“You’re making a big mistake, bitch,” he said, suddenly belligerent with fear. “I got big friends that will squash you so flat they’ll need a spatula to scrape you off the pavement.”
“I’ve got people too.” I smiled with dead eyes, an expression I’d practiced with perps and informants. “People that need to know things. But I don’t really care about your piss-ant operation. It’s not you I’m after. I’m looking for a murderer.”
Kerry’s eyes widened with what I judged to be genuine surprise. “Murderer?”
“Yes. Kill anyone lately?”
“No, no way. I just deal dope.”
“But these big friends you know. They might.”
“Yes, they might,” he spat, “and that’s why you need to let me go now. I’ll keep my mouth shut about this. I swear I will if you just let me go. I don’t want them hassling me about what I said or didn’t say and neither do you, believe me.”
“But you haven’t said anything, Mis-ter Lind-quist.” I enjoyed drawing his name out, like the gloating Agent Smith in the Matrix. “I need to know who these people are.”
“No way. If you’re smart you’ll just let me go right now.”
This was the part where he should have been pleading, saying that if he told me they would kill him, but he’d gone off the script and I was trying to figure out why. Sure, he was scared, but he kept coming around to threats, overt or implied, about how his backers would get me. If he was the small-timer I thought he was he shouldn’t be this confident. He should be terrified they would beat the shit out of him or even torture him to find out what he’d spilled, and then kill him anyway. That’s what organized crime did, whether it was drug gangs or biker clubs or the mafia. Cut off the loose threads.
Unless he wasn’t really a loose thread. What if he was a bigger, thicker part of the web? Not the biggest, sure, but someone who thought he could threaten his way out of a tough spot. Someone who thought he wouldn’t be snipped off and discarded. Someone more on the inside than outside.
Something tickled my cop sense, that subconscious part of me that put two and two together when the rest of me came up zero. “Big house you have for a single guy, even one with a lot of girlfriends.”
“It was an investment. A steal. I bought during the downturn when they couldn’t give these things away.”
I set the knife down well out of his reach and started wandering around his sparsely furnished living room until I found what I wanted: on a bookshelf, a couple of photo albums or scrapbooks. Not on the coffee table, like a family might have. No, he had a big heavy fancy art book on his coffee table, designed to impress the girls. The keepsake albums were handy, but discreetly tucked in among some other nicely bound titles.
Bringing the two back, I set them down on the counter. It was getting a bit crowded by now with all the implements. Brightening the overhead lights, I opened the newer one and started leafing through.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he asked.
“Taking a look at your life, Mister Lindquist.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” I asked, taunting him a bit. He shut up and seemed to chew on that, trying to figure out what was going on. Leafing through the pages, I saw shots of him with a dozen different women in various locales – bars, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Disneyland. Pictures of fun. Pictures of conquests. Nothing prurient, though. I already knew Kerry was careful. That could be a nickname. Kerry the Careful. Careful Kerry.
Then I found something interesting.
“Here’s a nice shot of you at a backyard barbecue. I don’t know the tall hottie on your arm, but I recognize Jerry Conrad.” As I said it I looked him in the eyes and he froze like a rabbit cornered by a fox.
“Oh, um, that guy. He’s just a customer at the Mill. Comes in sometimes with people. He’s loaded. Buys rounds. Great tipper. I take good care of him so he invited me to one of his grill parties.”
Every day of eight years on the force screamed at me that the little weasel was lying. The facts said so too – I already knew Jerry Conrad owned the Old Mill, making him Kerry’s boss.
I could bludgeon him with my disbelief and my facts – and a hunk of steel – or I could play along with him for a bit. “What about her?” Turning the book around so he could see it, I tapped the picture of the woman in her late thirties carrying a plate of food. She reminded me of a supermodel, but of normal build and weight – five eleven and one hundred sixty if I had to guess.
Kerry squinted and I brought it a bit closer, still wary. “Oh, that’s…uh…oh, no it’s not. I think that’s Conrad’s wife.”
