Threepersons Hunt

by Brian Garfield

  “And that’s why you hate him? On account of a dog?”

  “No. But it’s a symptom. I look pretty ruthless to most people, don’t I, but it’s mainly because I’m a successful man. I’ve never treated another man like dirt. I just pick the best people for the jobs, that’s my secret. I picked Joe Threepersons for that lineshack because I knew he was pretty thickheaded, he wouldn’t get bored with the job and he had a sense of responsibility to his hire that you don’t find much in men any more, especially when you’ve got to stick them out in the woods somewhere on a job where nobody’s going to supervise them. I took one look at that wife of his and I knew she’d make sure he did his work. She had the puritan work-ethic right up her spine, that girl. Funny, considering the background she came from. Her father was a drunk.”

  “Maybe that’s what made her the way she was.”

  “Maybe. Who knows. But Kendrick, he’s the kind of man who’ll pull the rug out from under anybody at all if he sees an advantage to it. He’d stick a knife in his own mother’s back and twist it if he could get a good price for her blood. The day’s going to come when he finds a better lay than Gwen, and when it does he’ll throw her out like an old shoe. I never threw her out, I just didn’t stand in the way when she elected to walk out. That’s the difference between Kendrick and me.”

  Now Watchman began to see it. Rand wasn’t as callous as he wanted to think he was. He still had something for Gwen and wanted to think himself a better man than the one she’d left him for. Rand was never going to admit it but he had been hurt by Gwen’s decision. Badly hurt, and that was why he hated Kendrick.

  There were gaps. The identity of Maria’s benefactor went unexplained; Rand first denied it and then hedged on the denial and why would he be vague about it if he had simply kept his word to Joe and put up the money for Maria and Joe Junior?

  Watchman said, “There’s a lot you’re holding out. Right now I’ve got no leverage to pry it out of you but sooner or later I’ll get it. You could save us the time.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know that’s relevant to the case. I’ve told you a whole lot that isn’t. I don’t think you’re entitled to any more than that, and besides I can’t think of anything else that would help. I’ve wondered myself, all these past six years, who it was that killed Ross. I even thought of hiring a private agency to look into it but I decided against it; the case was officially solved and if people started asking questions it could stir up trouble. From my point of view it was better to let Ross’s killer go free than ruin my own position.”

  “Didn’t you make any guesses?”

  “Of course. It could have been some irate husband. It could have been somebody with a grudge from Ross’ past. He had a pretty checkered life on the rodeo circuit. Maybe it was some woman he’d left at the altar somewhere, who knows. It could have been anybody.”

  “But it wasn’t,” Watchman said. “Anybody like that, they’d have had no reason to kill Maria Threepersons.”

  “I can’t answer that one, I’m afraid. I’m as mystified as you are.”

  The telephone rang.

  Through the first three rings Rand didn’t react to it; he was following some private line of thought. Then he jerked his head back. “Hell I forgot Wilma left for the day.” And reached for the phone. “Hello?” Then he waved the receiver at Watchman. “For you.”

  Watchman crossed the room. “Hello?”

  “How, red brother.” That was Buck Stevens. “Listen, I’m still in Whiteriver.”

  “Didn’t you find Harlan Natagee?”

  “Seems he’s in Oklahoma this week, something about an intertribal powwow, some Indian nationalism outfit he’s tied up with. They don’t expect him back for three, four days.”

  “I guess that’s just as well. Keep him out of the line of fire.”

  “What you want me to do now?”

  “I think maybe—”

  “Hey,” Stevens interrupted, “I’m in that phone booth at the trading post here? I’ve got Tom Victorio tugging on my sleeve, he wants to talk to you.”

  “Put him on.”

  Victorio came on the line. “Listen, I couldn’t talk before, I was on the office phone. I got to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead and talk then.”

