by M. K. Wren
“Gabe, shut up,” Conan said wearily, “and let Billy do his job. Now’s your chance to get your teeth in.”
To Conan’s amazement, Gabe did shut up and did head for the bathroom, but perhaps that was due in part to the fact that he had acquired a case of hiccups.
Todd sighed. “Conan, what are you doing here?”
Conan glanced into the bathroom, where Gabe was downing a glass of water. “I came here to talk to Gabe about Corey Benbow’s death. I had to put the fear of something in him. He wouldn’t talk to me otherwise.”
“Corey’s death?” Todd’s eyes narrowed.
“She didn’t die accidentally, Billy. At this point, I still can’t prove anything. I was just hoping…”
“Did Gabe have anything to say?”
Conan smiled crookedly. “Oh, yes. But you needn’t bother to ask him what it was. He’ll just develop amnesia. But there’s one thing—if you’d just play along with me for a little while. I want to look around in the kitchen.”
“I don’t know, Conan. You’ve put me in a hell of a spot. Gabe could charge you with breaking and entering, and if I don’t do something, it won’t look good to Kleber.”
Gabe came out of the bathroom, robed, his teeth and righteous self-possession restored. “Damn right, it won’t look good, and Earl Kleber’s going to hear about it if—”
Conan cut in, “Billy, only the three of us know what happened here tonight. If anyone asks, just say I came to the front door and knocked, and Gabe graciously invited me in to have a little chat about Corey Benbow. It’ll be your word and mine against Gabe’s. Two to one should be as good as six to one.”
Todd obviously didn’t understand that allusion, but it silenced Gabe. Todd studied him a moment, then nodded. “Well, that’d save a lot of paper work.”
Conan smiled and started for the hall door. “I’m going to take a look at the kitchen, and Gabe—ever accommodating and cooperative—won’t object at all. Will you, Gabe?”
“What? Now, wait a minute!”
Conan led the way down the hall, with Todd a pace behind, Gabe vociferously bringing up the rear. When Conan reached the living room, he stopped just inside the door. It was in a corner of the room in the wall where the two wings of the house met, and that gave the room some interesting angles. Otherwise, it had the bland consistency of a Hilton Hotel suite, with white walls, beige shag carpet, and drapes and upholstery in earthy, abstract prints. Gabe did not collect things, nor did he seem to have found any object encountered during his lifetime worthy of cherishing for sentimental reasons.
The hall’s left-hand wall continued to form what Conan knew to be the kitchen wall, but he went first to the rectangular grouping of furniture at the center of the living room and stood behind one of the couches that formed the sides of the rectangle. He was facing the front door and windows; raindrops glinted on the glass. The rain had finally begun. To his left, Gabe’s recliner closed one end of the rectangle, and the other end was closed, after a space of about four feet, by a fireplace faced in used brick. A fire blazed in the hearth, providing sterile heat, but no warmth; it was a gas fire-log. The coffee table between the couches was a lucite-encased slab of redwood, its beautiful color and grain made garish by the plastic.
And there, on the opposite couch, seated between Jonas and Moskin, Corey had drunk her death.
Conan turned abruptly and went around the corner into the kitchen, pushing through a pair of louvered, swinging doors, with Todd and Gabe still on his heels. The kitchen was relatively small, with sink, dishwasher, a long counter, and wall-hung cupboards on the right; refrigerator, electric range, microwave, and storage closet on the left. The aisle between ended in a closed door.
Conan’s search was perfunctory—merely opening drawers and doors and glancing within—until he got to the cabinets under the sink. He studied the various household cleaning products, while Billy looked over his shoulder curiously, and Gabe stood at the swinging doors delivering a continuous tirade that Conan ignored exactly as he did the sound of the surf outside. It was amazing, he thought, how many poisonous substances were available in the average American home. None of these, however, could explain the symptoms. They were cumulative poisons, or carcinogens, or caustics.
He rose and went to the closed door. It was locked, but a twist of the knob opened it. He felt for a light switch, found it, then stepped inside. The back door of the house opened off the right- hand wall, and this room served as a utility room and storage for tools and garden equipment.