“Who did you think it was at first?”
Wheels turned behind his eyeballs. “Looked like a teacher I had back in high school,” he said with a slight hitch in his voice.
I let that bullshit go by because I was beginning to work it out. If I went too much farther with this I could pass a point of no return. No case was worth getting thrown in jail for. Former cops don’t do well in prison. Besides, he was giving me information whether he knew it or not.
Then I remembered that Frank had said he’d been seeing Carol Conrad for several months, perhaps up to a year, before she broke it off. Maybe Kerry was banging her now. Maybe that was why Carol had broken it off with Frank, discarding an exotic little-person fetish in favor of a cute twenty-something white boy. And, of note, both had access to recreational drugs.
Maybe Carol the cougar needed some Mother’s Little Helper to keep up with her younger lovers as she approached the half-century mark. Using the knife, I pried the photo from the page and slipped it into my blazer’s breast pocket.
“What about this murder?” he asked. The fact that he was still trying to work his way out of the situation told me that he was tougher than I expected, especially now that I’d let him collect his wits and forget about the pain in his toes.
As the town would find out soon enough and his reactions had told me a lot so far, I decided to let the cat out of the bag.
“One of your customers. Frank Jackson. Killed early this morning. I’m a friend of his.”
Unexpectedly, Kerry burst out laughing. “Woo-hoo. Now I get it. You’re one of his ex-con girls. That’s sweet, really. I’m impressed.”
Interesting. Frank dated ex-con women? I wondered if he wrote them in jail, set up liaisons for when they got out. That would fit.
“What if I am?” I said.
“Hey, I’m real sorry about Frank. He was a good guy and a good customer, but I didn’t kill him. Why would I?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Why would anyone?”
“Listen, uncuff me here and I’ll tell you all about it. You shoulda told me who you were at the start. No need for all this drama.” He rattled the shackles under the sink.
“No, I’m not going to uncuff you yet. But tell me what you know and I won’t whack your toes again.”
“Okay.” Kerry laughed again with obvious relief. Now he was becoming convinced this would all go away and everything would be back to normal soon. His attitude revealed a lot to me as well. Yuppie bartenders aren’t this resilient in the face of helplessness and pain, but crooks and cons often are. To survive, most criminals learned to take a beating, brush themselves off and get back up again.
Even scum have some admirable qualities.
Kerry said, “Frank would come by two or three times a week and pick up a hit or two of coke, meth or other kind of speed, usually powder. Now and then he’d get some downers, Ludes or some crunk mix or X. Never more than simple possession’s worth. Like me.”
“What about rock?”
“Crack? No way. He didn’t even smoke dope. His lungs couldn’t handle it. Besides, he said anything he smoked came out in his pores and people would smell it on him.”
“He tell you anything more about his using?”
“Sure.” Kerry shifted on the floor, trying to get comfortable, then stretched out his legs and sighed. “Can you get me a cushion
or something?”
“Okay. Keep talking.” I grabbed a pair of throw pillows off his sofa and tossed them to him. He wiggled around until he managed to get one under his head and relaxed.
“Thanks. That’s better. Yeah, he got the stuff for the girls, really. Just like me. Nothing spreads their legs faster.”
“Steady girlfriend?”
“Sister, you ain’t listening. No girlfriends, at least not here. In town he was squeaky clean. Pillar of the community. He used to make the buy and then drive right off to the coast. Evenings or weekends mostly, and he’d come back a lot later. Sometimes he’d be gone from Friday night to early Monday morning. I know because he’d drive right by the Mill on his way in to town around closing time.”
“So he did all his partying out of town.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you. That’s all I know.”
“Hmm.” I ran through my mental notes. “What about Linda Davis?”
“Deputy Do-Right’s daughter?” Kerry chortled.
