by Josh Lanyon
“It’s your property, it’s your pot,” Billingsly said without emotion. “But if you don’t think the charge fits, try this for size: aiding and abetting, or conspiring, in the possession and production of a controlled substance — with intent to distribute.”
So ... reducing the charges to “constructive possession,” what was that? Five years minimum? It was so unreal, for a moment I felt like I was on drugs.
The deputy had the handcuffs out.
My voice rose in tempo to the blood beating in my temples. “Obviously you should be looking for Ted Harvey, the guy I apparently pay to sit in the sun and smoke dope all day. Obviously —” My heart was stuttering in fear and anger. Jake put his hand on my arm in warning — which did not go unnoticed.
Jake said, “Can I ask you boys how you came to be searching the hill behind Mr. English’s house?”
“We’ve got a warrant,” Dwayne chimed in.
Billingsly looked annoyed at unauthorized vocal-I-zation. “We got an anonymous tip,” he said.
“And that doesn’t seem suspicious to you?” I cried, ignoring Jake’s hand tightening on my arm.
“Listen, English, the pot is there. And I notice you didn’t seem surprised to hear it.”
“I notice you seem more interested in anonymous phone calls than the fact I nearly got brained on my own property. Why’s that? One anonymous phone call and you’re out here like a flash, but an honest taxpayer is in the hospital two days and you never even show up to take his statement?”
Yep, I was losing it. Jake must have deduced it was time to intervene. He said mildly enough, “I don’t know how you boys handle things up here, but I’d say this is a lawsuit waiting to happen. English is barely out of the hospital.”
“They released him. If he’s well enough to leave the hospital —”
Dwayne jumped in. “Maybe you LA cops turn a blind eye to smokin’ dope and —”
“AND YOU’VE GOT A FART’S CHANCE IN A HURRICANE OF BRINGING THIS TO TRIAL,” Jake overrode them both loudly.
There was a pause in the wake of that lung power. The windmill screeched rustily in the breeze. Pretty much expressing my feelings.
“Before your DA laughs you out of his office you might want to consider the lawsuit English will slap on you,” Jake added coolly. “That’s you personally, you follow me? You’ll have liens on your wages, your home, and your car, if not your wife and kids. Think about it. Long after Mr. English has gone back to Los Angeles you’ll still be negotiating with his lawyers.”
I can’t say I appreciated this line of defense and the portrait of me as a litigation-crazed Angeleno, but it was effective as I could see by the way Deputy Dwayne sort of sidled away from his boss’s side. Billingsly’s piggy eyes flickered as he mentally squared-off against my high-priced, big-city lawyers, a long-distance nemesis he would have no power to touch.
A massive tumbleweed rolled by while we waited for the sheriff to make up his mind.
Billingsly stroked an uneasy finger down the white skunk stripe in his beard.
The sunlight shimmered blindingly off the dirt; I had to close my eyes against the glare. Jake’s hand was still fastened on me but it felt more like reassurance than restraint now. I told myself that, if they did arrest me, Jake would handle it. He would know what to do. He would have me out on bail in hours. No need to panic. I told myself this two or three times while the back of my shirt grew damp with perspiration.
“Let me give you a friendly piece of advice, boys,” Billingsly managed finally. “You rile the wrong folks, and you’ll be too busy planning your funerals to worry about going to court.”
* * * * *
“Never use the word ‘obvious’ to a hick cop,” Jake said as we watched the two-man posse ride away in a cloud of exhaust and dust. “Let alone three times in one breath.”
“Thanks for the tip. Any secret handshakes you can show me?” I turned toward the house. I needed to sit before I caved in; the roof of my skull felt like it was cracking apart, showering my brain with dust and pebbles.
Jake followed in silence.
“So how long are you staying?” I asked politely, trying to unlock the front door. My hands were shaking. Jake took the keys and let us inside.
“Just until you’re fit to drive back to LA.”
“I’m staying.”
