by T. N. Robb
He stalked off to his car.
Cleary watched him leave, shaking out a cigarette. "I'll do whatever I can, Charlie," he said, more to himself than to Fontana, who was already out of hearing range. He knew Fontana was going out of his way to keep him out of jail. And he also knew that his old partner was stewing because he wasn't getting much cooperation from him.
His attention drifted to the Lincoln, which was just now being rigged to a tow truck. He glanced around, opened the driver's door, and was about to have a look when Walczak approached him from behind. "Haven't dusted in there yet, Cleary."
He glanced back at the SID man, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. His unlit cigarette hung from his lips. "Find any of my prints on the lighter and I'll buy you one of these, Walczak. How'd you like that deal?"
The young detective backed off. "Okay, but make it fast."
He reached in and pressed the dashboard lighter. During the seven-second wait for it to heat up, he made a quick perusal of the sedan's interior. Spotting a piece of paper tucked into the driver's sun visor. He surreptitiously pocketed it. The lighter popped out with a click, and he fired up his Lucky Strike.
"All yours," he said to Walczak, who was talking to the tow truck driver.
Cleary walked over to the phone booth and dialed the office. "Dottie."
"He called. Just like you said he would."
"And?'
"He's got Billy Ray's master tapes. He needs to see you."
"Where?'
She told him. "He'll meet you there first thing in the morning. About seven. He says he's gonna catch a few hours of sleep now before he does anything."
"Good. I'll be there."
Cleary hung up. He stood there a moment watching the impending departure of the last cops from the crime scene. One of them turned off the bright lights. Once again, night enveloped the trailer park.
He took the piece of paper he had found in the Lincoln out of his pocket, unfolded it. On it was scrawled: "TRiangle 9-9777."
Cleary studied the phone number, realizing there was something vaguely familiar about it. After a moment, he took out his billfold, fumbled through the cards and papers until he found the business card he was looking for. He held it up next to the slip of paper.
The numbers were the same.
He stared at the name on the card, his features tightening, his hands curling into fists. For a moment he couldn't believe it, then everything started falling together. The embossed lettering above the hand-scribbled number read: THOMAS V. SLADE, PRESIDENT, SILHOUETTE RECORDS.
He considered what to do. He glanced at his watch, saw it was almost one o'clock. Making up his mind, he dug in his pocket for another nickel, snapped the receiver off the phone, and dialed the number off the card.
The phone rang a half-dozen times. "Come on, answer it," he said impatiently. Finally he heard a click as someone picked up the phone. "What took you so long?" a voice rasped in his ear.
He had heard that voice before. It was the mechanical-sounding, robot-like voice. "If you're talking about your boys, they were unexpectedly detained by a half-dozen deer slugs. Took the better part of an hour just to shovel them into the meat wagon."
"Who the hell is this?" the electronic voice barked into the phone.
"Tell Slade I've got the master tapes. He wanted me to keep him up on things. Tell him I've also got enough info on the Hammond hit to put him away till retirement age."
The voice didn't say a word.
"And make sure you tell him this: Jack Cleary wants to cut a deal. He can reach me in an hour at my office."
TWENTY-TWO
The Master Tapes
Betts was parked on the brink of a roadside outlook. Stretched on the hood of the Merc, he could see the city spread out below him, from the bay to the San Gabriels. On the radio, Chris Isaak's "Waiting for the Rain" was playing as the sun rose above the mountains. At the moment, his eyes were fixed on the southern horizon in the direction of Mexico.
Jesse had wanted him to drive all night, and get as far away from L.A. as possible. But he had told her they would be better off stopping. Every highway patrol car on the graveyard shift would be looking for them. Besides, he was exhausted from lack of sleep, and he wanted to talk to Cleary before he left town and disappeared.
He didn't tell her that until after they were in the hotel room. He had been shocked by her reaction. It was as if he had betrayed her somehow. "Listen, I've got to tell him I'm leaving. He deserves to hear it from me. He's more than a boss. You don't understand."
