The Complete Krug & Kellog

by Carolyn Weston

  Bolstered by his success, Farr had poured another drink and called Krug. For Christ sake, this isn’t some sort of game to me, he could hear his own voice shrilly echoing. Involvement in a mess like this could be disastrous. Fool, he thought bleakly as he swung left at the baitshop on Washington Boulevard. No man should act as his own counsel. But you thought you’d make a deal. Instead you only showed him—what?—panic, weakness—something. Apprehension, anyway. No explaining that it was a matter of character, not incident, a paper man’s lifetime struggle to be flesh.

  Consumed with fury, he had called the booking agent’s number after hanging up on Krug, getting an answering service. Mr. Pincus would not be in until ten tomorrow, the operator said. “But that’s too late,” Farr had insisted. “I’ve got to talk to him tonight. It’s important.” The operator had said she would try.

  He sat drinking steadily, feeding his rage, and finally Mr. Pincus had called. Obviously disappointed it wasn’t business, he had grudgingly parted with the name and location of the place in Venice where The Piccolo Incense hung out. “They keep their hand in playing there,” he’d said. “But it’s a free gig, y’understand. So don’t blame me if they don’t show up…”

  Salty in his yachting cap and faded denims, the manager of the yacht club saluted Farr as he drove in. Then he ambled over to the Jaguar, idle and curious, one of those California types whose whole lives seem to have been spent at some form of play. “Morning, Dave. Had some visitors here for you. Cops,” he added with obvious relish. “Looked to me like they were snooping around Joe and Sally Caswell, too. You folks been smuggling or something?”

  “Not lately.” Farr hesitated. “They tell you what they wanted?”

  “Not me.” He mocked a defensive stance. “Less I talk to cops, the happier I am.”

  “That makes two of us,” Farr agreed. “Okay, Bert, thanks.” He walked off swiftly, relieved to see that the gate leading to the docking area was open. One less spare key he’d have to struggle with. He realized he had forgotten last night to ask Kenji if his keys had been found.

  Dizzied by the blinding glare off the water, Farr jogged along the boardwalk dock toward his own slip, his head pounding, his heartbeat accelerated by the unassimilated alcohol still in his system. Blurry images of the Venice bar, the three, four—or was it five?—faces of the rock band called The Piccolo Incense whirled kaleidoscopically in his mind. Grinning at him because he was drunk and stupid. He could still hear his own voice earnestly stressing, “But I’ve got to talk to him. Don’t you understand? No, I’m not fuzz, I’m his sister’s lawyer. For God’s sake, don’t you know what happened to her? Or care?” On and on. And drinking steadily. The wild pulsebeat of the music a torrent washing away anxiety in the unrealness of the twilit dive with its fuzzy red and orange and green beer signs flickering on ghostly hairy kid faces so blank and lifeless there were moments when he felt entombed with zombies. Didn’t they understand?

  But at last one admitted indirectly that all those hours of pleading had been heard dimly. “Oh, man,” he had muttered, “forget it, dude—” giggling. “Del, he’s so strung out he’s forgot he has a sister.”

  “Had.”

  “Yeah, sure, man. Had.”

  “Tell him to meet me here tomorrow night. Will you do that?”

  “Could be you got some bread for him, maybe he’ll show up. You ready to lay some bread on him, man?”

  “Money, yes. Tell him I’ll give him money.”

  And a baby’s innocent smile for answer, an offered palm: “Me, too?”

  Farr remembered handing over a bill. And lurching out of the place sometime later. How he had driven home, he would never know. Only that he had wakened, still drunk, in his own apartment. But coffee and a shower and a long early-morning walk had sobered him. He had called his office, saying he was ill. Then, restless, uneasy in the closed-in silence, he had left the apartment again, driving this time, heading unconsciously for the peaceful, protected isolation of his boat.

  But they had been here, too.

  NINETEEN

  “Okay,” Saretti said, “so I seen a postcard, so what? It’s a crime or something to read a postcard? Listen,” he explained solemnly, “I got a valuable piece of property here I got to look after. I got tenants I got to keep an eye on—”

  “I understand, Mr. Saretti,” Casey said patiently. “Nobody’s blaming you for anything. All I’d like to know is—do you remember what the card said? You mentioned something last time about a meeting.”