“What do you mean, you’re staying? You live in Los Angeles remember?”
“I’m staying till I find out what the fuck is going on here!”
Jake said nothing.
I knew what he was thinking. “If I leave this place now there’s going to be a midnight barbecue to guarantee I never have reason to come back.”
“You stick around and you may wake up in the middle of a midnight barbecue.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Jake snorted. “Tough guy, huh?”
“Oh yeah, that’s me.”
He gave me a level look.
“Reality check, tough guy. You’ve got a faulty pump, savvy? That automatically disqualifies you from the Hardy Boys Club.”
Now why this simple statement of fact pissed me off so, I’m not sure. Especially since it was what I’d been telling myself.
“Nobody’s asking you to stay.” More effective I guess if my voice hadn’t gone high and quavery with stress.
“I noticed.”
I mopped my wet forehead with my sleeve, lowered myself to the sofa. More calmly, I said, “Nobody asked you to ride to my rescue. You want to bail, don’t let me stop you.”
Jake’s lips quirked as though he actually found this funny. “This is the thanks the cavalry gets?”
“You want a big, wet, sloppy kiss hello?” I started to slap my forehead, but thought better of it. “I forgot. You don’t do that.”
Silence.
“Okaaaay,” Jake said finally. “You want to say what’s on your mind?”
“I’ve said it.”
Silence.
“I’m going to lie down. You know, get some shut-eye before the barbecue starts. Check and see if we have marshmallows, will you?”
I dropped back against the cushions too fagged for the moment to care what anybody, including Jake, did. The sofa made a couple of slow wide swoops, like a merry-go-round drawing to a standstill. I closed my eyes.
I could sense Jake standing there in the middle of the room, a perplexed Colossus of Rhodes. That’s right, big boy, I thought. Do the math.
I was drifting out on the tide of peaceful oblivion when he muttered, “Now who the hell is this?”
Chapter Five
I sat up. Jake looked as irritated as if the baby had been woken from its nap.
“Who is it?” I questioned, pinching the bridge of my nose.
He shrugged. “Some kid in a green pickup. I’ll talk to him. You take it easy.”
I pushed up from the sofa. “I’m fine.” The last thing I wanted was Jake thinking I needed coddling.
“Suit yourself.”
I went out onto the front porch flanked by Jake. Kevin O’Reilly, Boy Archeologist, was climbing out of one of those battered green forester trucks (minus the ranger insignia).
“Howdy,” he called strolling toward us.
Boy Howdy, in fact. He was a good-looking kid, no doubt about it.
“Hey.”
Kevin mounted the porch stairs, shooting a quick look at Jake, who stood there, arms folded like he was posing for Bodyguard Magazine. “I heard you had an accident. I came over to see how you’re doing.”
“A-okay.”
Self-consciously he handed over a two-pound box of See’s candy. “I don’t know if you like chocolate.”
I ignored the queasy roll of my stomach. “Who doesn’t like chocolate?”
“I don’t like chocolate,” said Jake.
Kevin looked Jake up and down. Jake looked Kevin up and down.
“This is my friend, Jake Riordan.” I introduced Kevin, “Kevin’s one of the archeologists I was telling you
about.”
“Kevin O’Reilly,” Kevin said offering a hand.
They shook; I was relieved it didn’t turn into an arm wrestling match then and there. It was funny because Kevin did look like a younger version of Jake. They could have been cousins. Same gene pool.
“A pleasure to meet you — sir,” Kevin added politely. Jake’s eyes narrowed as though he were amused. I think it was amusement.
“Uh huh. You’re camped where exactly, Kevin?”
Kevin pointed out the ridge. “We’re right back behind that little mountain. In Spaniard’s Hollow.”
“Walking distance?”
“Sure.”
“Come in and have a cup of coffee,” I invited.