He had stomped out angrily to the pay phone and called Cleary's apartment. There had been no answer, so he had tried the office. To his surprise, Dottie answered and told him Cleary was looking for him, and that the cops said he killed Billy Ray. He couldn't believe it.
"I burned a warehouse down today, and I shot those guys who were trying to kill me. But I swear, Dottie, I didn't have nothing to do with Billy Ray's murder." He had said he had to see Cleary, and told her to tell him he had the master tapes. He figured Cleary needed some good news.
Betts gazed at the distant, shadowy mountains, and the sweep of the city, which was just coming alive with the morning. "Sunshine, flowers, beaches, and palms," he said. "Beautiful town. From a distance. Ain't till you get up close and peek behind the scenery that you see—you see the other side. Kinda like a movie set."
"It's changed since the war," Cleary said as he leaned against the Eldorado, which was parked a few feet from the Mercury. He peered at the city below them as if it were an ant colony. "Got too big, too fast."
"Really believed I was gonna make something of myself out here in California," Betts continued. "But now..." He shook his head. "Looks like I'm leaving the same way I arrived. On the run."
After a moment, he spoke again. "Used to wonder when I was a kid if it ran in the family."
"What's that?"
He looked over at Cleary. "Fugitive blood. Used to look at my old man on visiting days and wonder if I'd have to be like him."
Cleary pushed away from the Eldorado and walked over to the Merc. "I don't subscribe to that notion, Betts. And I don't see any reason you should be on the run." Their eyes met, and they held the gaze for a long moment. "Best you stay here and get things straightened out."
He shook his head. "Too late for that, I'm afraid. I've got to get out of here."
Cleary butted out his cigarette. "That's up to you, Johnny. I won't do anything to stop you. But I'd like you to do one thing for me. I'm going to need those master tapes you have."
Betts, masking his surprise, answered in a casual tone. "What for?"
"I've found the murderer and counterfeiter. I want to use the master tapes to bargain with him and get him talking." He opened his sport coat, revealing that he was carrying a wire. "Need all the evidence we can get."
"What are you talking about? Who is it? You didn't tell me."
"Tommy Slade's the killer, Johnny. That's why I'm saying you don't have to run. I'm going to get him." He told Betts about the telephone number he had found in the car of the men who'd tried to kill him.
"Slade," Betts said, repeating the name. "Knocked off his own partner. What a creep. That figures. And Billy Ray. That doesn't. Not unless Billy Ray started in on him at the party, and Slade lost his head."
Cleary nodded. "That's what I think."
"Jesse," Betts called. "Did you hear that, honey? Cleary says Slade is the killer."
He watched her turn from the edge of the cliff where she had been sitting since Cleary arrived. "That's what I've been saying all along, Johnny. You know I have, but no one would listen to me."
"Cleary's gonna need to borrow the masters."
Jesse walked back to the car, expressing her reluctance to give up the tapes with a sharp look. "I'm not going back to the city. I won't."
"We don't have to, babe."
"But what about our plans, Johnny?"
"Cleary only needs the tapes for a while. He'll take good c
are of them. He needs them to set up Slade." She looked at him a moment, then over at Cleary, who was keeping out of the argument. She sighed. "All right," she said in a small voice, and crawled into the backseat to get them.
Betts turned back to Cleary. "I'll go with you," he said.
Cleary shook his head. "With an APB and half the force out looking for you? No way. I was just thinking," he said, and glanced toward Jesse, then back to Betts, "that it might not be a bad idea for you to leave town for a while."
He gave him a reassuring look. "Here." He handed him several bills.
"What's this for?"
"Your trip. It's just your salary." He smiled. "And a little advance."
Betts accepted it, looked up at Cleary, appreciating the strength of their friendship. "Thanks. Never knew anybody like you before."
"Don't worry. Everything'll be cleared up by the time you get back."
"What about the charges?"
"First, you didn't kill Billy Ray. Second, you were defending your home against the thugs, who attacked you. As for the fire, well, it wasn't exactly like you destroyed a national monument or anything. Things will work out."
