“And she never told you what she was looking for?” Callahan asked again.
“She seemed to think I should already know,” Clint explained. “She was frustrated when I didn’t.”
Callahan sat there a few moments, probably trying to think of more questions.
“Can I get you a drink?” Clint asked.
Callahan looked at him, as if reminded that he was still there.
“I think I’ll have a beer,” the policeman finally said.
“I’ll get it for you.”
Clint went to the bar, got two fresh beers and brought them back to the table.
“Thanks,” Callahan said.
“Can you tell me how she was killed?” Clint asked.
“She was shot,” Callahan said. “Twice. Both times in the chest, at close range.”
“Where was she found?”
“In an alley downtown.”
“You’re welcome to check my gun, Inspector—”
“I’m not saying I suspect you, Mr. Adams,” Callahan said. “I’m just trying to figure out the girl’s actions. I’m trying to come up with my next question. If you don’t know her, and don’t know what she was looking for . . . and you haven’t seen your friend since you arrived?”
“That’s right.”
Suddenly, Callahan seemed to remember something. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it across to Clint.
“Recognize that handwriting?”
Clint looked at the paper. It had his name and the name of the hotel on it, just like the inspector had first said. Clint studied it for a moment, then handed it back. He had been right earlier. He couldn’t have told the lawman whether or not that was Singleton’s writing. He just didn’t know.
“I can’t,” he said. “Sorry.”
Callahan drank down half his beer and abruptly stood up.
“Will you be here much longer, sir?” he asked. “And by that I mean staying at this hotel?”
“I’m going to try to find my friend, Inspector,” Clint said. “I’ll be here until I do, or until I get a lead on where he might be.”
“Do me a favor,” Callahan said, “and check in with me before you leave our city.”
“I can do that, Inspector.”
“Thank you,” the man said. “And thanks for the drink.”
As the policeman left, Clint could think of only one word to describe the man—befuddled.
He knew how he felt.
SIXTEEN
Victor Barrett stepped out into the hall to talk to Jerry and Roman. He’d pulled his trousers back on over his erection.
“Have you got something for me already?” he asked.
Roman had spotted the woman on the bed when his boss opened the door, and now he craned his neck to try to get another look. Jerry slapped his arm to make him stop.
“Boss, we heard Callahan was goin’ to the Marsh House Hotel to see Clint Adams.”
“Why would the inspector want to see Adams?” Barrett asked.
“Well, they found a dead girl,” Jerry said. “The word we got is that she knew Adams—at least, she had his name on her.”
“What girl?”
“We don’t know,” Jerry said. “Some young girl.”
“Adams said something about a girl pointing a gun at him,” Barrett recalled.
“Maybe he found ’er and killed ’er” Roman said.
“Don’t be stupid,” Barrett said. “He wouldn’t have any reason to do that.”
“What do we do, Boss?” Jerry asked.
“Keep tryin’ to find out what you can about Ted Singleton,” Barrett said. “And have someone watch Adams at his hotel. I want to know where he goes.”
“Okay,” Jerry said.
“Jerry,” Barrett said, grabbing the older man’s arm, “pick somebody who won’t be seen, all right?”
“I know just the guy, Boss.”
“Okay.”
Barrett only had to look at Roman to know what he was thinking.
“Okay, kid, take a quick look.” He opened the door to his room wide. Maxine was still naked on the bed.
“Give the kid a thriller, Maxine.”
At first she looked annoyed, but then a slow smile played across her face and she posed. She gave him a good look at her breasts, getting to her knees and holding them in her hands, and then flopped onto her back and opened her legs to give him a gander at—
“Okay, Boss,” Roman said, his face coloring, “we gotta go.”
Jerry looked at Barrett, shook his head and said, “She scared him.”
“Jesus, Jerry,” Barrett said, “get that kid to a whorehouse.”
“Yeah, Boss,” Jerry said. “After we’re done.”
“You don’t want to take a look, Jerry?” Barrett asked him.
“Naw, Boss,” Jerry said. “I seen plenty of naked women before.”
“Stay in touch,” Barrett said. “You need any money? Dope? Anything else to trade in?”
“I got what I need, Boss,” Jerry said. “I’ll let ya know if I need more.”
“You’re a good man, Jer.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
Barrett thought his men could use a stroking of their egos from time to time. In point of fact Jerry was a good man, and Barrett didn’t have many of them working for him these days. It was almost time for him to go on a hiring spree. Maybe it was time for him to spend a little more money and stop hiring men right off the boats.
He went into his apartment and closed the door behind him.
“It’s about time,” Maxine said. “This gal is in need of a little attention.”
“And you’re gonna get it, too,” he said, finally removing his trousers.
Her eyes widened as his rigid penis came into view, and she said, “Come to Mama!”
