The Complete Krug & Kellog

by Carolyn Weston

  “Ach, I suppose so.” Her tone gave him a clear picture of her shrug. “When I clean, you understand, maybe I see it.”

  “I’m surprised she never phoned or dropped by,” Casey said neutrally. “She says they were old friends. And she lives fairly near. Mrs. Cesana?”

  “That one—sure, she calls all the time. Like the Kinder she talks, always wanting the papa’s comfort.”

  “What sort of comfort do you mean, Mrs. Haas?”

  “Ach, you know these women. They make love with the problems. She calls she cannot sleep. Or some dream she must right away tell him. And always she is talking and talking about this ‘other side.’ ”

  “What d’you think she meant by that, Mrs. Haas?”

  “Lieber Gott, how should I know?” Sputtering, she protested that her grasp of the language made any but the simplest speech almost impossible for her to really comprehend. And when Casey returned to her phrase about making love with problems, she accused him of putting words in her mouth, of taking advantage of her linguistic lack and of prejudice against the foreign-born. For one whose grasp of the language was as slight as she claimed, Casey decided, Lotte Haas’s eloquence was positively magical. A gift of tongues. Also sprach Frau Haas.

  Escaping the squad room before Timms could put him on one of the tedious nit-picking tasks which fill a detective’s day, he stopped by the public library on Sixth, then headed for Adrian Crewes’s apartment.

  SIXTEEN

  It’s not fair! Decibels higher than all the others, Judy Flesher’s shrill voice dominated the tape-recorded babble. You motherfucker, you said you’d help me!

  Punching the OFF button, Adrian stopped the furious tirade, one of several in the August tapes she had monitored until her perceptions felt numbed. Inevitably, next would come the sound of something crashing. Then distantly the boom of a slammed door. And someone would laugh, someone always did. Man, that Flesh, she really blows her mind.

  How savage they are, Adrian thought. So pitiless of everyone but themselves. Monday’s tape would be a violent repetition. No wonder Steve had ended the meeting early.

  But then what had happened? she wondered. Through the open sliding door she could see the entry hall where Lotte had found him lying face down, sprawled in his own blood. Shuddering, Adrian rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms. Murdered. By a fat adolescent in dirty jeans and a leather jacket? The Princess of Invective, Steve had called her. Yet he had said Judy was an excellent subject for hypnosis…

  “Then, why,” the young detective had asked earlier when she told him this, “did he dismiss her from the group?”

  “She became so disruptive he felt he had no choice.”

  “Any particular reason for her change of behavior?”

  “Nothing I can say specifically.” Adrian hesitated. The hell with it, she thought. Sooner or later she must tell them what she knew, a sleepless night had convinced her of that. “My notes seem to indicate that it happened about a month after Sandy dropped out. Like a change of climate. All of a sudden the boys became very hostile toward Judy. And of course, being Judy, she fought back. The result was chaos, naturally.”

  “Could it be sexual?” he asked. “She was the only female member left…”

  “No, it’s something she did that they’re punishing her for. Steve tried to find out, but it was no use. Nobody would tell him…”

  Adrian had been trying to decide whether to call New York City when the detective knocked on her door late in the morning. Kellog his name was; unlike his partner, he had the courtesy and patience to listen while she worried aloud about notifying Sullivan-Hall Publishing. She could call her sister, too, Adrian told him. But the idea of murder had something contagious in it, didn’t he think so? And she could not bear to worry Ellen.

  “Then why don’t you wait a few days?” he had suggested. “There’s a possibility you’ll be able to leave then—if you want to.”

  “If it turns out I’m not guilty, you mean?” But he only smiled and began to question her about the members of the group. And reluctant to answer after her session with William Myrick, Adrian commented tartly that the lawyer must be more convincing than she thought. “He’s a little crazy on that Manson thrill-kill idea. Someone should have warned the boys to get legal aid as fast as they could. I suppose by now you’ve got them all locked up?”

  “We don’t book anybody without evidence, Miss Crewes. Not even juveniles.”

