Lethal Streets (A Flood and Flood Mystery Book 2)

by Will Rayner

  Sam hit pay dirt at the Chapel of The Sierras, the third name on his list. The cheerfully positive attendant, a middle-aged woman with tinted hair, remembered the Hockleys clearly. “It was really sort of romantic,” she said. “Mrs. Hockley came in at eleven o’clock and had to wait quite a while. We got to chatting and she said she and her husband were witnesses at his niece’s wedding here five years ago. She said they had been camping at Wild Horse Canyon. Anyway, her husband, Mr. Hockley, has been away for quite a while and suddenly wired her to meet him here. It was so sweet. When he arrived, they hugged and kissed. I think they were planning a second honeymoon at the canyon.”

  “At Wild Horse Canyon?” Sam asked. “Did they actually say they were going there?”

  “No, but as they were leaving, Mrs. Hockley said she’d have to go shopping first. ‘What for,’ he said. ‘If I’m going back to that cabin, I’ll need a pair of sensible shoes,’ she said.”

  A cabin at Wild Horse Canyon, Sam thought, and I’m about a day behind them. But where in the state of Nevada was this place? He hoped his friend, the sheriff, would know.

  ****

  “Wild Horse Canyon?” Sheriff Blaine asked. “That’s just across the line, in Storey County. How do you plan on getting there, Sam?”

  “Oh, drive, I suppose. Rent a car. It can’t be very far.”

  “Not even 15 miles,” Blaine said. “But that’s the back country. I’m not even sure how to get there – wait a minute!” He went to his office door and opened it. “Clem!” he shouted. “Get in here!”

  The deputy was tall and lanky. “Clem, this is Sam Flood,” Blaine said. “Sam used to be a railroad dick in the good old days. Now he’s a private eye out of that city of sin, San Francisco. Say, Clem, weren’t you and your brother kicking around the Virginia Hills this spring, looking for mustangs to sell to the rodeo?”

  “Yes, sir,” Clem said.” Didn’t find any. The herd musta moved on.”

  “So you know Wild Horse Canyon?”

  “Yep. You gotta cross the Truckee to get to horse country.”

  “Is the access pretty easy?”

  “Not really, boss. It’s not sign-posted real well. You take a gravel road to the Mustang Bridge, then it’s a dirt track on the other side.”

  “Is there an old cabin there?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, we bunked down there one night.”

  They all fell silent for a moment. Finally, sheriff Blaine said: “I suppose we could dig you up a map, Sam, but this is the desert, not the streets of San Francisco.”

  He fell silent again. “Is this Hockley a pretty bad character?” he asked Sam.

  “The district attorney of San Francisco County wishes to interview Mr. Hockley in connection with police corruption charges,” Sam Flood said formally.

  “Okay, good enough for me,” Blaine replied. “Clem will take you. Clem, use the station wagon; it has good tires. I’ll call Leroy Hill in Virginia City and tell him one of my deputies will be following a lead on his patch.” He looked at Sam’s feet. “Brogans. Good. It might get a little dusty over there.”

  ****

  Riding with Clem along the Lincoln Highway, Sam thought about what he would do if he did find Hockley and his wife in the cabin. Suppose Hockley was resistant or belligerent? The deputy was thinking along the same lines because he suddenly asked, “What do we do if we find this gent, sir? What if he doesn’t want to cooperate? I can’t arrest him; I have no jurisdiction.”

  “My job is to find him,” Sam said. “If he doesn’t want to go back to San Francisco, well … we’ll deal with that if we have to.”

  The Truckee River was narrow with abrupt slopes when they crossed on the Mustang Bridge, but it wasn’t really a canyon, Sam thought. Perhaps Wild Horse Canyon is further downstream. On the other side, there were several dirt tracks. “The cabin is this way,” Clem said. He picked one that ran parallel to the river and turned left. Soon, they were bumping through dense brush and climbing. Then the brush cleared and they broke out into a small, bare meadow dotted with clumps of scrub grass. Sam could see the cabin perched forlornly in the lee of a low ridge. Its roof sagged. So did its door, with only one working hinge. The cabin looked old and tired.

