“You know the drill,” he added impatiently. “What we’re looking for is anything and everything right now. Hopefully somebody who saw her coming home. Somebody who can fix time as near exact as possible. And I want every detail called in to me the minute you get anything. We’ll keep a running collation of what everybody comes up with. Suicide or no, we’ve got to hit this like a ton of bricks.”
“Ton of shit, he means,” Krug muttered to Casey as the others dispersed. “One ripe possible we got, you want to bet we leave him out there hanging on the tree?”
“Nobody’s leaving anything hanging,” Timms snapped. “Smitty’s doing a fast check of the Pelican Motel right now, and as soon as he knows anything, we’ll hear.” He disappeared into the bedroom.
After an instant’s hesitation, Krug followed with Casey at his heels. Silently, Timms pointed out the wrinkled depression in the fake-fur spread on the bed. Two pillows were propped against the wall at the head, rumpled from the weight of someone leaning against them.
“Cigar smoker flopped there,” McGregor, the lab man, reported. “Got three butts from the ashtray on the nightstand. We’ll vacuum for hair samples on the pillows, anything we can find in that fake fur. We’ve already started on the latents. I’ll get the photographing done before we start moving stuff.” He grinned at Krug. “Little cigars, Al. Like you smoke. You sure you haven’t been making time on the sly?”
“Yeah, in my dreams I’m a big lover. Speaking of that,” Krug added, “I’ll try offering a smoke to Rees when we see him. Be interesting to know when he left here last night.”
“You didn’t tell me he admitted he was here,” Timms said.
“He didn’t. But I’ll lay you even money we’ll find his prints all over this place.”
One look at him and they knew the rookie must have spilled the beans. Appearing sick and shaky, shrunken somehow, he sat in an armchair in the corner of the motel room, his shirt and trousers wrinkled, obviously thrown on, his hair uncombed.
He had barely managed to catch him, the rookie had reported outside when Casey and Krug arrived at the motel; Rees was in his Volkswagen, ready to drive off, and only the threat of arrest had stopped him.
“Skipping,” Krug had said.
“No, sir, I don’t think so. He kept yelling about an accident—”
“You tell him she’s dead?”
Red-faced, the rookie had stared at Krug mutely.
“Okay, catch up with your partner, we’ll take over here.”
The motel room smelled of smoke and vomit. Someone had pulled up the counterpane without making the bed, Casey noticed.
“Hear you had company last night,” Krug was saying. “According to the people on either side of you here, it was a woman. You want to tell us who she was?”
“You already know,” Rees said dully.
“Yeah, I guess we do, but we’d like you to tell us.”
“Susannah Roche.”
“Uh-hunh. So she spent the night here?”
“A few hours, yes.”
“Yeah, we heard about those few hours. Okay, then what? You took her home, I guess.”
“No, I was asleep when she—she—” A spasm distorted his face suddenly, and he masked it with his hands. “Oh, Jesus,” they heard him whisper, “what in God’s name happened?”
They took him to the station for a brief questioning, then left him alone in the interrogation room and trudged upstairs to the Detective Bureau. Lieutenant Timms was back also, but on the phone when they walked in, so Casey made a fast trip down the stairs again to the coffee-vending machine.
“This’s got sugar in it,” Timms complained after the first sip. “Yours, Al.” They switched cups. “All right, what’d you get out of Rees so far?”
“Mostly a big act how shocked he is.” Krug gulped his coffee, shuddering. “Christ, what do they make this stuff out of, ground-up tennis shoes? They had a dinner date, he claims, and went on to some party. We’ll check it out later. Then they came back to his motel and balled for a while. No reason he knows of for her to dive out the window.”
“You didn’t give him any hints we’re doing a full-scale investigation?” Timms smiled at Krug’s expression. “All right, Al, just checking. Even an old dog can miss a trick now and then. He give you any indication he might’ve known her before?”
“Only since yesterday.” Krug grunted. “Same old crap about it’s an ill wind, I guess.”
“Yeah, a fast worker, this guy. All right, what about times?”
“Well, he’s either fuzzy or faking on that one. Have to dig some more, I guess. Guy in the room next to Rees’s heard ’em roll in about two, but that’s all he could tell us. Rees claims he was asleep when she left.”