  “How enlightened. I must say I’m surprised. I’ve always heard the California police are notoriously freewheeling.”

  “That’s regional slander.” His grin was charming. “Scout’s honor, Miss Crewes, we’re really not fascist pigs.”

  A bright young detective. He looked like a Kennedy who’d been baked longer than the others—brown instead of ruddy, hazel-eyed—but with the same combination of shrewdness and humor and, possibly, idealism.

  Obviously accustomed to pets, he was leaning forward stroking Marmalade, who crouched at his feet. “Smell dog, do you, kitty?” he murmured as the cat sniffed him intently. “We’ve got three at home. The Ugliness Triplets. To her, I probably reek like a kennel.”

  “Him,” Adrian corrected. “He’ll get hairs on you.”

  “Well, if he does, it’s fair exchange—I’m probably passing him a flea or two.” He hesitated. “Miss Crewes, all I’m trying to determine is whether it’s important or not—if it matters that the members of the group apparently didn’t know their meetings were being taped for a book. For instance,” he went on before she could speak, “isn’t it possible such an arrangement might be considered a violation of professional ethics?”

  “Not if privacy was maintained. Certainly not if the taping was only for the sake of reference.”

  “But you said the tapes were going to be used in your book.”

  “You’ve forgotten the key word—‘anonymously.’”

  She sensed his suppressed sigh. “Miss Crewes, I’m not trying to make you admit anything you don’t want to. All I’m after is your opinion.”

  “You have it already. It’s ridiculous to imagine anyone committing murder because of something on that tape. There’s nothing on any of them that important. Nothing, for instance, that could incriminate any of the patients.”

  They discussed the Flesher girl then, her problems with the group. And Adrian explained that all but Sandra Simmons had undergone extensive individual hypnotherapy before Group Five was formed. Then, on June 1, Myrick had launched the group as a special study to be published eventually. “The sessions were free,” she continued. “The only thing he required of the members was a firm agreement to continue to the end. And except for the two girls, it’s been very successful.”

  “First of June. That’s only about two and a half months.” The detective hesitated. “From what you said earlier, I thought it had been longer.”

  “No, that’s my work. I have a hundred pages of typescript to show for my half year. The Myrick Method, and an analysis of the individual patients. All wasted time, I’m afraid. Obviously I can’t go on with it now.”

  “I’m sorry, that must be a blow.” Again he paused. “Miss Crewes, why did Dr. Myrick make an exception of Sandra Simmons?”

  “Pressure, I suppose. She was arrested for possession early in June, and I guess her family took it very hard. Also, her father is one of those high-powered tycoon types. What Daddy wants, Daddy gets. When no miracles happened, he made her drop out again.”

  “Did he give any reason?”

  “I can’t tell you that without violating a confidence.”

  “Was there any suggestion that Dr. Myrick had made advances of any sort?”

  “None whatsoever. What Mr. Simmons objected to was the group, apparently. Some nonsense about Sandy’s attitudes being corrupted. If she’s been suggesting anything else—”

  “Obviously you don’t know,” he stopped her. “Miss Crewes, Sandra Simmons died July twenty-second…”

  Shock number one, Adrian
remembered. Number two had followed almost immediately when the detective told her that various things seemed to suggest that Stephen Myrick might have been involved, or at least interested, in spiritualism. Adrian had laughed, saying that was impossible. Surely he must be joking?

  But he wasn’t, it turned out. There were those books upstairs, he said, and bound volumes of a periodical published by an English spiritualist society. Furthermore, there were hints that his friends were also involved…

  “I don’t believe it,” Adrian said angrily.

  But as if he hadn’t heard her, the detective continued, “Possibly that’s why he kept his friends away. So as not to—well, I’m only guessing from your reaction—not to create any prejudice? About the authenticity of your work, I mean.”

  He waited, but Adrian was speechless. More fool you, she kept thinking. More fool you for not knowing…

  “Well, I don’t suppose it’s important,” the detective was saying, and he rose abruptly. “Anyway, thank you, Miss Crewes, you’ve been a great help.”