  “There’s a motor vehicle in the bushes over to our right,” Clem said. He parked 50 feet away from the cabin, got out and unbuttoned the flap on his holster. “I’ll take the point,” he said, and strode over to the cabin. His boots crunched in the sand. Clem knocked on the door and said loudly: “Anybody home?” He waited a few seconds, then gingerly opened the sagging door.

  A shaft of afternoon sunlight illuminated two bodies on the dirt floor.

  Clem took one look. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy,” he said and backed out. Sam took in the interior of the cabin with one long glance. The woman was lying face-up. Her eyes were closed and there was a peaceful expression on her face. There was a bullet hole in her chest. The man’s body lay across the woman’s legs. It had a massive wound on the right side of the skull. Blood had seeped into the dirt floor. A long-barreled revolver lay close to the bodies.

  Sam stepped outside to join Clem. The deputy was taking deep breaths. “I’ve seen dead bodies before –car crashes and fire victims – but I ain’t seen nothing like that,” he said.

  “You never get used to it,” Sam said. He hadn’t seen all that many bodies himself, but felt it was wise to assume the role of an unflappable veteran. “The woman is Mrs. Thelma Hockley. I’ve met her. I recognize her. I couldn’t see the man’s face. This only happened a few hours ago. Dawn, maybe. The bodies haven’t attracted any vermin or insects yet.”

  “Murder-suicide?” Clem said. “I guess your Mr. Hockley really didn’t want to go back.” The deputy took off his Stetson and scratched his head. “Look, Mr. Flood, I’m going to have to call this in. This is big-time stuff.” He thought for a moment. “Sparks,” he said. “Sparks will have the closest phone.”

  Sam was beginning to sweat heavily. If I don’t find some shade soon, he thought, you might have to ask for an ambulance, too.

  “Uh … Mr. Flood,” the deputy continued. “You’ll have to stay here with the … remains. I should be back in 15, 20 minutes.”

  Sam watched the station wagon bounce its way back down the track, then walked slowly toward the car half-hidden in the brush. He saw a stunted tree next to it. There should be some shade there, he thought, or inside the car if the windows were left open. As he walked, Sam took off his coat, unbuttoned his vest and loosened his tie. The afternoon sun of the northern desert was unforgiving. He was glad he bought his Panama with him. As he approached, Sam noted that the Ford had a California license plate. The windows were indeed rolled down. Sam sat on the front bench on the shady side with the door open and collected his wits.

  After a bit, Sam looked around the interior of the Ford. There was nothing on the front or back seats. The glove box was empty. No luggage, Sam thought. He hadn’t seen any in the cabin, either. With his aging body protesting all the way, he stood up and walked around to the trunk. The sun was shining directly on the handle, so he knew it must be hot. Wrapping the suitcoat around his hand, he turned the handle and gave the lid an upward nudge. Trapped hot air assailed him. Ignoring it, Sam reached in and grasped the handle of a small suitcase. He opened it on the front seat and blinked at the row upon row of stacked paper currency.

  A few minutes later, the protesting whine of an automobile transmission on the dirt track suggested Clem had returned. Sam pulled out his watch. Twenty-one minutes. Not bad. He waited sleepily in the shade of the Ford, the suitcase at his feet, as the deputy parked the station wagon, looked around and spotted him. Clem walked over, carrying a water bottle.

  “I figured you might need a drink,” he said. “How are you doing, sir?”

  “Pretty good, I would say,” Sam answered. “A little tired.” He took a long, refreshing swallow and handed it back. “Keep it,” Clem said, “I have a spare. What’s in the suitcase?”

  �
�Cash,” Sam said. “Paper money. It appears to be the contents of a bank account Sergeant Hockley cleaned out some time ago.”

  Clem whistled. “Well, Sheriff Hill of Storey County is on the way. They might take a while – it ain’t so easy getting here from Virginia City. Let’s count that money while we’re waiting.”

  They did. The suitcase contained $17,800. “Sheriff Hill will give you a receipt for this,” Clem said. He checked his watch. “Look, Mr. Flood,” he said. “I have to go back to the highway so I can show them the way when they get here. Will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sam said. “Go and do your duty.”

  He relaxed drowsily in the shade, yawning now and then. That upper berth last night wasn’t all that comfortable. Sergeant David B. Hockley occupied his thoughts for a while. What led him to commit this monstrous crime? And why did he apparently change his mind so drastically? When Hockley retired, he had lots of money. He had a new car. He could go anywhere he wanted and live the good life. And then, suddenly, Bang! Bang! Was it remorse, overwhelming guilt at being such a bad copper, a sense of futility? Sam wondered whether Hockley was a religious man.

