Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  “What was the question?”

  “You should be able to choose whether or not you want to investigate this case without risking either your income or being forced back into the department before you’re ready.” She laid his palm over the goose-flesh on her chest. “If money weren’t a factor, what would you choose to do?”

  “But money is a factor.”

  “Doesn’t have to be.” Her thigh moved slowly against his crotch.

  “Foul,” he said, pulling her against him and wrapping the blanket tighter around them, like a cocoon. “Unfair holding tactics.”

  She laughed. “So?”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Freedom of choice. You can tell the Police Commission to shove it. All you have to do is sign a signature card at the bank.”

  “Yeah? What if I cleaned out your accounts?”

  “Then I’d learn something about you I should know.”

  “Thanks anyway,” he said. “I’m old-fashioned about living off a woman’s money.”

  “No you’re not. The problem is that you haven’t made up your mind about us. Talking about money means talking about the future.”

  “Is this a proposal?”

  “No.” Her hand was working at his belt buckle. “It’s a proposition.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw a column of darker sky on the far side of the fire.

  “That you, Lieutenant?”

  Tejeda spun into a crouch, knocking Kate back onto the sand. He had a split log in his hand. “Who’s there?”

  “Take it easy,” the deep voice urged from the dark.

  Tejeda firmed his grip on the splintery wood as an enormous skinhead loomed out of the night beyond the fire.

  Kate came up beside him, clutching the front of her shirt together. “It’s USDA Prime. From Clyde’s.”

  As soon as she said it, Tejeda recognized the tattooed beefcake who had stood next to Kate at the bar. The man’s hands were out to the side and empty, but still he missed the reassuring weight of his service revolver tucked into the back of his jeans.

  Though the guy was big, tough-looking, he seemed more cautious than threatening. Tejeda thought his own appearance was fairly silly, pants and shirt gaping open to the frigid night air. He had to choose between hanging on to the log or buttoning up. He dropped the log.

  “What do you want?” he asked the intruder.

  “You’re the guy arrested Arty Silver?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t make it no habit of helping cops. But that Silver dude offed two guys I know.” The big man held his hands out to the fire and stared at Tejeda. “I got something maybe you should know.”

  “You have a name?”

  “Don. Don Kelley.”

  “Can you show me some I.D.?”

  Tejeda watched Kelley’s hands as he reached for the wallet in his back pocket. He held it out in front of him as he walked slowly around the fire ring, with his free hand out to the side as if he knew all about dealing with police requests.

  The California driver’s license behind the plastic window identified him as Donald Kelley, age thirty-two, of Carlsbad—a local.

  Tejeda handed the wallet back. “What’s on your mind?”

  “They lied to you at Clyde’s. That electrician? He’s been hanging around for months. He puts on these phony-ass disguises and tries to get guys to talk to him.”

  “He tries to pick up people?” Tejeda asked.

  “No. Everyone thinks he’s a narc. They thought it would be funny to sic you on him.” Kelley squatted next to the picnic basket.

  “Mr. Kelley,” Kate said, “would you like a glass of wine?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

  Kate took out a glass and filled it.

  “Alcohol’s illegal on the beach.” He grinned as he accepted the glass. “You’ll get busted.”

  Tejeda smelled more than wine on the man; besides stale sweat, there was the gassy residue of amyl nitrite, poppers, a heart drug some people used for a sexual rush, especially during rough sex. He wondered how much of the rush came from knowing the drug could be lethal. Wally Morrow had been confined to base because he was caught with amyl nitrite.

  Knowing this didn’t make Tejeda feel any better; he wished Kate weren’t there. How was he to know whether Don Kelley had more on his agenda than information, like maybe waiting for more troops to show up: Arty Silver still had a number of very loyal friends who were either convinced of his innocence or might have shared in his guilt.

  Arty Silver had liked his sex rough and deadly. Don Kelley, from his crude appearance and tight-ass swagger, looked like rough trade himself.