“No, I’ve got to get back.” Kevin glanced at Jake standing there like a monolith at my shoulder. “Dr. Shoup wanted to invite you to have dinner with us. We can show you around the site, answer any questions. Maybe reach an agreement before the lawyers get involved.”
“Sure. When?”
“Tonight.”
God not tonight, I moaned inwardly in an unsleuth-like spirit that would have bitterly disappointed Grace Latham. So it was a relief when Jake ground out, “We’ve got plans.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” I said with a glance at Jake.
“Great,” Kevin said. He smiled at me, his green eyes warm. “Glad to see you’re up and around, Adrien.”
“Thanks.”
Jake and I walked back inside as Kevin reversed in a wide arc and drove away.
“That was nice of him,” I said.
Jake grunted.
“The others are more Poindexter. You’ll see. If you stick around that is.” I dropped the candy on the nearest chair and felt my way through the obstacle course of furniture. There was still something weird with my vision; it seemed cavern-dark inside the house after the brilliance of outdoors.
“Yeah?” Jake didn’t sound particularly interested. “What’s the fishing like around here?”
“Fishing or trolling?”
“Fishing.” He shut the door with a small bang that sent my nerves jumping.
“Good, I think. I don’t know about Lake Senex, but the rivers are full of trout and bass.” We were talking about fishing?
Apparently we were. “I should have brought my poles,” Jake said surprisingly. “I guess I can rent a couple in town when I pick up a fishing license.”
“Planning on staying?”
“Just till you wise up.”
“I’m flattered you think that’s a possibility.”
“Yeah, well it’s lucky I’ve rolled a lot of vacation.”
I tottered back to the couch and Jake asked, “You want some lunch?”
“Bastard.” I added fretfully, “Can’t you hear the tom-toms?”
“No. What do they say?”
“White man need more pain killer.”
“I thought you were the strong silent type.”
“Me? You’re obviously thinking of one of your leatherboy friends.”
I kept my eyes closed during the charged pause that followed this. At last Jake said mildly, “Since you’re feeling chatty, maybe you’ll fill me in on the drug charges.”
I rubbed my temples and said, “It’s a frame. My belief is Ted Harvey planted that crop.”
“Ted Harvey being your handyman?”
“Not so handy as it turns out.”
“What’s your arrangement with him?”
I opened my eyes, surprising an expression on Jake’s face I didn’t recognize. His gaze met mine briefly, veered away.
I said, “He lives here rent free. I pay the utilities and a hundred bucks a month for him to keep an eye on the place. He’s supposed to take care of any repairs, and arrange to have someone from town come and clean up every so often.”
“Aren’t you the guy always short of cash?”
“Yes, and if I had any brains I’d sell the place.” But it had been in my family for over a century. Nor would I ever be able to afford anything comparable on my own.
“And your theory is that Harvey is growing and selling pot on the back of your property?”
“I don’t know about selling it, although he seems like an enterprising chap; I think he forged a letter to the Tuolumne College Archeology Department.”
“Why?”
“Why did he forge it?”
Patiently Jake reined me in. “Why do you think Harvey forged it?”
“For one thing he’s the only person in a four hundred mile radius who had access to my stationery or signature. For another, the college was instructed to make checks payable to the Pine Shadow Ranch.”
“To the ranch?”
“As though it were a business entity, you see? Then Harvey, I’ll make you a bet, cashed those checks locally without any hitch because everyone knows he handles the ranch maintenance.”
“But you don’t know this for a fact?”
“I didn’t have a chance to check on it.”
“It’s not bad,” Jake admitted. “Small towns tend to be informal about that kind of thing. Everybody knows Harvey, knows he works for you. Someone might assume you had authorized him to act on your behalf; that would set a precedent.”
“A bit of forgery, a bit of larceny, a touch of chicanery. I wonder which one got him killed — and why the body was moved.”
“Now that’s a jump.”
“When I described the man I’d seen to the sheriff the first name he suggested was Ted Harvey.”
“But he’d think of Harvey anyway since Harvey lives on the premises.”
