by Linda Barnes
Chill, refrigerated air hit him in the face. The whole first floor of the place seemed, at first glance, to be a reception area. A counter topped with a slab of orange formica kept outsiders at bay. "Restricted" signs decorated the doors behind the counter.
"Yes?"
"Sheriff . . ." What the hell had Leider said his name was? "Sheriff Hughes, please." That was it.
"The sheriff's not in at the moment. What is it in regard to?"
They must have taught her that phrase when they hired her, Spraggue thought. "I'm here at the request of Kate Holloway."
"Holloway." The woman tucked the tip of her tongue firmly between her teeth, ran her finger down a list affixed to a clipboard. "Deputy Enright is handling that investigation."
"Then I'd like to see Deputy Enright."
"I believe he's using the sheriff's office. Why don't you go in there—that door marked ADMINISTRATION—and see if his secretary can help you?"
"Thanks."
A glass window peered in at the sheriff's outer office. That, too, had an orange counter blocking access. The decor was Holiday Inn: gold carpet, spindly turquoise chairs. Wall-to-wall vulgarity. Spraggue pushed open the door.
The room had its own atmosphere, a bluish haze of cigar, cigarette, and pipe smoke. The lone secretary's desk boasted two huge ashtrays, one jammed with butts, the other issuing smoke signals from a lipstick-stained filter tip.
Spraggue gave his name to the sweet-faced graying woman behind the desk and asked for information about Kate. She nodded, puffed her cigarette, and pointed vaguely to a chair. He set down his carry-on bag and moved a chair upwind of the desk, to a vantage point where he could almost see around the corner of the L-shaped office. The secretary frowned at his rearrangement, but refrained from speaking.
"Are you going to tell someone I'm here, or do you use telepathy?" he asked mildly after a f1ve-minute silence. He'd finished checking out a two-by-four board on which someone had mounted every imaginable kind of illegal drug paraphernalia. A larger board decorated with illegal weapons, from sawed- off shotguns to wicked-looking spiked chains, kept it company.
"I pushed the bell," the secretary said firmly. "Did you know that all those weapons were confiscated right in this county?"
"Push it again," Spraggue said. "Use the code for hostile people in a hurry."
She puffed furiously at her cigarette. "Are you the Holloway woman's lawyer?"
"No."
"Oh." There must have been a special code for lawyers. She shook her head sadly. "I've informed the deputy in charge. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you as soon as he's available."
"Give me a hint," Spraggue said. "Is he eating lunch? Manicuring his toenails? Is somebody else in there with him?"
She retreated behind a wall of smoke, leaving Spraggue to work on a new approach. Sometimes making yourself unpleasant in waiting rooms got you into main offices faster—the get-rid-of-the-nuisance response. Sometimes the offended secretary kept you cooling your heels even longer—the get-even response. Sometimes the only effect was an inner one: you felt better. Or you felt like a fool. Spraggue got up, marched to the window, opened it.
"The windows in these offices are to remain closed. Open windows interfere with the air-conditioning system."
"Cigarettes interfere with breathing. Would you care for an earful of insights from an intriguing Japanese study on the harmful effects of nicotine, tar, carbon monoxide——"
She stalked away from her desk, disappeared around the bend in the L. Spraggue strained to hear distant whispers.
He leaned out the window, took a deep breath. No California health freaks in this office. No bean-sprout sandwiches in the sheriff's domain.
It was lucky there was no doorway between the sheriff s office and his secretary's. The man who entered the room would have taken the sides of the door down with his shoulders. Maybe the transom, too, with one blow from his shiny-domed forehead. Probably never notice the destruction in his wake either. Whereas Phil Leider was fat, this man was just big. He was the source of the cigar smell. Didn't have one on him now, but the stink came into the room like a cloud around his massive body.
"Name?" he asked, towering over Spraggue. His voice was tenor, rather than the bass it should have been. From his tone, Spraggue expected a speeding ticket.
"Michael Spraggue?
"Your interest here?"