“Some lover,” Timms snorted. “My day, it was the men who put their pants back on and did the disappearing act. You hit him at all on the parole business?”
“Not yet. Figured we’d save that for later.”
“Good. I’ll call San Francisco now. With any luck, he’s a violator, which means we can keep him on ice till we make some connections.”
While Timms was on the phone, Casey made another fast trip downstairs with the information Rees had given them about the clothing Susannah Roche had been wearing last evening.
“A sleeveless dress, a groovy print,” the morgue attendant repeated after him. “Check, we got it. Heeled sandals, white. We got one. The other’s probably still at the scene. Same with the black hat.” He grinned at Casey, whose weak stomach was well known. “Want to see the body? No? Sure? It’s a nice one—but kind of accordion-pleated.” He laughed as Casey gulped. “Don’t puke on the help, it’s bad for interdepartmental relations. You want time of death, I suppose, right to the minute. Well, stick around. So far all we’ve got is prints, measurements, the usual. Lab’s got everything. With any luck you’ll have a make by this afternoon.”
“No problem there—we’re pretty sure who she is. All we need is a formal identification.”
“Well, bring a bucket with whoever’s elected, because there’s nothing left of her head but the stalk. And the—Hey, where you going?” he called after Casey. “Listen, I haven’t even started on the good part yet…”
“His PO in San Francisco is a guy named Stevens,” Lieutenant Timms reported. “Jake Stevens. According to him, Rees is clean so far. Seems he requested a transfer to LA Parole Authority a month ago, and the clearance came through Monday, May twenty-ninth. Rees supposedly left the San Francisco area the same day, driving. He’s due to report to his new PO down here tomorrow.”
“It’s a one-day trip from Frisco,” Krug said. “So what took him so long? He told us he only got here Friday. That’s four days to drive less than five hundred miles.”
“Well, maybe he stopped along the way, Al. Check it out, anyway. You clear the clothing list yet?” he asked Casey.
“Yes, sir. Couple items missing but they’re probably at the scene.”
“Mac’ll have it all listed,” Krug predicted. “Down to the last piece of fuzz on the carpet. This guy Stevens give with any dope about lover boy’s felony rap?”
Timms nodded. “Sounds like a bad break to me. But you never know. Could be a good lawyer instead of extenuating circumstances.” He leaned back in his swivel chair, a storyteller now. “Seems a couple years ago, Rees let his wife out of the car—to mail a letter or something—and when she crossed the street some nut ran the signal and knocked her down with his pickup truck. On top of that, the guy tried to run. But a witness chased him in his own car and cut him off. Okay! So the wife is DOA by the time the ambulance gets there. And the hit-and-runner’s got a felony tag, of course. But by the time he gets to court, he’s got a blackout story worked up, and some lawyer like Belli to tell it for him. You know the result—haven’t you seen it enough? The guy gets off with a slap on the wrist and a nice little suspension—”
“And Rees goes ape?”
“You guessed it, Al. According to Stevens, he attacked th
e ex-defendant outside the courtroom. Knocked him clear down a flight of stairs. Marble ones. Result, a broken neck, the guy’s dead as a mackerel.”
“Tough luck,” Krug said grudgingly. “But it still makes him a rough customer, a guy who blows his stack like that.”
“I agree, Al. So the question now is, Could he do it again? The only way we’ll find out is to push him till he cracks.”
FIFTEEN
They kept as king the same questions, reworded, rephrased, working patiently as weavers across the pattern of his evening with Susannah. Time seemed to obsess them—When had he picked her up at her apartment? Exactly what time had they walked out the door? How long had they spent dining at the Ultimate Perception? What time had they arrived at the beach-house party? When had they left? What was the last time Rees had looked at his watch?—on and on. “I keep telling you,” he said exhaustedly, “I can’t say exactly. We weren’t on any kind of schedule.”
“Get as near as you can.”
“But why does it matter?” Rees asked the young detective, but.
It was Krug who answered. “Just take our word, it does.”
Hoisting a haunch onto the corner of the table nearest Rees, Krug fished in a breast pocket, producing a thin, narrow carton and opening the flap. “Smoke?” he offered.
