionally?”
“Frequently, yes—Why?”
“Well, it smacks so of spiritualism, that sort of quackery.”
“Does that bother you, Miss Crewes?”
“Not really. But I should think it would bother you, using the same terms as charlatans.”
“By which I take it you’re implying I am not one?” His laughter spared her the necessity of answering. “That’s the first hurdle,” he said cheerfully. “A major one, I might add. This book is very important to me. Without your confidence—complete confidence—in my methods and attitude, I realize we could fail before we begin.”
He was too handsome, too well dressed, too actorish, she decided. But she was disarmed by his simplicity and frankness when he went on to explain that no one knew how hypnosis actually worked, least of all the hypnotist himself. “It’s usually defined—in a loose way, of course—as a special state of aroused concentration which allows the subject to focus his mind on suggestions, responding to them beyond so-called normal limits.” Again he laughed. “Gobbledegook, of course. But it’s the best we can do.”
No one that unaffected could be a real phony, Adrian decided as she lay in the hard bed of the hotel room he had reserved for her, waiting to go to sleep that first night. The very nature of phoniness demands artificiality, self-dramatization. Soft air from the Pacific floated in through her open windows. In the garden below, tall palms clattered in the sea breeze. California, she kept thinking. Well, I’ll be damned. But she must reserve final judgment, she told herself, until she saw the sorcerer in action.
More fool you.
The Simmons house turned out to be a two-story Monterey-style stucco which probably dated back to the twenties, Casey decided. The windows had been modernized, the paint was fresh, the yard manicured. He wondered if the owner had any connection with a local Realtor of the same name.
Krug punched the doorbell and they listened to chimes inside. The door was opened by a small, trim middle-aged woman who smiled at them cordially. “You’re from the termite company? I’m Mrs. Simmons. We’re having so much trouble—” Then she saw their badges. “Oh, my God, somet
hing’s happened to Frank!”
“Nothing like that, Mrs. Simmons,” Krug assured her hastily. “Only a routine matter. We’d like to talk to your daughter, Sandra, if she’s home.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Stony in their nests of powdered wrinkles, her eyes fixed on a point just beyond them, blank, unseeing. “My daughter passed away last month. On July twenty-second.”
“Sorry to hear that, Mrs. Simmons. We won’t bother you, then. Like I said, this was just a routine inquiry.”
“Yes, I know all about your routine inquiries.” Her face twisted, ugly, bitter, old all of a sudden. “That’s what you always say, isn’t it? No matter what it is, it’s just routine. You can break people’s hearts—Oh, there’s nothing more to be said,” she cried and slammed the door.
“Well, we asked for the word.” Krug made a face. “And we got it, right?”
“Come on, Al,” Casey muttered, “she’s probably listening.”
“Yeah, okay.” They walked slowly back to the Mustang parked at the curb. “Well, that’s one we don’t have to worry about nailing down.” Krug crossed the name off the list. “Drops out of the group on the twentieth, dead the twenty-second. Want to bet it was an overdose?” The car rocked as he slammed the door. “Better check it out when we get back. Could still be part of this lousy case.”
Casey started the car. “Where to—Judith Flesher next?”
“Might as well. It’s the other side of town, down near Pico.” Casey heard him sigh. “Don’t let it get you down, sport. That kind, they always blow off to cops. Somebody but them’s got to be to blame, see. Whatever happens to their kids, they had nothing to do with it.”
“Sure, Al, I understand.”
“Okay, I’m just telling you. That kind of people, they’re always going to give you a hard time when they’re in the wrong. The fat cats. They got it made, see? Big house, money in the bank, nothing bad can happen ’cause they got the price.” Again he sighed. “Me, I’ll take the poor old hard-working stiff with the dirty fingernails. At least he don’t walk around thinking he’s got the high sign on Old Man Trouble.”
Rouse the Demon: A Krug & Kellog Thriller (The Krug & Kellog Thriller Series Book 3) Page 5