  Tejeda dropped another piece of wood on the fire. “You ever talk to the electrician?”

  “No. Saw his car, though, a Cutlass, like they said.”

  “Hear a name?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did he ever pick up anyone besides Wally Morrow?”

  “No. See, that’s the lie.” He held out his glass for a refill. “What is this stuff?”

  Kate looked at the label. “Cabernet sauvignon. B.V. Georges de Latour. Nineteen seventy-eight.”

  Kelley shrugged. “Is that good?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah,” he chuckled, and slugged more down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and squinted up at Tejeda. “Wally Morrow never went anywhere with that guy.”

  “How do you know?” Tejeda asked.

  “Wally left first. He went out to the highway to thumb a ride. Told a friend of mine he had a date down at the shack.”

  “Is the shack another bar?”

  Kelley snickered. “You don’t know the shack?”

  “Should I?”

  “Yeah, ’cuz Arty Silver used to meet guys down there. I thought you knew everything there was to know about that dude.”

  Tejeda shook his head. Had he forgotten this place? Or had he never found out about it? Not knowing was too frustrating. Maybe, he thought, he should go home and learn how to grow petunias. Or go with Kate to Australia.

  Kate asked, “Where is this shack?”

  “Just this side of San Onofre. Maybe a quarter-mile past the wetback snatch.” He brought his hands up. “Sorry. Guess you’re a Mex, huh?”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” he said. “Do you mean the immigration check station on the freeway?”

  “Yeah. I never could figure that place out. How many illegals you think come into America on the freeway?”

  Kate emptied the last of the wine into Kelley’s glass. “Can you give us directions to the shack?”

  He held the glass up to her. “You won’t find any of this stuff there. When I said shack, that’s what it is—an old storage shed of some kind on the Marine base.”

  “I’m sure it’s charming.”

  Kelley laughed and looked at Tejeda. “Your girl’s kinky.”

  “That’s why I like her.” Tejeda put his arm around Kate and pulled her close; Kelley was still too much of a wild card. He wanted Kate within reach if they had to leave in a hurry. “If she wants to go to the shack, I’ll take her. Now, how do we find it?”

  “Whatever.” Kelley shrugged. “Like I said, about a quarter-mile past the check station, there’s an access road. You have to look careful ’cuz it isn’t marked. There’s a barbed-wire gate you have to go through. Then you’re inside Pendleton where you ain’t supposed to be. You cross a wash, then look into the trees. There’s a caved-in bunker. You can’t see it from the road, but the shack’s back of it.”

  “Thanks,” Tejeda said. He looked down at Kate. “Eddie and I will check it out Friday.”

  “It’s okay.” Kelley put his empty glass on the picnic basket. “I’m not setting you up. If you like, I’ll go along. You did a lot of us a big favor when you caught that Silver dude. He scared a lot of chickens, really cramped my style. Worse than all this AIDS shit.”

  “Gives new meaning to my job,” Tejeda chuckle
d. “To protect and to serve.”

  “Yeah.” Kelly got up and brushed sand from the seat of his pants. “I gotta go.”

  “I appreciate the information,” Tejeda said, offering his hand.

  “Yeah.” Kelley’s hand was like leather. “See ya.”

  Tejeda held Kate tight, waiting for Kelley to merge with the darkness. But after a few steps, the big man turned and came halfway back.

  “You heteros are such animals, always sniffing around each other.” Kelley had a big grin on his craggy face. “But I’m sorry I interrupted you guys earlier. You can get back to it now. I’m going.”

  When he was no more than a shadow moving across the skyline, Kate cupped her hand under Tejeda’s rump and squeezed. “Well?”

  He laughed. “I think the magic’s gone.”

  13

  “I’m not staying here alone.” Kate pulled the car in among a cluster of scrubby live oaks and turned off the ignition. “I saw that movie.”

  “What movie?”

  “You know, the hero leaves the girl alone in the car and while he’s gone some freak comes along with a chain saw and fillets her.”