“No, thanks, I don’t use cigars.”
“Un-hunh.” Krug glanced at his partner. “You want to part with one of your gaspers, Casey?”
“Sure, why not?” He offered a pack of Carltons, and Rees took one gratefully.
Krug lit it and his own small cigar with a kitchen match he snapped alight with his thumbnail. “Okay,” he said, puffing, “it’s about four, you think, maybe four-thirty this morning when you go to sleep, right? And she’s tucked in there with you, no worries about getting home. So then what?”
“I don’t know,” Rees said miserably. “She seemed so happy. I can’t believe anything was preying on her mind. It can’t be suicide! She wasn’t—”
“Mr. Rees,” Casey stopped him. “She was an actress. And you said yourself you hardly knew her.”
“But she wasn’t that sort of—”
“Okay, okay,” Krug interrupted, “let’s go on.” He blew a plume of smoke just over Rees’s head. “She a good lay?” he asked softly. “Kicky, maybe? Little whory?”
“Go to hell!”
“Ah come on, fella, you only knew her the one day. Isn’t as if she was your steady.” Krug hitched himself closer. “So you ball maybe an hour at your place, right? Then you catch your breath and try some new tricks at her place—” Rees kept shaking his head, but Krug went bulldozing on: “How many times did you do it? Two? Three? Don’t just sit there wagging your head, lover boy. Tell us what happened.”
“I’m trying to,” Rees said hoarsely, suppressing his rage. “I have told you.” He blinked at Krug dizzily, seeing him double for an instant. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to get at with all this. I told you I was asleep when she left, so I don’t know what happened.” He hesitated, but neither detective spoke. “You’re right, I suppose,” he went on quietly. “I didn’t know her at all. But I can’t believe I couldn’t have sensed it if she was troubled. Sensed something, anyway.” His voice cracked and he swallowed a lump. “We’d had a lot to drink. And she couldn’t see very well. She could’ve opened the window and—and lost her balance—” But there was no response, and helpless, baffled, he gave up.
Krug kept puffing, staring impassively at some point just behind Rees. His partner seemed lost in thought also, and the silence in the ugly, almost bare room expanded. Then abruptly Casey said, “Mr. Rees, we’ve been wondering why you didn’t level with us yesterday.” His glance was mild, but Rees was not fooled. He realized now why they were questioning him like a criminal. “Maybe you didn’t realize we’d check up on you? It’s standard procedure.”
“Pretty low standards,” Rees said bitterly. “Wouldn’t a phone call have been easier than all that hocus-pocus with my luggage?”
Krug leaned toward him, puffing smoke in his face. “What hocus-pocus you talking about?”
“Slitting linings, messing everything around. For God’s sake, even my shaving kit—!”
“Wait a minute,” Krug stopped him. “You saying your room was searched?”
Rees ground his teeth. “Don’t worry, Sergeant, I’m not silly enough to think it would do any good to complain. I know my limitations as a parolee. Keep my nose clean and my mouth shut. All the privileges are on your side now.”
“Well, there’s a poser,” Lieutenant Timms said later when they reported upstairs. “You checked, of course.”
“Damn right we checked,” Krug said furiously. “Hustled him back to the Pelican, and sure enough—” He blew out his breath. “So what’s it mean? All it takes is a razor blade. Sly bastard could’ve done it himself.”
“Possible, I suppose. So the next question is why.” Timms chewed his lower lip. “You trying for any prints?”
“Yeah, we brought him and the stuff back here. Two suitcases and a shaving rig. Lab’s got it now.” Then he glared at Casey. “Okay, speak your piece and get it over with. This guy’s still harping about protection.”
“For Rees you mean?”
Casey nodded. “Seems like negligence on our part if we don’t at least consider it, Lieutenant. Because if someone did search his luggage—”
“When did he say he noticed it first?”
“Yesterday, in the afternoon.”
“Could be coincidence—he had a thief in there.” Timms steepled his fingers, leaning his chin on the peak the tips made. “Check the manager at the Pelican. Chances are if they had a sneak around there, he’d hit more than one room.”