  “Then—then perhaps you’ll return the favor?” She smiled unsteadily, appalled at the revelation of her own blindness. “I’d like to get back to work. Have to wind it all up somehow.”

  He had called someone named Timms, and very respectfully asked when the Myrick house would be unsealed. “Noon,” he told her when he hung up. “If you care to be seen with a dirty old detective, I’ll be glad to give you a lift.”

  But Adrian had taken her own car—a specially modified paraplegic’s model which she’d had shipped out from New York. It had hand controls for the brake and accelerator, and it was her freedom, this car, her independence. She wished she could get in it, start driving and never stop.

  SEVENTEEN

  Judy Flesher’s mother worked in Las Vegas, the landlord in Riverside reported over long distance. She had paid the first month’s rent, then evidently left town. So was he to blame because the woman left an underage daughter? It was her business what she did, correct? As for him, he wasn’t running any welfare bureau, and as long as she sent the rent from Vegas—Well, his policy was to leave his tenants alone, what they did was their own affair.

  “Get Vegas PD on it,” Timms instructed. “But tell ’em to take it easy with the mother. If the kid’s there, or in touch, we don’t want to stampede her before we get a chance to talk to her.”

  “Right.” Krug nodded. “Kid gloves all the way. Christ,” he added sourly when Timms was out of earshot, “a lousy bunch of juveys, we got to handle ’em like marshmallows.” He squinted at Casey speculatively. “So what the hell you been up to?”

  “Nothing much, Al.” Casey couldn’t help grinning. “Little retouching of our picture of Myrick as the superstud.” He filled in the details, starting with the fact that Mona Allman was an octogenarian.

  “Now for sure I’ve heard everything,” Krug marveled when he had finished. “You mean to tell me all those swingers are maybe spook hunters? Instead of a daisy chain, they get their jollies rapping tables?”

  “It’s a possibility, Al.”

  “What a bunch of weirdos.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “Okay, so you lay the spiritualism bit on Crewes, she does a quiet flip—then what?”

  “Nothing much. Except everything she told me seems to point to the Flesher girl. In fact, she’s almost too good a prospect at this point.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that yesterday?” Krug was looking cheerier by the minute. “Ought to nail her, dammit. But the brass—Ah, the hell with it. Listen, you want to hear about this so-called maniac I went out on?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The door’s open, see, when I drive up. A lot of hollering and carrying on inside this dingbat house. So I poke my head in the door, and here’s this skinny little shrimp waving a rusty old pistol he must’ve found in the bottom of a trunk. And his wife and four daughters are screaming their heads off. Christ, you should’ve seen ’em!” Krug guffawed. “Five of the biggest females I’ve ever seen. Any one of ’em could of killed the guy just leaning on him! Well, anyhow, it turns out they been heckling the poor sap to cut loose with some dough for new living-room furniture. Every day, every minute he’s home, he says, they been giving him the business. The daughters got their boyfriends coming to the house and they’re ashamed of it. Boyfriends! If you could see these four broads. Christ, those boyfriends must all be Goliaths! And the wife, she’s needling the old man, too. All the time, he says, even in bed. All her lady friends have got new stuff, and here she’s living like a welfare case.”

  Denny Haynes had wandered over from his desk to listen, sniffing dolefully, and at this point he asked if Krug had booked the would-be assailant.

  “Hell, no,” Krug said scornfully. “Took the poor bastard down the street for a couple beers and the Dutch-uncle routine. Then I went back and read the riot act to that bunch of females.”

  “Think they listened, Al?”

  “Sure they did. It was poor Daddy this and poor Daddy that when I brought him back. Love and kisses, the whole bit. Poor sucker had so much lipstick on him by the time I left—”

  “So what happens about the furniture?”

  Krug grinned. “You know what happens. They give it a rest for a week, then start in on him again.”

  “Yeah, and next time,” Haynes suggested. “Maybe he finds himself a hatchet?”

  “Well, if he does, he’s got his work cut out for him, that’s for sure.”

  “Telex,” Zwingler sang out. “San Francisco PD.”

  “What’s the word, Ralph?”