“Why are you laughing? Aren’t you…”
“Oh, I’d hit that if I could, but one, she’s a cop’s kid, and two, her knees are super-glued together. Doesn’t even drink. How you gonna get a girl horizontal if she won’t even have a glass of wine?”
“Flowers? Candy? Sweet words? Maybe some honesty and a ring?” I said wearily.
That just brought more laughter. It was getting a bit tiring.
“Though if anyone could do it, it was Frank,” Kerry continued. “I don’t even know why he needed the stuff, he was such a smoothie. He could do all that stuff like you just said – the flowers, the sweet talk. Me, I gotta get by on my good looks and blow.”
And your connections, I almost said. This guy thought he was protected. Even handcuffed and helpless, he reeked confidence. For that reason I believed him. He loved to brag. He wanted to be liked and respected.
Wanted attention from women.
“Yeah,” I made my voice wistful, playing along with the scenario. “Frank was special.”
“Special-ed,” he cackled, and I thought the script called for a swift kick to the toes. That turned his laughter to tears as he started swearing at me again.
“Don’t talk about Frank like that,” I said. “I still think you have some idea of who killed him and why.”
“A jealous woman, maybe? Oh, that would be you,” he snarled.
“You want some more?”
Kerry subsided, watching me warily.
“What about blackmail? Frank said someone was trying to extort money from him with pictures of him having sex.” I still hadn’t told Kerry about Frank’s drag queen pastime. No need to give him anything more than what he already expected.
“No idea.”
“What about the bikers? The ones that collect protection money from all the businesses in town except you?”
Kerry sucked his lips in, and then blew out a breath. “Maybe. MC’s always looking for some extra cash. Yeah. Could be.”
“Do the bikers work for your big friends?”
“No idea.”
I hefted the steel again.
“Okay, they might, but I don’t really know. My friends and them, they got some kinda arrangement. Stay out of each other’s way. That’s why they don’t come in the Mill except to pick up some beer after hours. Scares the citizens away.”
“You’ve been inside, haven’t you?” I said conversationally.
“Yeah, sure. Just like you. That’s why you and I should…”
“Save it, Romeo. I was faking the jones. I’m clean and sober, which means I’m not your type, right?”
“Right. Or you’re a clamp.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Why is it whenever a girl rejects a punk like you he calls her a lesbian?”
“Because it’s true?”
I slammed the steel down an inch from his foot and he yelled, “Okay, okay!”
Holding the rod up speculatively I said, “Be glad I’m not some kind of bull dyke or I’d probably be trying to figure out just how far I could shove this up your ass before you spilled your guts. And that’s not a metaphor.”
That shut him up for a moment, giving me some time to think. “But then the MC didn’t kill him. Bikers, hell, any blackmailer isn’t going to kill his mark. You can shear a sheep many times, but only slaughter him once, they say.”
“Exactly. But none of this has anything to do with me. Come on, let me out of these things.”
“Not yet. I’m enjoying this conversation, Mister Lindquist. I thought you liked talking to pretty girls.”
“Only as foreplay.”
“I doubt you know what that word means.”
“Come on. If you’re gonna keep screwing with me we could at least get it on.”
This guy just wouldn’t quit. I didn’t see much chance of getting any more out of him so I took a dish towel and wiped down anything I might have touched, keeping an eye on Kerry all the time. Then I picked up the knife again and carefully worked my way around to the side, next to the sink. I leaned in and stuck the key into one of his hands, my knee on his chest. “Unlock those,” I told him as I backed off. “Then slide the cuffs across the floor with the key. Stay there. Don’t try to get up.”
Kerry did as I said, lying there rubbing his wrists with that infuriating grin on his face, but as much as I wanted to kick his teeth in I was now convinced he had nothing directly to do with either the blackmail or the murder. I couldn’t go busting a guy’s head just because he was an asshole.
“All right, Mister Lindquist,” I said with my best cold glare as I held the filleting knife point down while putting my handcuffs back in their holder. “I’ll be sniffing around this town until I find out who killed Frank. Don’t tell anyone about me. Don’t call anyone. Stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. If not…” Slamming the point of the blade into his countertop made him jump. With it quivering there, I turned and left his house.