“That fella’s really got a complex,” the motel manager said irritably. “Not enough he bothers me with it, now he’s got to call cops. Told him yesterday I’d keep that wad of money in the safe here for him. Look at that—” He pointed toward the rear of the small office and a safe like an old-fashioned blued-steel stove. “Couldn’t want better protection. But no, he’s got to carry it with him, flash the roll around. I tell you, some fellas just don’t have half sense, picking up women and carrying on the way they do. I try to protect my guests, but you can’t protect a man that won’t have it.” He paused, squinting, apparently never in need of breath. “Say, one of my regulars—he stops here a couple times every month—had the unit next to Rees. Anyway, he told me you was asking about him earlier. Some woman he had in there with him last night. Must be the same one messed up the mirror. Maid was in here bellyaching about it before I even got a chance to eat my breakfast. They like to get in the units fast—you know how they are. Anybody goes out early for breakfast or something, they’re in there like a shot. That way the units don’t stack up on ’em around checkout time later. Anyhow! She comes in crying about this lipstick all over the mirror in Number Eleven. That’s Rees’s unit. Had to use kerosene to get it off. ‘You scare me.’ Can y’imagine the kind of woman writes that all over a man’s mirror? ‘You scare me.’ ”He chuckled breathlessly. “Maybe he did, too! Place was a mess for sure. Had a real bang-up time in there from two on, according to the guy next door. Windows wide open and just a-going at it. If he paid her, he must’ve really owed her plenty, getting a time like that out of her…”
“It was a joke,” Rees said. “Somebody kept yelling it at the party. ‘Ooo-wow-you-scare-me.’ So I suppose Susannah—” his voice trailed off. The reality of death nullified humor. “How long are you going to keep me sitting here? I’m not charged with anything, so you can’t—”
“Keep your shirt on, Mr. Rees, we’re not finished yet.” Krug eyed him calmly. “The manager at the Pelican told us you’re carrying a wad of dough. Like maybe a couple, three thousand or more? Says you squawked yesterday about somebody in your room, but you wouldn’t let him keep it in the safe for you.”
Trying to conceal his shock, Rees forced himself to keep looking at Krug. He ha
d not guessed that they would talk to the motel manager, too. With a skidding sensation that he was headed for disaster, he said casually, “It isn’t that much money. But after I noticed that my luggage had been searched—”
“You had the money on you?”
Either way he answered, Rees realized, the question was a trap. For if they had discovered the shoe box yesterday, he dared not lie. And if they hadn’t, the truth that the money was winnings from gambling would inevitably lead to the next question, Where? Stateline, Nevada. “If you mean,” he began carefully, “was anything taken—”
“That wasn’t the question, Mr. Rees,” Casey interrupted. “The point is, if your room was searched and the money was there, that could suggest something about the thief.”
“If there was a thief.” Krug grinned at Rees. “Maybe you’ve changed your mind about your room getting tossed?”
“I haven’t changed my mind about anything, Sergeant. All I meant was, if nothing was stolen—”
“Uh-hunh. Okay, Mr. Rees.” Krug leaned back, looking up at the high fluorescent tubes which filled the interrogation room with cold, bright, shadowless light. “Seems funny, an ex-con with a lot of dough. Don’t it seem funny to you, Casey?”
“Mr. Rees is one of the lucky ones, I guess.”
“That’s for sure. Most guys get out, all they got is the clothes on their back and twenty-five bucks.”
One of the lucky ones, Rees thought hopelessly, listening to them. Even as winner, he was a loser. The bitter realization was bitterer still when he remembered his elation at that Tahoe dice table, his sudden foolish conviction as he had bet and won, kept doubling and winning, that some corner had been turned, that he was finally out of the darkness that had shrouded his life. Aware that both detectives were looking at him—waiting, he guessed, for some explanation as to why he was carrying such a sum—he told them that he had sold his house in San Francisco, his furniture, too. Yes, a good deal of cash was involved because furnishings were chattel and didn’t go through escrow. As he talked his fever soared, he couldn’t stop himself talking. And he knew that if they checked more than superficially, they would soon see the flaw in his apparent truthfulness.
The Complete Krug & Kellog Page 27