Conan felt his pulse quicken. He was getting close, and he had an inkling now of what he was looking for. “Gabe!”
The shout was unnecessary. Gabe was still right behind him. “What’s the matter now, Flagg?”
“Was this door open Friday night?”
“Sure it was. I always keep it open when the heat’s on in the house. These tools’d rust if I didn’t keep it dry. Now, I’d like to know what business you got poking around in here!”
Conan didn’t answer. On the open shelves to the right of the door, the array of garden chemicals included pesticides, herbicides, snail bait, phosphate, and fertilizers. He found what he sought at eye level at the front of the shelf: a brown glass bottle with its label divided into three horizontal stripes—red, white, and blue. On the white stripe, two skull-and-crossbones symbols bracketed the word “POISON.”
Black Leaf 40. As the label attested, “The original nicotine sulphate solution.”
The level of the liquid in the bottle was well below the top of the label, which was stained by pourings; the dark glass was powdered with dust, but the cap was clean.
Sergeant Todd asked uneasily, “Conan, what’s wrong?”
That question Conan couldn’t find the words to answer. He had what he was looking for. He had it, yet he had nothing. Black Leaf 40, a forty-percent solution of one of the deadliest poisons known; a few drops of straight nicotine sulfate could kill, and in this solution, less than a teaspoonful was known to be lethal.
“Gabe, where do you usually keep this Black Leaf Forty?”
“What? Oh, that. Right where it’s sitting.”
And that was only a few steps from the counter where Corey’s last drink had been prepared.
“Listen, Flagg, I’ve had just about enough of your—”
“Is that Jonas?” He had heard the squeak of the swinging doors, and to his relief, Gabe went back into the kitchen to face his son’s queries. Conan turned to Todd, keeping his voice low. “Billy, I think—I know—the poison that killed Corey came out of that bottle, but I can’t prove it, and you can’t do a damn thing about it. You don’t have a search warrant, and you couldn’t get one, when I don’t even—”
“You’re saying somebody poisoned Corey?” His skeptical gaze moved from Conan to the bottle and back.
“Yes. Now, I’m going to ask you to do something that may seem silly. Please do it, if you have any faith in me. Go get your jacket, then come back here. Then go out to your car. And just ignore Gabe’s questions.”
Todd sighed. “I’ll probably regret this.” But he was on his way out. Conan could hear Gabe and Jonas in a low-toned exchange that stopped as Todd passed them. Conan took the bottle from the shelf and slipped it in his jacket pocket. Todd returned a few seconds later in his visored cap and uniform jacket. He glanced at the empty space where the bottle had been, then with another sigh, turned and strode through the kitchen.
Gabe and Jonas were standing facing each other near the kitchen door. Gabe demanded of Todd, “Where do you think you’re going?”
Todd’s only response was, “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t break pace.
“Well, Jonas, did we wake you?” Conan asked pleasantly as he sauntered out into the kitchen. Then with a glance at his watch, “Or did you have to get up anyway for your one-o’clock call to Phoenix?”
Jonas, looking rumpled and disgruntled, paled at that, and Todd’s exit out the front door went unnoticed.
Gab
e asked, “Phoenix? What are you talking about, Flagg?”
“Didn’t Jonas tell you? He has to call Phoenix rather frequently to, uh, check in with Doctor Belasco. But don’t worry; he’s not charging the calls to your phone.”
Gabe’s head whipped around so that he could glower at Jonas. “What’s this all about? You didn’t tell me—”
Conan put in, “I’m sure he didn’t want to worry his ever-solicitous father. Before Billy gets back, I have one more question, Gabe. What happened to the diary?”
It was amazing the way Gabe could suddenly look so blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jonas said irritably. “Pa, from what you told me, you’ve already spilled the whole goddamned bag of beans!” Then to Conan, “How did you know about…Doctor Belasco?”
“Let’s just say I was concerned when I learned about your ill health. Look, Billy’s going to be back in a few minutes. What happened to the diary?”