  His musing was interrupted by a faint rustle in the brush on the other side of the Ford. Twisting around, he honked the horn on the steering wheel. The rustling grew louder, then faded away. The predators are starting to sniff out a meal, Sam thought. The Storey County Sheriff’s Department better get here soon, he thought, or there won’t be much left to investigate.

  Chapter 26

  Thomas Flood and Indigo Cody met on the sidewalk outside the main entrance to the Palace Hotel. By common understanding, they realized T.J.’s actual entrance into the hotel could trigger an unwanted confrontation. The sidewalk was safer. Better sight lines. T.J. had scouted the area beforehand and did not spot any tell-tale flash of grey – which didn’t mean much, really, because the madwoman was extraordinarily adept at concealing herself.

  T.J. and Indigo were going to lunch. As they walked along New Montgomery Street toward Market, T.J. kept watching, watching, watching. “I confess there is not a one-arm joint in the immediate vicinity,” he said.

  “Oh, poo,” Indigo said. “I was so looking forward to having lunch in a one-arm joint.”

  “There is, however, an alternative,” T.J. said. “The Automat.”

  “You mean those places with all the windows?”

  “You bet. There’s one on the Embarcadero, right across from the Ferry Building. Whaddya say?”

  “Sounds great,” Indigo said. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

  Waiting for the streetcar, Indigo slipped her arm inside his. When they got themselves seated, she asked: “Tell me, what exactly is a one-arm joint?”

  “It’s a quickie eating place,” T.J. said. “You want a fast bite to eat – a sandwich, a piece of pie, coffee – you go to a one-arm joint. No counter, no stools, no tables, no booths. They have chairs with only one arm. The arm has a wide, flat surface.”

  “Like the desks we had in school,” Indigo said.

  “Right. You put your fast lunch on the arm, sit down and eat it. Voila, one-arm joints.”

  “I think I don’t want to go there anymore,” Indigo said.

  At the Automat, she stood in awe, contemplating the array of glass-fronted compartments and the bright chrome fittings. The concept was easy to grasp: You put in the correct amount of silver in the slot and the little door would open.

  “Oh, oh,” T.J. said, pointing to a sign and reading it aloud. “‘Minimum Charge, 20 Cents.’ There goes my budget.”

  “And there goes my second helping,” Indigo laughed. While T.J. went to the change booth, she studied the various categories – Sandwiches, Salads, Hot Foods, Pies, Desserts, Beverages. In the end, they both chose a thick ham-and-cheese sandwich on whole wheat, with coffee. Indigo added a green salad, while T.J. selected a slice of lemon meringue pie.

  The restaurant was busy, but they had no trouble finding a table. As they ate, they probed diffidently at each other’s background, trying to absorb all they could about the Special Person who might become a big part of their life.

  “What is your phone number?” T.J. asked. “I tried to get ahold of you, make sure you were okay, but I didn.t have a clue.”

  Indigo gave it to him. “It’s listed under Martha Fellows, one of my roomies,” she said.

  “And your address, ma’am?” T.J. demanded in a flat, copper’s voice. He made a show of whipping out his notebook and pencil stub. Indigo chuckled and told him. “It’s just on the other side of Van Ness.”

  “So I guess there must be lots of parties,” T.J. said. “Four single chicks living in a big house on Sacramento Street.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re working girls. We’re pretty tired at the end of the day. Our weekends are very quiet, although a couple of the girls have … ah … entanglements.”

  “Including yours truly?” T.J. asked.

  “Not including yours truly, although there may have been one in the past and there may be one in the future.” The answer seemed to be cryptic enough that T.J. dropped the byplay and asked a serious question: “Family?”

  “Mom and Dad live in Iowa. Dad has a little hardware store. I have a sister who is an instructor at the university over in Berkley. I took business administration in college and ended up with this swell job at the Palace. So we visit each other a lot. Guess what course my sister teaches.”

  “Criminology,” T.J. said without hesitation.

  Indigo gasped. “That’s right! How did you ever guess that?”