That was true. I hadn’t considered that.
“But Harvey’s missing.”
“Says who? How do you know he’s not on a fishing trip?”
“His truck is here.”
“Maybe he’s with friends. Or he could be lying low. How do you know he didn’t hit you?”
“Why would he?”
“Maybe he doesn’t like visitors after ten o’clock? Maybe he’s used to dealing with folks less civilized than yourself?” He rose. “What do you have to eat around here?”
I left him to figure it out, leaning back and closing my eyes. Jake had a point. I needed to see a recent picture of Harvey. Criminal investigation begins with the victim. At this point we were not even sure who our victim was.
After a few minutes of listening to Jake bang around the kitchen, and trying to convince myself I didn’t feel so bad, it struck me that I had really underplayed this concussion thing in my own writing. Jason Leland was routinely knocked on his noggin and an hour later was back to chasing bad guys backstage, upstage and all around the town. The reality was a shattering headache to end all headaches, blurred vision, a touch of nausea, and pulverized neck and shoulder muscles. But at least the old ticker was still keeping time.
* * * * *
When I woke several hours later, Jake was outside reducing the timberline to a pile of kindling. For a time I stood at the window admiring the bronzed musculature of his bare chest as he sweated and chopped wood with manly ferocity. He looked right at home, ax in hand, his blond hair shining like miner’s gold in the mountain breeze.
Yep, my vision was definitely improved.
Wandering into the kitchen, I found canned stew simmering on the back burner. A taste off the wooden spoon informed me Jake had doctored it up with several cloves of garlic and the vintage Tabasco sauce in the cupboard. If anything could clear his sinuses it was this recipe.
I was having a bowl when Jake walked in buttoning up his shirt.
“You look better,” he observed giving me a close look.
“I feel better.”
He washed up at the sink then dished out a bowl of stew at the stove. Getting a beer out of the fridge, he sat down across from me.
“You know we could probably pay someone to drive the Bronco. You could come back to LA with me.”
I put my spoon down. “I already told you —”
“I know what
you said; now hear me out.”
I waited.
“I think maybe you have stumbled onto something here. I checked out Harvey’s trailer while you were sleeping and I’m pretty sure it’s been ransacked.”
“I think it always looks like that.”
“Drawers emptied out; the couch cushions and bed mattress ripped open? The fridge dumped over?”
“Well … no.” No, that was different. That explained what had been going on in Harvey’s trailer the night I’d been knocked out.
Jake studied me thoughtfully. “If Harvey’s dealing then you may have wandered into the middle of a local drug war.”
“Here? In Calavares County?”
“You scare me when you say things like that,” he said seriously.
I guess it did sound a bit Our Townish. “Okay, I know the drug problem has reached the suburbs, but this doesn’t feel like a drug deal gone bad.”
“Please don’t use the word intuition to me or I will slug you. Aren’t you the guy who told me one of the golden rules of mystery fiction is that detectives may not solve the crime by use of intuition and/or acts of God?”
Jeez, who knew he was listening that closely? “That’s in books, Jake,” I protested. “Aren’t you the guy who told me a cop’s gut instinct is one of his best tools?”
“You’re not a cop, baby. You’re a bookseller. You don’t have a gut instinct. You have a knack for nearly getting yourself killed.”
I batted my lashes. “I didn’t know you cared.”
His eyes held mine briefly. “The hell you didn’t.”
“What can happen with you here to protect me?”
Jake made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh which blew soup from his spoon across the table. How could you resist such a big lug?
“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said.
* * * * *
After dinner Jake built a bonfire in the fireplace and we had our coffee and See’s candy in front of its crackling warmth. For a guy who didn’t like chocolate, Jake consumed his fair share. He also showed a propensity to lick his fingers. I found this distracting: the slow slide of his pink tongue up his naked finger. He had big hands, strong hands, but the fingers were long and sensitive, and I kept wondering what those hands would feel like on my body.