  “It’s what I found and what I didn’t find last night. Dwight’s got two file cabinets there. They’re both locked. I’ve got a key to one of them, but I know he keeps the key to the other one in his desk so I got into both of them last night. You know those files on the water-rights case, the ones that were stolen?”

  “What about them?”

  “I found part of them. In the dead files, man. A whole bunch of my notes on precedent cases, they were in the case-closed file right down at the back of the bottom drawer. That’s part of the stuff that was stolen. If I’d known that stuff was there it would have saved three months of work.”

  “Any idea how it got there?”

  “You bet your ass. You know Lisa Natagee, the girl on the front desk in the council house? She’s the one who usually locks up the place at night.”

  “She’s Harlan Natagee’s daughter?”

  “She’s Frank’s daughter, he’s the chief. But she’s Harlan’s niece.”

  “Would she have a key to Kendrick’s files?”

  “She might know where he hides the keys in his desk. She does have keys to the offices, all the rooms in the building.”

  “Is she the only one?”

  “No, there’s a lot of people with keys but it looks fishy to me. I mean she could have slipped in there one night and just moved that stuff from the active file into the closed files and nobody’d ever think of looking down there.”

  “I thought you said there were jimmy marks on the window.”

  “There were. And some of the missing stuff’s still missing. But I still want to know how that stuff got there.”

  “What about the trust fund?”

  “There isn’t any trust fund,” Victorio said. “At least no records. I even looked under Maria’s maiden name. No file. The only file under Threepersons was the murder case. Now that ain’t like Dwight, he’s methodical, he keeps everything in triplicate just the way the Army does. I think he’s got every letter he ever wrote or received.”

  “What about the checks?”

  “Nothing in the check stubs, man. Nothing at all. No deposits, no checks.”

  “Couldn’t they be in his personal checking account at home?”

  “Sure. But this is a case, right? He’s a lawyer representing a client. There ought to be records where he billed the client, collected his fees, all that stuff. I didn’t find a thing. I mean if somebody hands you sixty-five thousand dollars to establish a trust fund you’ve got to show where the money came from and where it went. Otherwise the tax people climb all over you. But there’s no sixty-five-thousand-dollar figure recorded anywhere on the books.”

  “It was a sensitive arrangement,” Watchman said. “He probably didn’t want it to show on the firm’s books. He could have done it privately with any bank.”

  “I know that. But at least you’d think he’d show receipts for his fees. Unless he never charged a fee. And that ain’t like him, he never does anything without charging for it. Hell even the paper clips come off the clients.”

  “All right,” Watchman said. “Then what do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know. It just doesn’t make any sense at all. This whole case is screwy as hell if you ask me.”

  “Did you tell Kendrick about the files in the dead drawer?”

  “No. You want me to tell him I’ve been burglarizing his office?” Victorio drew an audible breath. “What you figure to do now, Navajo?”

  “Think a little, first. Put Buck Stevens on again, will you?”

  In a moment Stevens took the phone and Watchman said, “I’m coming down there, Buck. Stay where you are.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Maybe we got ourselves a killer. Meet yo
u at the trading post.”

  When he hung up Charles Rand was staring at him through the specks of dust that twirled in the shafts of light slanting in through the window.

  “What killer?”

  “I don’t like to talk about guesses.” The new thought had grenaded into his mind while Victorio was speaking but he wanted to reason it out and see if it worked in all the right places.

  “You came in here convinced I’d killed Ross Calisher. What changed your mind?”

  “Did I say I’d changed my mind?”

  “Come off it, Trooper, you know I’m not guilty.”

  “You’re guilty of stupidity, Mr. Rand, and from that there’s no appeal. Now if I were you I’d get over to the bunkhouse and put a crowd around you for a while. Joe Threepersons is probably coming this way. It’ll take him a while to get here and he’ll take his time working up to the house but he’ll be here—tonight, tomorrow maybe. He was gunning for Harlan Natagee first but somebody’ll tell him Harlan’s out of the state and it’s a good bet Joe will figure you for a first-rate substitute on his target list. He still thinks you hired Harlan to do the dirty work.”