  “There may be ticks in the chaparral,” he said.

  “Ticks are better than chain saws.”

  “Suit yourself,” he laughed. He took the flashlight from her glove compartment and stepped out into the chilly night. The heavy smell of dry sage was almost overpowering.

  While he waited for Kate to lock the car and put on her jacket, he tried to see a path to take across the weed-covered field to the shack.

  The shack looked like an abandoned toolshed behind a collapsed earthwork of some sort. Two hundred yards beyond it, the elevated freeway was a slash of light through the inky midnight sky. The light from above skimmed the high points of the terrain, giving the corrugated-tin roof of the small building a dull gleam, picking out the tips of the sage and making it silver.

  Behind him there was nothing but dark, a vast range of uninhabited scrub that was used by the Marines for gunnery practice and war games. Tejeda tucked the flash into his pocket; any light they showed while crossing the field would be visible for miles.

  “All set.” Kate came up behind him and hooked two fingers through his belt loop and hung on.

  The going was treacherous because they couldn’t see the ground under the weed covering. Every time Kate stepped in a rut or hopped a trench, Tejeda felt a tug at his belt loop. He liked the tugs, liked having her beside him. He would rather have been beside her at home in bed. But knowing he had that delight to look forward to, being with her out in the crisp evening air, forgetting for the moment the purpose of this little expedition, was pretty goddamned nice. She was quiet, as she had been off and on all evening, as if maybe she was afraid there was someone around who might hear them. He didn’t mind. In fact, he thought, he felt a lot like a kid playing hide-and-seek with his best friend.

  They landed in a patch of nettles, and when they were clear, Kate let go of him to pick stickers out of her socks. She whispered, “What if the Marines catch us?”

  “I’ll show them my badge.”

  “Did you bring it?”

  “I’m not much worried about the Marines.” He swatted at something that flew past his ear. “You okay?”

  “Yes.” She straightened up. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “You should be home in bed.”

  “Kate, if doing this really bothers you, we can leave.”

  She looked ahead at the shack, a dark block in the feathery shadows of the chaparral, and took a deep breath. “We’ve come this far …”

  They pushed ahead through the brush and finally came out into a hard-packed clearing. The shack was no more than slabs of rough board tacked together.

  “Want me to go in first?” he asked.

  “Hell, no.” She stayed close beside him, hesitating only when he stepped under a loose section of corrugated roofing that hung precariously over the single door.

  He stood very still for a moment, listening. But all he heard was an occasional night bird and the constant oceanlike rush of the freeway.

  Getting inside the shack would be easy, he thought: there was no knob or lock on the door. He held a hand up to Kate to keep her a pace behind him. Then he took a deep breath, and as he raised a foot to kick the door open he shouted, “Military Police. Everyone out.”

  The door banged open into something metallic and set off a scurrying of feet that sent both him and Kate diving into the bushes for cover. He risked a flick of his light, and laughed when he saw whom he had disturbed.

  “Those aren’t naked white hineys,” he said, brushing twigs off his back. “They’re skunks.”

  “Thank God,” she said.

  He offered his hand and pulled her up. “You were expecting maybe freaks with chain saws?”

  “No. But I was expecting something else.”

  “Like what?” he asked, but she had jogged ahead while he searched for the bur that had burrowed under his collar. When he caught up to her, she was standing in the clearing watching the section of broken roof swing over the gaping door like a pendulous ax. She glanced at him, then walked up to the door, grabbed the hanging bit of corrugated tin, and pulled on it until it broke free.

  She tossed it aside and turned to Tejeda. “Are we going in, or what?”

  “Yeah, sure,” he laughed, watching the tin bounce to a stop.

  The first thing he noticed before he turned on the flashlight was the smell. It reminded him of a fraternity house after a big party—a sour combination of beer, semen, and piss. With a skunk overlay.

  The only window was boarded over, and little outside illumination managed to get past the door, making the darkness inside seem dense as velvet, almost touchable. His flashlight could light only a small section at a time, so they saw the interior as a series of photographs.