"Prisoner Holloway, sir." Spraggue stopped short of saluting. He clicked his heels together silently.
The secretary noticed.
"Miss Kate Holloway? Just what would that interest be? Boyfriend?"
"Business."
"Oh."
Spraggue waited.
"Do you have a business connection with a Mr. Leonard Brent?"
"He's an employee."
"Ah." The big man stared down at him, and Spraggue felt as if he'd been filed and cross-indexed.
"Then you knew him personally?"
"Yes."
"Would you mind trying to identify him?"
"I came to see Kate Holloway. Is she here?"
"You'll see her a lot faster if you cooperate."
"If Holloway couldn't identify your corpse, I don't see how I could. She knew him better."
"I don't doubt that. It's just that the little lady turned squeamish on us."
The little lady. Spraggue bit the inside of his cheek. If anybody tried that one on Kate, he'd better do his talking through iron bars.
"If I check out your corpse, I get to speak with her," Spraggue said.
"For a few minutes. I think I can arrange it."
"Has she been charged?"
"Just a material witness. So far."
"I wouldn't mind taking a look at your corpse."
"Fine. Got a car outside?"
"No."
"I'll drive then."
"All right if I leave my bag here?"
"Nobody'll steal it."
The huge man led Spraggue into the sheriff's office and out through a back door barely big enough for him. They wound through a corridor to an exit and a squad car.
"Morgue far from here?"
"No morgue. Not many murders. Couple car crashes every year right after high school lets out. That's about it. We've got arrangements with local funeral parlors. This corpse is up at Morrison's. Right next door to the police station in St. Helena."
"And why isn't Kate at the police station in St. Helena? Why the county sheriff s office?"
"Body was found on unincorporated land. That's county."
They took First Street back to Route 29, traveling well within the speed limit. The deputy made a point of slowing down at each small town they passed through: Oak Knoll, Yountville, Oakville, Rutherford. On the outskirts of St. Helena he broke the silence with a statement that turned up at the end like a question.
"So you're Kate Holloway's partner?"
Spraggue didn't think it needed an answer. Instead he said, "And you are?"
"Captain Enright. Head of the detective bureau."
He paused a moment, then continued with satisfaction in his voice. "So you're the one the little lady calls to come and get her out of trouble."
"Holloway called to tell me she'd have a hard time taking care of the crush from the inside of a cell. I'm here to hire a temporary winemaker. Until Lenny turns up."
"If Lenny turns up."
"Yeah."
"You call her 'Holloway'?"
"She calls me Spraggue."
"Seems disrespectful somehow. 'Course, ‘Miss' is a funny thing to call her too. Couldn't rightly say she's a maiden lady."
"I'd be very careful what I called her, if I were you," Spraggue said.
Abruptly, the captain pulled the car over to the curb, right in front of a fire plug. "Out," he said gruff1y.
The sign in front of the Spanish-style white stucco said MORRISON FUNERAL CHAPEL. The roof was red tile.
Enright banged on the side door.
It flew open immediately, revealing a s
miling blond man with a ruddy face. Only the deep creases at the corners of his eyes kept him from looking like some gawky out-of-place teenager. And the badge on his tan shirt.
"Hi, Captain," he drawled cheerfully, a trace of the South in his deep voice. "Got somebody else to take a peek?"
Enright shouldered the younger officer aside and they entered a small waiting room. Spraggue counted to one hundred, tried to relax; his stomach was gearing up for the ordeal.
"Stay here," said the young man. "Only be a minute. I'll get the body ready for viewing. Got to keep it refrigerated—"
"Quit gabbing," said Enright.
"Right."
Spraggue watched the second hand on a wall clock go around twice. This was no waiting room for families and friends of the deceased. No statues, no flowers, no straitlaced formal furnishings. Just a delivery room: corpses in, corpses out.
"Okay." The reassuring voice of the red-faced officer came from the doorway. "Just walk on in. Nothing to alarm you. All covered with a sheet."
Enright snorted. "What do you think this is, a garden-club display?" He bowed slightly to accent the scorn in his voice. "Do come in, Mr. Spraggue."