Betts looked out over the city, unable to find his voice. Picking up a rock, he flung it at a roadside sign. He listened to the hollow ring, then turned back to Cleary with a resigned expression on his face.
"I may not be coming back."
Cleary stared at him, fighting the empty feeling settling over him. He glanced toward the backseat of the car where Jesse was hunched over. "You love her?"
Betts smiled and nodded. "So much that it hurts." Cleary smiled, happy for him, and affectionately grabbed his neck. It was a special moment between friends, but one that was suddenly broken by the passing of a highway patrol car.
Jesse stepped out of the Merc and handed Cleary a flat package wrapped in brown paper. "Here you go, Cleary. Don't lose them."
Cleary smiled, thanked her.
Jesse nodded toward the disappearing patrol car. "We better hit the road, Johnny B."
"Yeah, I know." Betts turned to Cleary. A long, awkward moment ensued between them. "So where you gonna be meeting Slade?"
"At Billy Ray's place."
Betts nodded. "That's appropriate. See you around, Cleary."
"Hope so."
Betts walked around the Merc, opened the door, and was about to slide behind the wheel when Cleary called out to him. He turned just in time to snag a coin. He looked down at the nickel.
"What's this for?"
"I want to hear from you."
They shared a glance that resonated deeper than any words they might have said. Cleary was like the big brother he never had. He trusted him, would do anything for him. He felt like telling Cleary to expect him back in a week or so. But he didn't. He knew that once they were out of town, Jesse wouldn't go back, and he wasn't about to abandon her, even for Cleary.
He started the car, looked over at Jesse, patting her on the knee, and stepped on the gas. He held up a hand, gave a departing wave as they passed the Eldorado. A moment later they were on the road, heading toward the interstate.
Both were quiet with their own thoughts. Then, turning to each other, they shared a glance filled with hope, love, and a whole lot of uncertainty.
TWENTY-THREE
Poolside
The Mercury whizzed along toward a sign that read, LOS ANGELES CITY LIMITS. Jesse tipped her Coke bottle at it just before it blinked by. "I'll drink to that. Good-bye L.A. Adios. "
On their left, Betts nodded toward a juke joint-motel called The Blue Hotel. "Now there's a familiar landmark," he said with a smile.
"It is? Tell me about it," Jesse said, feigning memory failure.
"I seem to recall some chick falling head over brassiere for me in that joint, then crawling in the backseat of the Merc with me," he said, patting the wheel affectionately.
Jesse laughed, leaned over, and bit his neck. "Wasn't wearing one, smart ass."
Betts laughed, then pointed to the road map spread out on her lap. "Where to, after we hit the border?"
"Let's see, we pick up Highway 2 in TJ, then it's a straight four-hundred-mile shot to Nogales. We can get there by tonight."
Betts shrugged good-naturedly. "Okay by me. What's in Nogales?"
Jesse smiled as if it were obvious. "WZXY, silly. That outlaw radio station I was telling you about."
He gave her a puzzled look. "But that was before. I mean, we don't have the master tapes anymore, Jess. Cleary's got them."
She picked her purse off the floor, reached inside, and pulled out the tapes. "Well, how do you like that! Here they are," she said in mock surprise, and grinned mischievously. "You know, in all that rush, I must've handed Cleary some ol' box of candy by mistake."
Betts stared incredulously at the master tapes. "You did what?"
"They're Billy Ray's final legacy, Johnny. I did it for us as much as for him, so don't look at me so horrified like that."
Her voice suddenly broke as Betts slammed on the brakes and made a screeching, high-speed, hundred-and-eighty degree whip-turn. "God, Johnny. What are you doing? Where you going?"
* * *
The morning sun, shining across the backyard of Billy Ray's house, revealed little trace of last week's tragedy. Cleary strolled across the lawn, his .45 loaded and jammed in his waistband. The package of master tapes was wedged under his arm, and the miniature tape recorder was hidden in his coat. A couple of wrens fluttered away from a poolside birdhouse as he settled into a chaise lounge chair.