  “Well, I’m not sure, see. I mean, you give a quick look at something, it don’t stick in your head.”

  “Yes, I appreciate that. You do think it was from her brother, though.”

  “Yeah, I think so. See, he’s got this funny kind of writing. Sort of like printing. Big and scrawly—like a kid, you know?”

  “And this card you saw was printed that way.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it said something about meeting him.”

  “Well, yeah, I think so. Some place with a goofy name.”

  “Where was the card mailed from?”

  “Venice, I think. Yeah, I’m sure it was Venice. See, she was gone like a week or so before it come. Maybe he’d been trying to get hold of her or something. Anyhow, it said meet him at this place—”

  “When?”

  “Well, come to think of it, it didn’t say. Or did it?” Saretti rubbed his fat stubbly cheek. “No, no date, nothing like that. Just meet him. Like he hung out there, y’know?” Then he snapped his fingers. “Hey, I think I got it. Wait a minute.”

  Repressing an urge to grab him, Casey waited.

  “The something-something, that’s it.”

  Casey ground his teeth. He could have choked Saretti. “Something-something doesn’t help me much. Can’t you do better than that?”

  Saretti shrugged. “I told you all I had was a quick look. You can’t expect—”

  “All right, let it go for now.” Casey sighed. “What happened to the card, Mr. Saretti?”

  “What d’you mean, what happened?”

  “Well, she either picked it up herself, or it was lost. Either that or someone else got it.”

  Argument surfaced, then subsided again in Saretti’s fat, stubborn face. “Ah,” he said disgustedly, giving up, “their uncle took it—who else? Every time he comes here, he shuffles through the mail like you guys. So I see the card, than I don’t after he’s been here. What do you figure? For sure I didn’t keep it for my souvenir box.”

  The uncle again. And the missing brother who was the key, Farr had said. Something seen in someone’s car. But of course that story could be a red herring, one of those instant constructions suspects use to gain themselves time to think. With the weary sense that he was traveling in a circle, and blind at that, Casey tried one of Krug’s tricks then—one of those expediencies which he knew to be the reason everyone ended up hating cops.

  “What d’you mean a building inspector might be around?” Saretti shouted, and Casey knew he had made a mistake. “You’re gonna wreck me because I can’t remember a lousy name? Is that what you’re talking about? Well, let me tell you something, worrying about inspectors around here ain’t gonna help me remember nothing. Y’understand? Nothing is what I’m gonna remember—” and convinced, Casey handed him another card, then walked out, red-faced and chagrined.

  The first thing Farr noticed as he stepped aboard his boat was the slipperiness of the deck, the salt encrustations. Spindrift had dulled the brightwork. Could he have forgotten to swab her down last weekend? Frowning fastidiously, he jangled his keys. Must be fog, he decided. A face flickered briefly in the porthole of the boat next to his. Farr smiled and waved, but there was no answer. Sally without her glasses again, he thought, and relieved, hoped he could avoid them for a while. He was in no mood for the Caswells’ middle-aged banter.

  The key stuck, as all his spares seemed to. Irritated, Farr banged the cabin door open and latched it ba
ck. The smell of must and damp rose from below, a curious sickly-bitter odor.

  “Dave?”

  Half-blinded by the snowy reflection from Caswell’s white trim craft, Farr blinked until he saw him standing by the mast. He looked idle and somehow forlorn—aftermath of a family fight, Farr decided as he crossed to the rail nearest Caswell’s boat. “Hi, Joe—you have some weather down here I don’t know about? Look at my deck—”

  Unresponding, Caswell said dully, “The police were here, Dave.”

  “On board, you mean? What were they—?” Then abruptly aware of some hazard, he stopped. “What about the police?”

  “We had to tell them, Dave. I’m sorry,” he added helplessly.

  “Tell them what? What’re you talking about?”