SEVENTEEN
After the inspector left, Clint nursed his second beer, thinking about Singleton and the poor girl, Julie. He’d spent all of fifteen minutes with her, but her death angered him. He needed somebody to blame, which meant he had to find Ted, or even Amanda. One of them had to know something about the girl who thought she was Singleton’s partner. Or maybe he should just go to Barrett. He was someone who, if he didn’t know anything about her murder, could probably find out.
Guiltily—because the young girl was dead and would never have another meal—he suddenly found himself ravenously hungry. Maybe that was just a result of hearing about a violent death. He was alive, so he had to eat. It was only natural.
He finished his beer and walked out into the lobby to cross over to the dining-room side. Because he was preoccupied with both the girl’s death and with eating, he didn’t notice the man by the front door, watching him.
Inspector Charles Callahan entered the office of his superior, Captain O’Neal, knowing he did not have what the man wanted to hear. Callahan was a young inspector, who had been promoted over the protestations of O’Neal, who had put up his own man for the position, a fellow Irishman. Callahan knew that O’Neal would have liked nothing better than for him to fail, so he had to be careful.
“What have you got for me on this dead girl, Inspector?”
“Not a lot, sir. I—”
“What do you mean, not a lot?” O’Neal demanded. “Didn’t the dead girl have a man’s name in her pocket when she died?”
“Well, yes sir, but—”
“Did you question this man?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“He met the girl yesterday, spoke with her for twenty minutes and never saw her again.”
“So he says.”
“Yes—”
“And you believe him?”
“Yessir, I do.”
“Why?”
“Well sir, it was Clint Adams, and he has a certain rep—”
“I know his reputation, Inspector,” O’Neal said. “He’s a killer, a gunman.”
“That’s not exactly true, Captain—”
“Why didn’t you haul him
in here?”
“Well, sir, there’s no evidence—”
“Bring him in and we’ll find some evidence.” O’Neal pounded his desk with his fist. “Do I have to teach you proper police work, son?”
Here was where Callahan knew he had to stand up for himself, or be rolled over by his superior.
“Sir, with all respect, this is my case and I’m not ready to bring anybody in yet.”
O’Neal’s face was suffused with blood, until Callahan thought the man’s head would burst.
“You little piss—” the man started, but then seemed to think better of it. He sat back in his chair, took some breaths, and the redness began to fade from his face. “All right, Inspector. It’s your case. You do what you think is best.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“That’ll be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Callahan stood up and left the captain’s office. He knew what the man was thinking. He’d let Callahan go ahead and do things his way, hoping that it would come back to bite him in the ass. That was okay. Callahan intended to watch his ass very carefully.
O’Neal sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together, resting then on his bloated belly. Callahan was playing right into his hand, and before long his fellow Irishman, Sean O’Casey, would be taking over young Callahan’s job. He needed O’Casey to be in place, so that the monthly envelopes from Vincent Barrett did not stop coming. Callahan was honest to a fault, and would never cooperate in the collection of the envelopes.
Once Callahan muffed this homicide case, or got his head handed to him by the killer, he’d be back in uniform walking a beat. A man with a reputation like Clint Adams would eat young Charlie Callahan for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
And Bill O’Neal couldn’t wait.
Callahan went back to his own office, a small room barely larger than a closet, and found his friend, Lieutenant Powell.
“How’d it go, Charlie?” Powell asked.
“Not good,” Callahan said. “I don’t see how much longer I can go before he finally gets me, Sam.”
“Well, if he wants to get you, he probably will,” Powell said, “unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you make it impossible.”
“And how do I do that?”
Powell stood up and walked around the desk, put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Solve the girl’s murder.”
“I’m trying.”>
“Any suspect?”
“Well . . . not a suspect, but she had his name on a piece of paper in her pocket. O’Neal wants me to bring him in.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“I talked with him, Sam,” Callahan said. “I believe him when he says he barely knew the girl.”
“Who is this guy?”
“Clint Adams.”
“The Gunsmith?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Charlie,” Powell said, “if he didn’t do it, then get him to help you find out who did.”
“Why would he help me?”
“Tell him your boss wants you to arrest him,” Powell suggested, “and unless you locate the real killer, that’s what you’re gonna have to do.”
“But—”
“But nothin’,” Powell said. “You want to go back to wearing a uniform?”
“No.”
“Then press Adams into service,” Powell said. “He’s got a rep, and I heard he’s solved a murder or two in his time.”
“Really?”
“And if nothin’ else, you can use him to scare people into talkin’ to you,” Powell added. “Do it, Charlie. Your career depends on it.”
After his friend left, Callahan sat behind his own desk, looked around his tiny office and asked himself aloud, “This is a career?”
EIGHTEEN
Clint spent the rest of the night in his room alone, first cleaning his guns, then reading a Mark Twain novel. He’d met Twain briefly some years ago and had become a fan of his work.