He checked his watch, then activated the tape recorder. He could have taken the information about Slade to Fontana, but since he had taken the phone number out of the car, it was his word against Slade's. There was no direct evidence linking him with the killings. He needed evidence, and that was what he hoped he would get here. He had to get it, and he had to get out alive.
The seconds ticked by. He waited, listening to the stillness of the summer morning, smelling the freshly cut grass. He watched a bluebird fall out of the sky and skim across the aquamarine surface of the pool.
At the bottom, a metallic object caught a ray of sun and glinted in Cleary's eye. He rose to his feet, his gaze riveted to the bottom at the deep end. He bent down on one knee and tried to make out the object.
He stepped down hard on the gas pedal, and the Merc roared back along the stretch of road they had just covered. "You're gonna have to wait for me... at the motel. I'll drop you off."
Jesse grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
"Johnny, no! We can't go back. L.A.'s behind us now." There was a look of panic in her eyes.
The Merc hit ninety as the outskirts of the city rushed toward them. "I have to help Cleary. There's no other way, Jesse."
The surface of the pool shimmered with rippled sunlight as Cleary pulled a long-handled leaf skimmer up from the water. He set the skimmer carefully down at the side of the pool, then reached into the net basket, picking out the shiny object. He frowned a moment, staring at it, trying to place it. He had never seen it before, yet something was familiar about it. "You got a lot of balls, Cleary."
Pocketing the object, he turned around to face Tommy Slade. He was carrying a briefcase and accompanied by a strongarm, a guy who Cleary could almost swear was one of the thugs who'd thrashed him at the motel.
Cleary smiled slyly. "Why settle for fifty bucks a day, when you can pick up an easy ten thousand before breakfast." He held up the package of tapes. "This what you're looking for? I guess you should be grateful they survived the fire."
Slade looked at him, unamused. "Let's see them. Open it up."
"Let's see the money."
At a nod from Slade the strongarm tossed the briefcase at Cleary's feet. He opened it, stalling for time, and began counting stacks of hundreds. "I can understand you whacking Hammond, Slade. I mean, besides being a career obstacle he would've uncovered that counterfeit record scam of yours sooner or later."
Satisfied that all th
e money was there, he looked up and tossed the thug the paper-wrapped master tapes. "But why Billy Ray?'
Slade laughed a cynical and incredulous gurgle. "You're nuts if you think I'd croak my own meal ticket. Hell, I signed a three-album deal with the kid before he died. I'd have to be messed up in the head to kill him."
Cleary gazed at him, surprised by his profession of innocence. If Slade didn't kill Billy Ray, who had? He was puzzled and uncertain Slade was telling the truth. He needed to get him on tape admitting to one of the murders. "But you didn't mind getting rid of Archie, did you?"
"What the hell?" the thug barked. He showed Slade the unwrapped package.
"Candy!" Slade fumed.
The thug flung it away and reached for his gun, but Cleary beat him to the draw. He leveled his .45 at him. "Don't even think about it, mister," he said as the thug and Slade froze.
"You took the words right out of my throat," rasped the mechanical voice from behind him. "Toss it. In the pool, Cleary."
The man with the voice box stepped out from behind a hedge and trained a submachine gun on him. Cleary reluctantly flipped his .45. It skidded and stopped at the edge of the pool.
"Frisk him," Slade yelled to the thug, who quickly patted him down. His hand stopped as he found the miniature recorder inside his coat. "The son of a bitch is wearing a wire, Mr. Slade." He tore it out with a violent jerk, then belted Cleary in the stomach.
"Kill him," Slade ordered, his voice toneless. "He's caused me enough trouble."
The Voice Box, a short, husky man with a flattened nose and high cheekbones, stepped over. He raised his Browning automatic to Cleary's temple. Cleary fought off panic, tried to think fast. "Hold it, Slade. If I don't show up with the money, Betts is gonna take those tapes in and tell the whole story," he lied. "He knows all about you."
Slade laughed. "The kid's story doesn't hold water. He destroyed the warehouse, and the evidence. It's his word against mine, and I hear the cops say he killed Billy Ray. Don't think I have much to worry about there."