  “Tuesday.” Pity and distress creased his tanned withering face. His mouth worked before every word, as if each one fell sour off his tongue. “They said some girl was—well, killed. So we didn’t have any choice, you see.”

  “What’re you apologizing for?” his wife cried from somewhere on their boat. Like a jack-in-the-box, she popped up from below. “Of course we didn’t have any choice! The very idea. All I’d like to know is why he’s here right now, walking around free…I saw you,” she shrieked at Farr, her face contorted, “don’t tell me I didn’t! You were here Tuesday night, I told them you were. You and that poor girl. I saw you carrying her aboard, don’t think I didn’t! Dead drunk, both of you. Not even sense enough to switch on your lights when you went out. Why, you could’ve killed some—” Her mouth fell open, and she looked wildly at her husband. “Joe,” she cried thinly, “why is he here? If he did that—” then weeping, she disappeared.

  “I’m sorry,” Caswell said. “She couldn’t sleep all night, thinking about it. You understand. We’ve never had any—” stopping, his decent distress hardened abruptly. “If you weren’t here Tuesday, you’d better go to the police right away, Dave. Because we did see somebody. Sally did. Stands to reason it had to be you—or somebody you know. Somebody with keys to get in and start the auxiliary—” He was still talking as Farr went below; still watching, waiting, when Farr bounded out of the cabin again, and as fast as he could without running, made for shore.

  “You’re too soft on these guys,” Krug said when Casey finished reporting about the postcard which the uncle had taken. “Saretti don’t remember. Bullshit. You should’ve leaned on him some.”

  “I tried, but he didn’t seem to feel a thing.”

  “That a fact?” Krug looked amused. “He’s probably holding out for a couple of bucks or a ticket fixed. I’ll go see him later.”

  Eager to change the subject, Casey nodded. “Any word on Farr?”

  “Nah, I keep calling his home phone, but no answer.” He sighed gustily. “Time we get around to nailing him he’ll be in Mexico City, probably. But play it cool—that’s what the Lieutenant says. So you know the answer—we play it cool.”

  It would be hours, they knew, before the search warrant could be issued and acted on, easily evening before a fingerprint report from Farr’s boat could come through. Meanwhile the case must lie in frustrating limbo, temporarily tabled until they knew its direction.

  But there was plenty to do while they waited—a backlog of citizen complaints to be covered, and several tenuous leads on the gun shop burglary to be followed up. Casey slumped at his desk, feeling flattened by the hours of boredom ahead.

  “Listen, sport,” Krug said as he shuffled papers. “I got this idea keeps bugging me—”

  “Me, too.” Casey yawned. “A good night’s sleep.”

  Krug laughed. “Get married, I tell you. A married man don’t have to stay up nights chasing it.” He hesitated. “I been thinking about what you said—about somebody else maybe working her over, then handing her to Farr to finish and dump.” Krug tapped a small cigar from the box he kept in his breast pocket and lit it. “Okay”—he puffed—“say that’s what happened, or something close to it. So motive comes next. And remember,” he stressed, “about the brother. Farr saying he knows where—”

  “What he said was he thought he knew how to find him.”

  “Never mind what he says. What he means is, he can come up with the kid if we want to make a deal.”

  “Ah, come on, Al, the man’s a lawyer. He knows he can’t play around with a murder—” Then Casey stopped. “Wait a minute. I see what you’re—If Farr didn’t kill her, but was somehow involved—”

  “Don’t jump the gun. What I’m talking about is some drug scene. See what I mean? He’s a swinger, anybody can see that. Okay, so he gets mixed up in some kook party where everybody’s blasted on something—”

  Casey’s mind raced ahead. “One of those ritual things happened. With the girl as the victim. Farr was either part of it—or if he wasn’t, at least he was there.”

  “Right, and he panics.” Krug beamed around his cigar. “You get the picture. A hophead party. The brother’s one. The girl was one, too—”

  “A novice, Deacon said.”