They entered the dingy back room in close formation. It had a brick-red floor with a central drain. A refrigeration unit in a corner hummed loudly. A faucet dripped. Strong hanging lights illuminated a central slablike table covered with a still white sheet. Enright ripped it back.
"Think that's your Lenny Brent?" he said.
Only Enright's nastiness and the fact that he'd snubbed the airline's attempt at lunch saved
Spraggue from following Kate's example and vomiting on the floor. He took a deep quick mouth-breath so he wouldn't smell the combination of decay and embalming fluid and played the scene like an acting exercise. An observation exercise.
The man on the table had a body but almost no head. A tall body, like Lenny's. All thin-to-medium body marred by a huge butterfly incision. The autopsy wound had been closed with gigantic uneven stitches. There was dark hair on the legs and torso, under the arms, at the groin. A white cardboard tag dangled from a big toe. The skin seemed terribly white. Spraggue forced himself not to look away. The head. He'd probably had dark hair. A slightly prominent jaw.
"That your boy?" repeated Enright. The captain's voice was hoarse.
"No."
"No? Just 'no'?"
"You had a medical examiner look at this?"
"Forensic pathologist. Couldn't tell us much. Yet."
Spraggue nodded. "Lenny was about forty. Older than this guy. But he was in top physical shape. Exercised. Lifted weights. Look at this guy's arms. He sat at a desk."
"Of course, you wouldn't want it to be Lenny . . ." began Enright.
"What I want doesn't change a man's shape. Find somebody else who knew Lenny, somebody who worked out with him."
"Miss Holloway couldn't seem to—"
"Enright, she got sick," protested the young man. "The way you brought her in here, with no warning or anything—"
"Shut it, Bradley. Just shut the mouth."
"Okay. No beef."
Enright went on as if the interruption hadn't happened. "Mr. Spraggue, you say this is definitely not the body of Leonard Brent. Do you know whose body it is?"
"No."
"Go ahead and look more carefully. Plenty of time."
Spraggue kept his voice nonchalant. "No need. I don't know who it is. I do know that someone made a mistake and kept Kate Holloway in custody overnight for the murder of an unknown person. Her lawyer will be interested."
Enright grunted.
"Has the cause of death been determined?"
The captain guffawed. "Cause of death?" He nodded at Bradley to make sure he got the joke. "Practically missing his head, this fellow is. I figure that might have something to do with it."
"The head injuries could have been caused after death. Was there much bleeding?"
"I don't think," Enright said flatly, "we have anyone crazy enough around here to go beating up on a dead man like that."
"How about somebody smart enough to want you to have a hard time identifying the body? Got anybody that smart?" If they did, Spraggue was pretty sure he or she wasn't working for the sheriff.
Enright said nothing.
"I suppose you've taken prints?"
"Amateurs are always crazy for fingerprints. Not everybody's prints are on file, you know. Just if you've been in the army or gotten yourself arrested or something. Hardly anything gets solved by prints. Bet yours aren't on file anyplace."
"Wrong."
"Yeah?"
"Check with the Boston Police."
"Didn't take you for a crook."
"Guess again"
"Why've they got your prints?"
"Standard procedure when you get your private investigators license."
Enright's lips tightened. "Let's see it."
Spraggue hunted through his wallet for a silent minute. "Here."
The captain grabbed the plastic-covered rectangle, held it closer to the light. He stared down at the tiny photo, then up at Spraggue.
"This is nothing but a piece of shit," he said. "Six-one, one-seventy, brown hair, brown eyes. The damned picture's so small it could be anyone. Your eyes don't look brown. And to top it all off, the thing's expired!"
"I know."
Enright turned on his heel. "Crap," he said loudly.
"Bradley, when you get this mess cleared up, take Mr. P. I. Spraggue over to the jail to see Miss Holloway. I got things to do."
His boot heels broke the silence.
"You can wait outside," Bradley said after the door had slammed. "Get the smell out of your
nose." He covered the battered thing on the table with the sheet.