Chapter 10
As soon as I turned my phone back on I saw a missed call from Davis so I called him back as I drove.
“Dang it, where you been?” he said.
“Busy.”
“Never mind. Got something interesting for you.” The deputy’s voice was ragged with stress. “Got a murder.”
“Uh yeah. About that. I’m sorry…”
“Just listen. You know where Indian Hill Road is?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“Head west on Tuolumne a couple miles and you’ll see it on your right. Follow it for five-six miles until you come to an old quarry. I’m there waiting for you. Come quick. I can’t sit on this for long.”
“On my way.”
I flogged the rental car as hard as I dared, standing on the accelerator and wishing I had Molly. Indian Hill Road started paved but a mile later turned to gravel and my rally skills came in handy as I slid around the dusty curves.
Davis had been rattled, I could tell. I was glad he cut me off, as I was about to confess that I knew about Frank’s death. But that wasn’t what he meant. He meant someone up here had been killed, probably where I was headed. Lucky me, two in one day.
Why wouldn’t he call his boss, the county sheriff, right off? Two reasons I could think of.
One, he didn’t fully trust his own department or certain people in it. People like his dispatcher Marilou Monroe.
Or two, he was setting me up. An old quarry at the end of a lonely road in the hills seemed like a good spot for an ambush. Too many murders already for me to want to be another.
When I’d estimated I was two miles from the place, I pulled over at the bottom of a hill. No one could see me here in the tiny valley unless they were close by or came driving up. I checked my handguns, popping the magazines and blowing out any lint that might have accumulated. Made sure rounds were chambered, cocked and locked.
Quickly I pulled off my blazer and donned my Kevlar vest, zipping on the oversized windbreaker I kept with my gear for just that purp
ose. Tried my cell phone, but got no signal. Drank a bottle of water and quickly peed behind some bushes. No way I was going into a tense situation with a full bladder.
Hiking boots came next, replacing my low-rise trail shoes. A lightweight set of binoculars went in a pocket and boxes of ammo for my pistols in another. I thought about the shotgun, and then settled for loading it and sliding it between the front seats, easy to access but hard to see. I made it fifty-fifty between possibilities one and two, truth or fiction.
If Davis was bent, I wanted to be ready without looking like I was. If he wasn’t, I didn’t want to make him into an enemy. Pointing a twelve-gauge at him would probably do that.
Preparations made, I drove onward at an easy speed, looking carefully until I caught the glint of glass. Then I slowed further, turning off at the rutted track leading to the Black Vein Quarry, so titled on the rusted sign. A hundred yards later I saw Davis’ cruiser and him standing by it.
Dry hills surrounded us, with scattered trees and a lot of scrub, all adapted to the arid climate. Rocks protruded from the hard soil and a slow, hot breeze ruffled the brown grass. Even over the car’s engine I could hear the buzz of insects, grasshoppers or cicadas. The dropoff of the top edge of the quarry showed ten yards behind Davis’ car.
Instead of driving up to him, I turned sharply right and then looped to the left so that I ended up pointing the car back the way I had come, my door away from him, the bulk of the car between us. I left twenty yards of open space. I didn’t want to give him any free cover.
When I got out, I pulled the edge of the windbreaker up and then shoved it behind the holster, left hand hanging down like a gunfighter’s. I’d worked on drawing fast and now, with the adrenaline singing in my veins, I felt as ready as I could be. Angling to my left, I kept my right side toward him, walking obliquely rather than straight at him. In other words, I did all the things they taught me at the academy, the things that had worked in two other situations where people with guns had tried to take my life.
“Come on, Cal. Quit dawdlin’,” Davis said with a wave of his hand.
No long gun. That had been my big worry. With a rifle he could take me down from two or three hundred yards and my handguns and shotgun would be useless.
In a Bind Page 11