  “All right, a novice. But it fits, you got to admit. To protect himself, Farr sticks his neck out and gets rid of their thrill-kill corpse—”

  “Because he was already involved with her. That weekend. Not a chance it wouldn’t be discovered. And he’s scared to death of exposure.” Casey rubbed his aching head. “No wonder he says the brother’s the key. What he means is his witness—maybe the only one he’s got, if he didn’t kill her.”

  “And if he did—” Krug clamped the cigar. “Christ, if he did, he’s got to get rid of him, too, don’t he? Maybe has already.”

  “I don’t buy that” Casey sat up. “All the rest, yes, it could’ve happened. But I think the brother’s his ace in the hole. Otherwise, why did he call you? I think he’s ready to talk if we’ll listen—but only if he’s got the brother to back up his story.”

  “You better hope that’s the way it goes, genius. Because if it doesn’t—well, you figure it. We got ourselves a tiger on the loose.”

  They were just leaving as the phone rang, and Longella beckoned them back. “Some guy named Caswell,” he said. “He’s all excited about talking to you guys.”

  Krug took the call and Casey listened in on another extension. Farr had just been there to his boat, they heard, but he had left in a hurry. Probably scared off by Caswell, Casey thought. But the real reason Caswell had called was that Farr had left so hastily he had forgotten to lock his cabin door. Didn’t they think that was significant?

  Grinning at Casey, Krug refused this bait. If Mr. Caswell was worried, maybe he should report his findings at the yacht club office? Somebody there could keep an eye on Farr’s boat.

  “That’s not the point,” Caswell’s voice crackled back over the line. “I can keep an eye on it, no problem there. The thing is—” He hesitated. “Well, I admit I probably shouldn’t have done it, but—well, I took a look myself. In the cabin, I mean. You see, Sally and I have been aboard lots of times, so I didn’t see any real harm. And, as I said, he left it open. It isn’t as if I—”

  “Okay, Mr. Caswell, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried. You keep missing the point. What I’m trying to tell you is—it’s a mess. His cabin. Something did go on there, all right, no mistake about that. You’ll know what I mean when you see it…”

  “Can we do this?” Casey asked as they pounded down the dock. “Go on board without—?”

  “No,” Krug puffed. “But we’re going to.”

  “ ‘Sorry, Lieutenant, we made a mistake’?”

  “Citizen called. Had to answer. Emergency maybe.”

  Casey groaned. “And who’s going to believe that?”

  “I do. And as of now—so do you.”

  Caswell was waiting for them on the deck of Farr’s boat. His wife watched from her own deck. In both was the same curiously vigilant immobility which Casey had noticed before in spectators at the scenes of violent crimes. Curiosity and horror. Shock. Morbidity. Drea
ding and anticipating what they might find, he followed Krug on board.

  “Your shoes,” Caswell protested. “Can’t walk on a deck with those hard soles—”

  But Krug ignored him, and they went below.

  On the coverlet of one of the bunks was the clear wrinkled impress of a supine body. Whoever had lain there had vomited. Here and there were brownish stains. On the deck beside the bunk lay what looked at first glance like dirty bandages. But they were pieces of tape, Casey saw on closer inspection—layer upon layer of grimy surgical adhesive which had been sawed apart in two places. Put together, the pieces formed a figure eight. Wrist bindings, Casey thought, his skin crawling as he spied the tiny pale body hairs clinging to the sticky inner surface.

  It surprised neither of them to find the brown fabric belt a minute later—tucked between the mattress and bulkhead panel behind the bunk. But finding it, they knew, would simplify their routine. For now there was no need to wait for fingerprints or lab tests on the tape bindings. They had enough to get a warrant issued for the arrest of David Farr on suspicion of murder. All that remained now was locating him.

  TWENTY

  Keys, he kept thinking. It starts there. Think, for God’s sake! But he could not; his mind had stuck and would not move onward from the consuming shock and revelation he had suffered in the cabin of his boat. A nightmare. But no nightmare leaves such tangible evidence. And Sally screaming. I saw you…Tuesday…carrying her. Again and again, as the reality hit him, he opened his mouth wide, wheezing like an asthmatic as he gasped for air. Had to be you. Or somebody you know. Somebody with keys.