"Thanks." Spraggue moved toward the door.
"Don't mind Enright so much. He's got a bad stomach. Always acts up in here."
"That why he gave Kate Holloway such grief?"
Spraggue asked sharply.
"Misery loves company, so they say. He'd have gotten along with you a lot better if you'd turned green and thrown up. Now he's got to prove he's tougher than you."
"He must be a pleasure to work with, Officer Bradley."
"Lieutenant Bradley. Brad." The ruddy face got even redder.
"Okay, Brad, why did you keep Kate Holloway in custody?"
"Body was found at Holloway Hills." The answer came out almost on time.
"It's a big place," Spraggue said. "No fences. Anyone could get in."
Bradley hesitated. "I suppose when they thought it was this guy Lenny . . ."
"Yeah?"
"Well," Bradley said weakly, "the valley's like a small town, really. You hear a lot of gossip."
"Such as?"
"I repeat gossip to you and Enright'll have my head looking like this dude's. Sorry. Go breathe outside for a spell. I'll be right along."
Outside, he inhaled audibly, deeply. Filled his lungs with sweet fresh-mown grass, stale car exhaust, and the first faint stink of deceit.
3
Lieutenant Bradley wound up doing double duty as chauffeur.
When he and Spraggue drove past the sheriff's office twenty minutes later, Kate Holloway sat slouched on one of the stone benches out front, Spraggue's duffel bag at her feet.
Bradley braked to a halt. "I'll be damned," he said.
"So that's why Enright walked out on you. Figured you'd be so pleased to see her, you might forget to holler about violated rights,"
"Not so dumb after all," Spraggue said, swinging the car door open. "Thanks."
"Wait up. She hasn't got a car here, and neither do you. Cabs are plenty scarce."
"We'll manage."
"Well, I'll malinger around back fifteen minutes or so just in case. Be glad to drop you someplace."
"Fifteen minutes." Spraggue banged the door shut and strode quickly up the concrete path. He knew that if he stopped to think of what to say to her, he'd turn to stone before the right word
s came.
Kate huddled sidesaddle on the bench, legs drawn tight against her chest, arms wrapped around them—folded into the smallest possible space. Her pointed chin rested against denim-covered knees. His footsteps startled her. She turned abruptly and began to rise.
"Don't bother." He peered down at her pale face and hesitantly touched her cheek. "You okay?"
"Sure. Don't overdo the concern."
"You look good."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better? You think I care how I look just now?"
"I'm trying to say I'm happy to see you, Kate."
"Okay." Her fingers plucked at his sleeve. "Then I'll try to say thanks for getting me out of that hellhole."
"Want to talk?"
"Not here." She shuddered. "Not this close . . .Captain Baboon might dream up another reason to put me away."
"There's a much nicer officer idling his engine around the corner. He'll take us home if you want."
She didn't answer.
"Come on," Spraggue said. She shook off his hand when he tried to help her up.
Kate standing had nothing defenseless about her. An inch over six feet tall, she looked Spraggue straight in the eye. She seemed smaller because she was thin, model thin, with dark, sleek, waist-length hair and Indian cheekbones. Men pestered Kate on the streets of L.A. with movie offers. She invariably refused, and when the would-be producers heard her speak, the legitimate few were relieved. She had a deep, foghorn voice, almost like a boy's, permanently arrested in mid-puberty.
Bradley was waiting, good as his word, sipping coffee from a red plastic thermos. After initial greetings, the ride was silent, the atmosphere strained. Bradley sped up the Silverado Trail, didn't have to ask directions until they passed Taplin Road. He dropped them at the gate: Kate's instructions.
"I've been cooped up way too long," she said after Bradley had driven off. She stretched out her arms and rolled up the sleeves of her plaid shirt. "Let's stay outside for a while."
Spraggue sounded out his stomach, found the funeral home experience over. "Lunch?" he suggested. "I'll buy."
"Business expense?"
"What else?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but then backed off, decided not to read anything into his response.