  Watchman walked toward the door but he stopped with his hand on the latch. “Joe can’t use the open roads getting here. It’ll take him a while. I’ve got business in Whiteriver but I’ll try to get back here before sundown. You keep your head down, hear?”

  “Wait a minute. You said you’d got the killer.” Rand came around the desk. “I’m going down there with you.”

  Watchman didn’t like it but it would be safer all around. “All right.”

  “We’ll take my car.”

  That was all right too. Watchman didn’t trust the Volvo more than ten miles at a time any more.

  He got into the high leather seat of the Bentley and put his head back, thinking.

  4.

  It worked in his head. Joe was gunning for Rand and that was what had confused the issue—that and the vagaries of circumstantial evidence. But nothing proved Joe was necessarily after the right man.

  It could just as well mean that a third party had carefully arranged the evidence against Rand in order to convince Joe that Rand was responsible for the deaths of Maria and the boy. Now if Joe carried his vendetta to its obvious conclusion it would result in Rand’s death but that didn’t prove Rand was the right man.

  If Rand died it would benefit a large number of people. It would be a feather in the cap of Harlan’s red-power movement, especially if an Indian’s finger was on the trigger. Rand’s elimination would ease the pressures on the tribe’s leaders, who needed successes in their war against Rand’s destruction of the Reservation’s lakes and pastures.

  Rand’s death would make the job easier too for Kendrick and Tom Victorio because Rand might have successors but they would be corporate and few dictatorships outlasted the lifetimes of their founding dynasties. As far as Watchman knew, Rand had no children to carry on the leadership of his feudal empire. The corporate heirs in their eastern boardrooms would never marshal the same single-minded fervor that Rand could summon when he went into a fight. They would lose interest, they would consider the public face they had to maintain, they would give way before liberal pressures from both the tribe and the Establishment.

  It meant there could be a dozen men with reasons to want Rand dead.

  Joe Threepersons had been loaded, cocked and aimed at Charlie Rand. But Joe was somebody’s tool, and Watchman had too much invested in the case to leave it go at arresting Joe.

  As far as that went he had his plan and he expected Joe would walk into it.

  But it just wasn’t enough.

  5.

  Rand was a sure driver, he kept his big fists at a steady ten-minutes-to-two configuration on the wheel and the big Rolls chewed up miles in air-conditioned silence. Halfway to Whiteriver they spent ten minutes in a thunderstorm and batted through it with the wipers slapping the heavy rain aside.

  Rand spoke very little and Watchman spent most of the ride with his eyes shut, working it out. In the middle of the afternoon the big car crunched down the highway past the filling station and pulled into the lot between the trading post and the council house. Rand switched off the ignition and pocketed the key. “Your move.”

  Buck Stevens must have been inside the trading post. He came around the corner in uniform, giving a half-wave of lazy greeting. Watchman made the introductions and Stevens showed his admiration for Rand’s automobile.

  “Where’s Victorio?”

  “I guess he went back to his office.”

  “Kendrick in there too?”

  “I suppose so. That’s his car, isn’t it?”

  Watchman glanced at the Corvette and nodded. He said, “Joe Threepersons has been used, Buck. The man who broke him out of prison wanted him to kill Rand for him.”

  “You talking about Harlan Natagee?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re not making too much sense.”

  “I’ve got a theory. We’ll see how it works out. Just follow my lead and try to look wise.”

  “Easier done than said.” Stevens grinned at him.

  Charles Rand said, “Where do I fit in?”

  “You keep your mouth shut until you’re asked to comment. Fair enough? Otherwise you can sit in your car and wait for all I care.”

  “It’s your ball game. You call the rules.”

  “Keep it in mind,” Watchman said and walked away across the parking lot with the two men at his heels.

