The Complete Bragg Thriller Box Set

by Jack Lynch

  “And what did you find out?”

  “He wanted her to go down on him out in my back garden there. Sheeeit, the boldness of some of you crackers.”

  “I’d like to talk to this Moxie or Foxie. Know where I can get in touch with her? Or the friends she came with?”

  “Unnecessary. She was just playing him for laughs. I heard her telling somebody later. Besides, she didn’t live where she told him. She was just passing through the area from L.A. She was on her way to visit people in Tacoma, then she was going back to New York. I just wanted you to realize why I figure there was a little put-on involved when he made such a to-do over seeing my own backside. I guess you’d have to say he’s a man of many parts, and I never bothered trying to sort them through. My friendship is with Marcie.”

  “Does she talk about Jerry much?”

  “Not in depth. She’ll mention funny little things that happen, but not much more than that. And I don’t pry.”

  “One last tough one, Zoom. I have to ask them where they might help.”

  “I know.”

  “How about Marcie? She’s a very pretty girl. She could have guys stumbling all over themselves to spend time with her. Do you think she ever does?”

  “No, I don’t. She likes to be seen. Likes to be admired. But the times I’ve seen anyone try to come on a little bit, and there have been some really pretty fellows too, she just lets them know it’s a nice compliment, but no thanks. She seems to be a definite one-man woman.”

  Zoom put aside the regular cigarette and relit the other. She inhaled deeply and held it for the better part of a minute before exhaling.

  “And that,” she said, “leaves me with a chill when I think about what went on out in the garden that night.”

  SEVEN

  The next morning I phoned the Legion Palace Museum and made an appointment to see Dean Bancroft, who ran the place. The museum was in a magnificent setting up behind the cliffs on the south side of the Golden Gate, just seaward of the bridge itself. I arrived a little before eleven and was sent down a long marble corridor to Bancroft’s office. The museum director turned out to be a wiry, middle-aged man with his sleeves rolled up and a cigarette between his lips. He rose from behind a cluttered desk and extended one hand.

  “Bragg, what can I do for you?” he asked, waving me to a chair.

  “I’m doing some work involving Coast West Insurance. I understand they had a policy on a painting that was stolen here last month.”

  “Right. I talked to another Coast West man about it.”

  “The painting hasn’t been recovered?”

  “No. The exhibit itself is up in Portland now. The missing painting was just a minor piece of the whole traveling show. It was called New Directions. Frankly, it’s the sort of stuff I call woodshed modern. Real out of the mainstream pieces. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have given you a thousand bucks for the lot. And that’s what we’ll get for just the one piece. Or rather the owner will.”

  “How come you even had the exhibit if you didn’t like it?”

  Bancroft coughed a couple times and ground out his cigarette, then groped through things on his desk until he found the rest of the pack. “I’m just one of the voices around here. That damn collection was like a Herb Caen column. Most everybody found one or two things in it they liked. So we brought it in. Besides, it was put together by a friend of mine, Sy Norman at the L.A. Museum of Modern Art. I figured if he liked the thing, there must have been some merit in it somewhere, although I’ll tell you, bud, it wasn’t apparent to this tired old gent.”

  “You sound kind of hostile.”

  “Well I feel hostile about a lot of that stuff. To my mind it’s worthless. A lot of these people will put in a few years trying to learn the craft and some of them do a good job of it, but a lot of them don’t, and they don’t have anything in their heads or their hearts to say in the first place, or a sense of humor or eye for design or anything else. So they’re apt to fluke around until they stumble on some gimmick and exploit it as if they’d started a whole new movement. Now in its own way that’s fine, if they want to show it along with a lot of other third-rate stuff at a supermarket parking lot art festival. And I guess it’s all right if the solid Americans from the suburbs want to be taken in by it all and pay cash money to own a piece of it. But I don’t think it’s all right to put a collection of that stuff inside the same walls that exhibit Rodin or Matisse or Degas.”

  Bancroft blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Jesus Christ, what set that off? If I were a girl I’d suspect I was getting my period.”

  “Did you feel the stolen painting was as bad as the rest?”

  “I knew I’d be wide open after that outburst,” he said with a wan smile. “Actually, no. It was a repelling piece, but fascinating at the same time. One of four works in the exhibit done by somebody who worked under the name Pavel. I don’t know if that was his real name. They were life-like and showed some unusual techniques, but the most startling thing about them was that they all portrayed individuals looking out at you with expressions of startlement bordering on terror. It was as if they had stumbled onto something catastrophic. They were scary numbers. One actually raised the down on the back of my neck. But who the hell could live with something like that staring out at you? They looked like the product of a crafts wing in the nut house.”

  “Do you know anything more about the painter?”

  “Heard he lived in Southern California someplace. Want the name of the guy who owns them?”

  “Sure, it might help.”

  Bancroft picked through stuff on his desk, then went into a desk drawer and finally pulled out a black binder. He paged through it. “Here it is, a guy named Bo Smythe, in Santa Barbara.”

  “Bo?”

  Bancroft nodded. “That’s it. Sounds like the sort of bird who’d buy paintings in a supermarket parking lot, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you have a copy of the missing piece?”

  “No,” said Bancroft, going through the desk drawer again. “But here’s a brochure we had on the show. It has a reproduction of one of the other Pavel works that was in the exhibit.”

  He gave me a pamphlet on brown, grainy stock. The reproduction wasn’t large, but it effectively showed a man’s face looking out at you as if he’d just had the biggest scare of his life.

  “Can I keep this?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Was the man from Coast West that you spoke to named Jerry Lind?”