He’d hoped to hear from Barrett sometime that night, but by the time he finally closed the Twain book to turn in, there was no word. Maybe he’d hear something in the morning.
He blocked the door with a chair, set the room’s pitcher and basin on the windows as a warning system, then went to sleep. He didn’t want to wake up to any more guns being stuck in his face, especially not by women.
He had breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning, and was surprised when Inspector Charles Callahan reappeared. He’d been hoping for Barrett, or an emissary.
The policeman located him in the crowded dining room and came over to his table.
“Good morning, Inspector.”
“Mr. Adams.”
“Care to join me?”
“I had breakfast, thanks,” Callahan said. “but I will join you for a cup of coffee.”
“Please,” Clint said.
There was already a second cup on the table. Clint turned it right side up and poured the inspector a full cup.
“Thank you.”
“Did you think of some more questions you didn’t ask last night?” Clint asked.
“No, not exactly,” Callahan said.
“What brings you out so early then?”
Callahan sipped his coffee and set the cup down. Clint could see the younger man was wrestling with something.
“You see, I have this captain,” Callahan said, finally. “His name’s O’Neal?”
“Okay.”
“He wants me to arrest you.”
“For what?”
“Suspicion of murder.”
“Because of the girl having my name in her pocket?” Clint asked. “That’s pretty flimsy grounds to arrest me, Inspector, don’t you think?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Callahan said. “That’s why I’m not going to do it.”
“Won’t that get you in trouble with your captain?” Clint asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Callahan said, “and he’s just looking for an excuse to get rid of me.”
“So you came here to tell me you’re not going to arrest me?”
“Not exactly,” Callahan said. “I actually came here to ask you for your help.”
“To do what?”
“To prove to my captain that you didn’t kill Julie Silver.”
Clint studied the young man while finishing the last bite of his steak and eggs.
“There’s only one way to do that,” he said, after swallowing.
“And that is?”
“To find out who did kill her.”
“Well,” Callahan said, “that’s my job . . . but I thought you might want to help.”
“Let me get this straight,” Clint said. “I either help or get arrested for murder?”
“That’s not the way I would have put it,” the young inspector said, “but that’s the way it might actually come out. So . . . yes.”
NINETEEN
“I’m not a detective.”
“I’ve heard that your reputation has many facets,” Callahan said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I heard that you have solved a murder or two in your time.”
Clint sat back in his chair and stared at the young man.
“I’m going to help you,” he said, finally.
“Well . . . good. Thanks.”
“But I want the truth.”
“About what?”
“Who put you up to this?”
“I’m sorry . . . up to what?”
“Somebody told you to pressure me into helping you,” Clint said. “You didn’t think this up on your own.”
“I don’t—”
“Was it Ted Singleton?”
“I told you last night, I don’t know who that is.”
“Yes, and I told you last night I didn’t know the dead girl for anything but twenty minutes. Yet here you are, back again, asking me to help find out who killed her, when she’s a perfect stranger to me.”
&
nbsp; “Mr. Adams, I—”
“What about Barrett? Was it Barrett?”
“Barrett?”
Clint immediately wished he could bite his tongue off.
“Do you mean Victor Barrett?” Callahan asked. “You know Victor Barrett?”
“We’re acquainted.”
“When . . . how . . . I thought you said you haven’t been to Sacramento for a long time.”
“I did say that.”
“Then how do you know Barrett?”
“I heard of him,” Clint said, “and thought he might be able to help me find my friend Ted.”
“Well, that explains it,” Callahan said.
“Explains what?”
“Why there is a Barrett man watching the hotel. He’s watching you.”
“There’s a man watching me?”
“He’s very good at it,” Callahan said. “He’s blending in quite well.”
“Is he in the lobby?”
Callahan shook his head.
“Across the street.”
Clint was annoyed that someone was watching him and he hadn’t caught him. Barrett must have picked him because he was good at watching and following someone in the city. Out on the trail Clint would have seen him right away.
“All right, Inspector,” Clint said, “what do you want me to do?”
“Well, Mr. Adams—”
Clint held up his hand and said, “Call me Clint. What do you like, Charles or Charlie?”
“I like Inspector.”
“I figured, since it must be a fairly new rank for you.”
“Well . . . yeah, a month.”
“Well, I like Charlie,” Clint said. “That’s what I’m going to call you.”
“Fine.”
“What do you want from me, Charlie?”
“I want you to come with me to talk to the people in the neighborhood where Julie Silver was found.”
“And?”
“Talk to them.”
“You want me to scare them, don’t you?” Clint asked. “With my big bad reputation.”
“Well . . .”
“Don’t you have big, scary policeman in your department?”
“Big maybe,” Callahan said, “but none as scary as you will be.”
“Charlie,” Clint said, “you’re wearing a gun, right? Under you arm?”
“Yes.”
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