Gabe replied staunchly, “We burned it! It’s gone. Nothing but ashes.”
Conan laughed. “You burned it? In that fake fireplace, no doubt. Or perhaps you microwaved it.”
Jonas went to the refrigerator and as he peered into it said bitterly, “My old man, with all the wisdom of his years, gave the damn diary to Nina Gillies.”
Gabe’s face reddened ominously, but Conan ignored the new tirade that followed; he was wondering why Jonas had volunteered that information—and judging from Gabe’s reaction, it was true. Was Jonas expressing gratitude to Conan for not telling Gabe about “Doctor” Belasco, or simply responding to the threat implied in that name? Or was he purposely pointing a finger at Nina?
Jonas found a can of beer, opened it, and smoothly lifted it to his mouth to catch the effervescent overflow. He said to Conan, “Nina promised she’d ‘take care’ of the diary. Pa figured she meant she’d destroy it.”
Gabe insisted, “She will, too! She’s got as much to lose in this as any of us.”
“Or as much to gain?” Jonas took another swig of beer, eyeing his father skeptically.
And Gabe was atypically quiet, thinking, perhaps, as Conan was, of the potential for blackmail in that diary after the Baysea sale was concluded, after Nina had collected her commission and other fringe benefits.
The front door opened, and a gust of wind and rain heralded Billy Todd’s return. There would be no more revelations from the Benbows, père et fils, Conan knew. He crossed to the door, keeping his voice down as he said, “Thanks, Billy. One more favor: try to keep Gabe occupied and away from a phone for—well, half an hour, if possible.”
Todd should have told Conan to forget it, but he only sighed yet again and said, “I’ll try.”
Conan pulled on his cap as he went out the door into the wind-driven lash of rain. The quarter mile to his car seemed a long way now. He set off at a run.
Chapter 16
When Conan reached the XK-E, he didn’t pause to catch his breath, only to tear off his rain-wet gloves. He backed and turned, hands slapping at the wheel, then the Jaguar leapt forward like its namesake, and he restrained it only out of consideration for the slick pavement.
It was inevitable that as soon as Gabe freed himself of Todd, he would call Nina to find out if she had destroyed the diary as promised. That would alert her to the fact that Conan knew she had the diary, and he wanted to see what, if anything, she did about it.
When he skidded to a halt at the stop sign marking the junction with Highway 101, he took a few seconds to look at his watch. Ten minutes since he left Gabe’s house. He jammed the gearshift into first and screeched onto the highway. Traffic was nearly nonexistent at this hour, and the speedometer edged past eighty before he reached the Holliday Bay bridge. He geared down as he crossed it, counted off four streets to Douglas, then swung right. After the first block, he switched off his headlights, and when he neared the end of the second block, he turned right into an empty driveway and shut off the motor.
The driveway was cast in black shadow by a row of jack pines, and it was directly across the street from the parking area behind Nina’s apartment building. Her car was still in the carport, and the one light inside the building was in her apartment.
Conan’s breath came out in a sigh of relief as he adjusted the side mirror so he could watch the building. He waited with forced patience, while the wind whipped the trees and dashed rain and pine needles against the car. Nina might at this moment be on the phone talking to Gabe. If she still had the diary, it was undoubtedly in a place she considered safe. But safe from a private investigator whom she would now know to be capable of breaking and entering?
Finally the light in Nina’s apartment winked out, but his only move was to check his watch. She might simply go back to bed, satisfied with her hiding place. If she still had the diary; if she hadn’t in fact destroyed it.
Then he smiled, shifting to keep the rear entrance of the apartment building in the narrow field of the mirror. Nina emerged, wearing a hooded raincoat. He couldn’t see her face, but he had no doubt of her identity—not when she went straight to the blue Cutlass. She backed out of the carport, and Conan ducked down until her headlights arced past him as she turned onto Douglas Street and sped west toward the highway. Conan backed out of the drive, but left his lights off. Nina’s car stopped at the highway, then turned right and disappeared. When Conan reached the corner, he saw her taillights rapidly dwindling to the north.