  “Well, you seem to be very interested in crime and police procedure and you had to absorb that from somebody. Elementary, my dear Miss Cody.”

  “Oh my, now he’s doing the Sherlock Holmes bit on me,” Indigo said. “But you have a rather astute, analytical mind, my dear Mr. Flood. Very useful in a private detective. Now, tell me how you got that way.”

  “A simple, straightforward sequence. I was a deputy sheriff in Southern California and got fired for punching out the sheriff, who was a toady. At the same time, my dad got summarily retired as a railroad dick with Southern Pacific. We got together and started Flood and Flood – the scourge of the criminal element. My mother died giving me birth, and father married again. Personal details: I drink, I smoke, I live in a quiet residential hotel on Geary. I’m known world-wide as T.J.”

  “You have quite a resounding name – Thomas Jefferson Flood. Is it a family thing?”

  “Sort of, I guess. Pop was named after a great American hero, Samuel Adams. I guess he wanted to continue the tradition.”

  Indigo Cody hesitated before framing her next question because Thomas hadn’t included his marital status in his personal summary. She decided to make a statement instead. “Ronnie Grieve tells me your wife passed away a few years ago,” she said.

  “Yes,” T.J. did not elaborate, peering fixedly at his empty coffee cup.

  Indigo veered away from that delicate subject. There would be plenty of time in the future. “Are you wearing your gat?” she asked, lightening the mood a little bit.

  “You bet. I pretty much always pack heat,” T.J. said, playing along.

  “Did you ever … um … actually plug anybody?”

  “A few guys, mostly in my deputy days. Nobody died on me.”

  “Have you ever been … ah … plugged?”

  “Got clipped in the arm once. Flesh wound. Spat on it and rubbed dirt on it. Carried on.” Reflectively, he massaged his left bicep.

  Indigo chuckled. “Yeah, you’re a tough egg all right, for a shamus. But really, I don’t think there’d be much opportunity for a shootout in the private eye game, I mean, against a bunch of gangsters in a dark alley somewhere.” Despite her offhand manner, Indigo’s intent was serious. Did she want to get involved with anybody in a really dangerous profession?

  T.J. shook his head. “We follow people, we look for people, sometimes we babysit people, we watch. They don’t call us peepers for nothing. We anal
yze, we ask an awful lot of questions. I don’t think I’ll be pointing my roscoe at anybody in the near future.”

  He was quite wrong about that.

  ****

  San Flood stood on the sidewalk outside the train station on Townsend and debated. Should I head for Powell Street and go straight home, he asked himself, or stop in at the office first? Sam sighed. He was a little blue. Margaret had regressed a little bit on this visit. She remembered him but thought she was in a hospital in Chicago. Oh, well. It was to be expected, he supposed. Abruptly, he shook off the reverie and decided to go to the office. He wanted to hear Edwin Atherton’s reaction to his report on Sergeant Hockley, not to mention any rumbles from 750 Kearny.

  Agnes Wilkins was at her desk, leafing through a brochure about office supplies, and T.J. had his feet up, reading the Examiner.

  “Mr. Atherton called,” Agnes said. “He wants to drop in tomorrow. He’ll call first.”

  T.J. followed Sam into his office. “The Cubbies lost again,” he said. “Jimbo Bracken’s coming over tomorrow, too. In the afternoon. He says he has a clinical interest in that dustup in Nevada, and he wants to talk about the dingbat dame and Randolph Baggett.”

  “Well, we’ll be here,” Sam said. “It might get interesting if they both showed up at the same time.”

  “Gawd, my brain would get overloaded from all the words,” T.J. said. “It’ll explode, sure as shootin’.”

  “You are right,” his father said. “Let us keep them separated.” He reached for the phone. “Agnes, call Mr. Atherton’s office and advise them that we will be delighted to interview Mr. Edwin Atherton at ten o’clock in the morning tomorrow.” He hung up. “That should give us some breathing space.”

  They discussed Margaret’s condition for a few minutes and Sam decided to go home. He was tired. Too many train trips in the past few days. Too many things to think about. Too many decisions to make, sooner or later.

  Heading for Powell Street, he came to a sudden stop as Vido Cerutti stepped out of the shadows in front of him. He was so big, Sam thought, that I can’t get around him, even if I were unwise enough to attempt it.