  The dirt was thick everywhere, but underneath it he found what had once been a cozy trysting place. The door had banged against an iron cot covered with a standard military-issue bed-ticking pad. It was stained, but it didn’t seem very old. At least, it was untorn. On the far side of the twelve-foot-square space, beyond the bed, there were a card table and four folding chairs. A broken ice chest had been shoved into the corner behind the table.

  Tejeda aimed his light down and heard Kate mutter something. The rough-board floor between the bed and the table was littered with crusty, used condoms. Here and there a scattering of colored ones as bright as party balloons stood out in vivid contrast to the dull gray of the general grime. Kate gave a low whistle, and he wished she hadn’t seen this. Something about the wantonness of the sexual debris and the connection of the place with Arty Silver made him feel dirty by association.

  Kate had gone to a box beside the bed and pulled out a stack of newspapers. She held them up to his light.

  “July 4, 1984. February 14,1983,” she read. “When did you arrest Arty Silver?”

  “Labor Day, 1984,” he said. “Better put them back. Spago’s people need to see things exactly the way they were found.”

  Directly opposite the door there was a tall chunk of log, maybe three feet high, he guessed, thirty inches in diameter. It seemed out of place among the other meager furnishings, whose one common feature was their portability. He nudged the log with his foot; he couldn’t have hefted it alone. The top was scarred and stained.

  Kate was brushing off her hands. “How’s your botany?” he asked.

  “Not so good. I can tell a palm tree from a geranium, but that’s about it. Why?”

  “Can you tell a redwood from a live oak?”

  “Sure. Redwoods are big. Live oaks aren’t.”

  “Right.”

  She looked over his shoulder at the log. “That’s redwood?”

  “That’s my guess,” he said, picking at a dry brown flake on the wood. “We’re three hundred miles from the closest redwoods.”

  “Maybe someone brought it fo
r firewood.”

  “No,” he said, holding the brown flake to the light. “It’s a chopping block.”

  He heard her retch as she ran out the door. When he caught up to her, she was leaning against the outside wall, gulping deep breaths.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe the men who use the shack hunt jackrabbits.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped.

  “Kate, what’s going on? All night you’ve been …” What had she been? Quiet. A bit short-tempered, as if she had to bite off something that kept trying to get out. “I’m sorry I brought you out here.”

  “Forget it.” She grabbed a handful of his sleeve and looked up into his face. “You asked me earlier what I expected to find.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I keep half-expecting to find Lance.”

  “Lance?” He thought he must have come in late and missed something. “Richie’s roommate, Lance?”

  “I’m sorry, Roger, I should have told you earlier, but it just seemed like one more thing to bother you with.”

  He felt prickly all over, and it had nothing to do with his roll in the weeds. “Tell me.”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Dammit, Kate—” he started.

  “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want you upset.”

  “You want to see upset?”

  “No. Just remember that this is only wild speculation.” She gripped both of his arms now, hard, as if he would drift if she didn’t anchor him. “I started thinking about Lance when we were at Clyde’s, when they told us that the electrician drove a gray or beige Cutlass. Like yours.”

  “Like eight or ten million others.” He shrugged.

  “Okay, but I remembered Lance saying that he usually drove to San Diego with Richie. Suppose that while Richie was visiting Jena, Lance had use of the car. To go surfing. Or to lurk around Clyde’s.”

  “So he had opportunity. But why would he?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Except that Arty Silver killed his brother.”

  “Are we still talking about the Lance I know?”

  “Yes. He told me about it this afternoon.”

  “Oh, God.” Tejeda pulled his arms free and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing hard. His eyes felt better but his head was no clearer. He wanted to get back to the car and call home, tell his kids to lock themselves in until Eddie Green could put them in protective custody. Protective custody from what, though? Richie’s ditsy roommate? Or did Lance need protecting too? He shoved his hands into his pockets and blew out a shaft of air. Kate was looking at him expectantly.