He switched on his lights when he turned onto the highway, but remained a respectful distance behind Nina; the paucity of traffic made close tailing too risky. He was fairly sure of her destination: Pacific Futures Realty. There was a safe in her office, and if that’s where she was keeping the diary, she’d be better off to leave it there. He’d had some training at opening safes without combinations, but it wasn’t his forte. But Nina wouldn’t know that, and the office, unguarded as it was, would seem vulnerable.
He checked the bookshop automatically as he passed, noting that the night-lights were on as they should be. Holliday Beach was as forlorn as a ghost town at this hour, streetlights casting bright pools in which nothing moved but the sheeting rain. At length, a block short of Pacific Futures, he pulled right into a side street and stopped, watching the red beacons of Nina’s taillights. As he anticipated, she turned left and parked in front of the office. A few seconds later, a light went on inside the building.
Conan left the XK-E’s motor running; Nina wouldn’t be in the office long. And he was right. Within less than five minutes, the light went out in the office, and, dimly through the rain, he saw her return to her car. He waited until she turned south and headed down the highway toward him. He headed east, and there was some risk in that. He was assuming that she would return to her apartment, and by taking this cross street to Foothills Boulevard
Road, he could reach her apartment well before she did. But if he misjudged her destination…
He refused to think about that; keeping the car on the narrow, pot-holed road at high speed required too much concentration. But his assumption was borne out. When Nina drove into the carport, the XK-E was already parked in the driveway across the street. But Conan wasn’t in it.
He was inside the rear door of the apartment building, looking out through the glass panel. And he was the cat burglar again: black gloves on, ski mask over his face. He had also taken the precaution of turning out the hall light.
The rain driving at the glass gave him a warped view of Nina hurrying toward the door. She had something rectangular and tan under her left arm. She didn’t seem to notice that the light was off in the hall—not until she opened the door a scant foot.
Conan had only to reach out and pull her into the hall. She managed a startled cry before his hand closed over her mouth. With his free hand, he found the pressure point at the clavicle, and she went limp. He eased her to the floor, switched on the flash and picked up her parcel: a manila envelope sealed with a band of wide tape and marked i
n emphatic letters, “Personal.” He didn’t need to open it. The hard outline of its contents told him he had exactly what he wanted.
He ran across the street to his car and hastily left the scene of the crime, although he wasn’t concerned that this mugging would ever be reported to the police.
But he felt no real satisfaction in the success of his evening’s work. He was too tired, too wet, too thoroughly chilled, and it was three in the morning. Perhaps that was why, when he reached his house and waited for the Genie to lift the garage door, his first reaction to what he saw within wasn’t relief, but annoyance verging on anger.
His headlights glinted on a red Honda motorcycle. A bedroll and backpack were lashed on the back, along with a zippered rifle sleeve.
Chapter 17
Lyn Hatch, clad in a sodden rain parka, blond hair and beard unkempt and wet, eyes ringed with dark shadows, stood inside the utility room door. He was the picture of weary dejection, but that didn’t register with Conan—not when Lyn’s first words to him were, “Where the hell have you been?”
Conan didn’t answer. He stalked past Lyn and marched through the living room to the staircase. Lyn followed him, but at a little distance. He didn’t speak again, nor did Conan until he was halfway up the stairs. He said curtly, “For God’s sake, Lyn, it’s like a refrigerator in here. Turn up the thermostat and get a fire going.” It was only when Conan was in his bedroom and nearly undressed that Lyn’s miserable state finally came home to him. He went to the balcony and looked down into the living room, where Lyn was crouched over the hearth laying a fire.
Conan asked, “Lyn, how long have you been here?”
He snapped a strip of kindling over his knee. “I don’t know. Since about midnight.”
Conan sighed. He’d been here for three hours, but hadn’t unpacked anything from his cycle, hadn’t turned up the thermostat, hadn’t even taken off his wet jacket. Did he expect to be thrown out by his unknowing host?
“Lyn, damn it, bring your backpack, or whatever, up to the guest room. I’m going to thaw out with a hot shower, and I’d advise you to do the same. Have you eaten lately?”