  He went right past the fat girl at the reception desk and strode the length of the corridor to the law offices. Pushed the door open and went straight through to Dwight Kendrick’s office.

  Kendrick looked up from his desk with raised eyebrows.

  Watchman waited for Stevens and Rand to come into the room behind him. Then he said to Kendrick, “You’re under arrest.”

  Kendrick’s face remained fixed in its expression. “On what charge?”

  “First-degree murder. Four counts.”

  6.

  Kendrick leaned back in his chair. “Haw. Haw.”

  Rand’s eyes had gone hooded, concealing his emotions. “Four counts?”

  The question revealed something but Watchman let it pass momentarily. He ticked them off on his fingers. “Ross Calisher. Maria Threepersons. Joe Threepersons Junior. Jimmy Oto.”

  Kendrick said in a mild way, “Where’s your warrant, Trooper?”

  “I’ll get one. In the meantime I’m in my rights holding onto you.”

  “You’ll end up looking like a prize ass. You know that.”

  “What, no indignant denials?”

  “Would there be much point to that?” Kendrick laced his hands behind his head. “It doesn’t matter what I deny. I don’t know how you managed to jump to these ridiculous conclusions but if I were you I’d——”

  “Button it up a minute,” Watchman said. He made a gesture to Stevens and Stevens moved reluctantly toward Kendrick, motioning him to stand up. While Kendrick decided to adopt an air of unamused disgust Stevens looked at Watchman, got a sharp nod and took out his handcuffs.

  “Now that’s ridiculous,” Kendrick said. “Put those damn things away.”

  “Put them on him,” Watchman said. “And frisk him.”

  “I’m not armed.”

  “Make sure, Buck.”

  Stevens went over Kendrick professionally and snapped the manacles on his wrists. Charles Rand brooded at all this without stirring until Watchman swung toward him with intentional abruptness. “Kendrick killed your foreman. Joe never knew the truth—Kendrick was just his defense lawyer, that’s all he ever knew. But you knew it. You knew.”

  “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Trooper.”

  Watchman shook his head. “Buck.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ask Mr. Kendrick for his car keys. Go out and have a look in the trunk of that Corvette. If you find a hacksaw put an identification label on it and impound it. Don’t get your p
rints on it or wipe his off.”

  Kendrick sat back down in his chair and shook his head. “You search nothing without a warrant. Nothing.”

  “All right then we’ll wait here until I get a warrant.” Watchman went to the phone but paused before he picked it up. “Understand, you don’t move out of my sight until your car’s been searched. And your home—I expect we’ll find the Seconal there if it’s not in the car too.”

  Kendrick said, “You get yourself a warrant and then we’ll see what you find.”

  “You know damn well what we’ll find,” Watchman said. “We’ll also have a look at your personal checkbook.”

  That one seemed to surprise Kendrick more. “What the devil for?”

  “To show the payments you made to Maria Threepersons.”

  “I already told you I made those payments.”

  “Out of your personal account? With no corresponding deposits from your nonexistent trust fund?”

  Rand said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It wasn’t you who paid that money to Maria,” Watchman said to Rand. “It was Kendrick—his own money. That’s why there’s no record of any trust fund in this office.”

  Kendrick sat bolt upright. “How do you know what records we’ve got in this office?”

  Buck Stevens said, “Didn’t he tell you? He’s got X-ray vision.”

  Kendrick ignored it and Rand went to one of the visitor’s chairs and lowered himself into it as if he had just aged fifteen years.

  Kendrick reached for his desk intercom; it was an awkward movement with manacled hands. “Tom. Get in here.”

  Rand just sat and watched: clearly he had decided not to say anything more until he found out how much Watchman had pieced together. He adapted well to changing realities; you had to give him that. But nevertheless a kind of bleakness covered his face like a film, a dismal overlay that made his eyes dull.

  Watchman said to him, “We still need the motive. Why did Kendrick kill your foreman?”