  “Nix on Myrick’s brother. He had a bridge game with friends till midnight or after. It checks out with all parties concerned.”

  Krug fished out one of his smelly cigars and lit it with a kitchen match snapped alight with his thumbnail. “Figures,” he said, like a movie cop. “That one was way too easy for us. What’d you end up with this morning on that rooming-house squeal?”

  “Same old story.” Zwingler’s round face drooped. “Suicide. But in case it hurts the next of kin, we can call it accidental.”

  Same old story, Casey thought as he went downstairs to send the message to Las Vegas. Despair, loneliness, sorrow. And murder, another part of his mind added. And robbery. And mayhem. This wasn’t keeping the peace or serving humanity; this was sweeping up the wreckage of human failure.

  But his spirits lifted after a quick lunch. It was tacos this time—not a dietary improvement, but at least it made a change.

  “Let’s go check in, see what’s happening,” Krug said when they had finished eating. He belched resonantly. “If nothing’s going on we’ll grab a cup of coffee at the hot dog stand. Maybe the Flesher girl’s showed up. If she hasn’t, we’ll hit her apartment again.”

  EIGHTEEN

  At the bureau they walked in on what looked to be a counterculture mini-convention. Four barefoot, hairy teenagers variously dressed in overalls and hayseed hats, or funky leather outfits with embroidered patches, ankh medals and Easy Rider spectacles, were milling around the anteroom taking up a lot of space. Two more perched at desks in the squad room and were giving Zwingler and Haynes and two other detectives a bad time.

  “The Children’s Hour,” Lieutenant Timms commented when Casey and Krug checked by at his corner desk. “All their statements are signed, and you wouldn’t believe the cooperation about fingerprinting. If I didn’t know better…” Shrugging, he leveled a finger at Casey. “Didn’t get a chance to talk to you about that Crewes woman. Al, you get started with those kids. The big point now is the Flesher girl’s whereabouts.” And as Krug strode away, he beamed in on Casey again. “All right, let’s hear what you got out of her.”

  Casey told him everything he had reported earlier to his partner, but Timms looked unimpressed.

  “Forget all that spiritualism stuff,” he advised impatiently. “They got alibis, so what do we care?” Then he paused, frowning. “On the other hand, maybe it explains part of the Crewes woman’s story. All that business about ho
w privately Myrick lived.” He smiled to himself. “A bluestocking like her, she’d have blown her top if she’d found out he was mixed up with some séance group, and he probably knew it. Okay,” he went on briskly, “so she doesn’t buy any theories about the tapes being any kind of motivation. Any explanation why she was so hot to get back in the house?”

  “Just that she wanted to get on with her work.”

  “You said yesterday she told you she couldn’t go on with it.”

  “Well, she mentioned she’d be winding up. Probably something to do with their publisher’s contract.”

  Timms leaned back, staring beyond Casey into the busy squad room. “Still something fishy about that whole setup there.” He scowled moodily and Casey thought better of commenting. “And there’s still that goddamn damaged tape.” Timms kept tapping his teeth with the eraser on his pencil. “Got to be some reason that housekeeper hinted maybe Crewes did it. Can’t discount yet there might have been a real war of some kind going on there. For instance, if she found out he was a table rapper—”

  “Even if she did, they were collaborators,” Casey protested. “They had a contract. Destroying that tape would have hurt her professionally as much as Myrick.”

  “All right, if she was a man, I’d buy that. But a woman, I don’t know. And a young good-looking one if she didn’t have those legs. Now, wait a minute,” he went on before Casey could speak. “Aside from all this claptrap about spiritualism, we’ve still got a victim who made a business out of women, right? All his fat patients were females. And don’t forget what Simmons told you.”

  “He was only guessing, Lieutenant. And Miss Crewes said it was the group in general Simmons objected to.”

  “From the looks of ’em, can’t say I blame him. Goddammit”—he slapped the desk top hard—“we’ve got to locate that Flesher girl! She’s bound to spill something, give us some kind of a line on this.” He peered at Casey. “Any comments, by the way? Crewes have any bright ideas?”