  “Something like that. He came around a few days after it happened. Couldn’t tell him much more than I’m telling you. The snatch was on a Wednesday evening, when we’re open till nine. One of the guards just noticed on his rounds that somebody had cut the thing right out of its frame. It was simple enough to do. The painting was on treated canvas.”

  “How big was it?”

  “It was a little larger than the other Pavel pieces. About twenty by thirty inches. Showed a woman looking over a porch railing as if she’d just seen her little boy swallowed up by a hay baling machine.”

  The Horace Day Hospital was two blocks from the Sears store on Geary. At a little before noon I was lounging around the third-floor corridor. I was in time to see the girl Laurel Benson had described coming into work. She bordered on the petite, but had a brisk manner.

  “Miss Westover?”

  “Yes?”

  I opened my wallet. “My name’s Peter Bragg. Jerry Lind’s secretary over at Coast West said you might be able to help me on a matter.”

  The small girl in white glanced around, looked in the doorway of a nearby room and motioned me in. It was unoccupied. Donna Westover closed the door and turned like a young lynx.

  “What is this? Are you working for his wife?”

  “No, his sister. Did you know that he’s missing?”

  It surprised her. “No, I didn’t.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “He was in the hospital last Decem
ber.”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  “What you asked isn’t really anybody’s business, is it?”

  “Suppose he’s lying dead somewhere, Miss Westover? Then the last few months of his life would be police business. Maybe I can keep it from going that far if people cooperate. So maybe I’ve learned Jerry was seeing other women. It doesn’t exactly scandalize me. All I want to do is find him. Honest.”

  Her mouth softened a little. “What is it you want to know?”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Three or four weeks ago.”

  “Can you pin it down any closer?”

  She took a wallet out of her purse and looked at a calendar. “Friday, three weeks ago.”

  That had been a week before Lind dropped out of sight. “What did you do?”

  “We had dinner together.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all you’re going to hear about. I’ll admit that I saw him from time to time. I thought he was cute. But I don’t intend to tell you anything more than that. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “I’ll accept that. But I’d like to know if you went to bed with him.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “It would help if I could learn he was apt to do that.”

  “You can believe he was apt to do that, or at least to try. Whether or not he did with me I won’t tell you. It doesn’t matter now anyway.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Anything we might have had between us is finished.”

  “You quarreled?”

  “No, we didn’t quarrel. He just phoned one night to tell me it was all over. He said he’d been chatting with an old art school pal about his life, and had decided to give another try to being an honest husband. That’s how he put it. As if I had tainted him somehow.”

  “Don’t let it bother you, if it still does. From what I’ve learned about Jerry, and what I’ve seen of you, I think you could do a whole lot better.”

  “Thanks so much. Anything else?”

  “Yes. When did he phone to tell you this?”

  “That one’s easy. It was a Monday evening, a week after our last date.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes. Unlike most people I try not to repress the bad in my life. I had to work the entire following week after the dinner we had together. Two other girls on the floor were out sick. Jerry and I had a dinner date for the next Tuesday evening. I was looking forward to it. But he phoned just the night before. It was the shining end to a wonderful work week.”

  “Did he call from in town here?”

  “I wish he had. He called collect. I accepted because I figured he was stuck somewhere without change. And of course I didn’t know then he was about to call off the Whole Big Thing.”

  “Where did he call from?”

  “A town up north on the coast. A place called Barracks Cove.”

  From a downstairs telephone booth I made calls to Janet Lind and Marcie. So far as either of them knew, Jerry didn’t know anybody living in Barracks Cove. They both wanted to ask questions of their own, but I stalled and said I’d get back to them later. I left the hospital, drove over to Park Presidio and turned north toward the bridge. It was beginning to shape up into a nice day. Donna Westover seemed pretty sure of her dates; she had good reason to be. And if she were right, she had spoken to Jerry Lind more than twenty-four hours after he’d dropped out of everybody else’s life.

  Fifteen minutes later I was in my Sausalito apartment, packing. It didn’t take long. I figured all I needed was enough for a day or two of motel living. In the event of emergencies, I always have junk in my car trunk for living off the land. Just before snapping shut the suitcase I went to the locked desk in a work alcove off the front room and took out a couple of holstered handguns and some ammunition. There was no indication I’d need them, but if it should turn out that I did, I wanted them in my suitcase rather than in my Sausalito apartment.

  There were two ways to drive to Barracks Cove. One was up the winding coast highway, and the other was to take Highway 101 north for about 150 miles, then turn onto the slow, loopy road over the coast range to the ocean. It was about a five- to six-hour drive either way, but I went up Highway 101 because during the early part of the journey it gave the impression you were making good time. Of course I paid for that heavily on the loopy road part of the trip. I had forgotten that there was some serious logging going on east of Barracks Cove. The government was about to take possession of several thousand more acres of prime timber land to add to a national park. The lumbering people were working day and night and weekends to harvest as many redwoods as possible before the deadline and its ensuing cutting restrictions. As a youth driving roads on the Olympic Peninsula up in the state of Washington I had learned that there are few things as humbling as seeing 80,000 pounds of truck and timber in your rear-view mirror roaring up behind you and whipping past. Those people should have their own roads. But they don’t, and several of the rigs made me hunch my shoulders on my way over to Barracks Cove, just like in the old days.

  It was early evening when I got there. I bought a tankful of gas and consulted a local phone directory. There was only one art supply store listed. It was called the Frame Up, and a small advertisement in the Yellow Pages said it was “On the Square.” The Square turned out to be a great plot of lawn and trees in the center of town. It probably had been a parade ground back in the town’s Army days. The town hall and police headquarters were at one end, and the rest was given over to a playground, picnic benches and a small rose garden. Across the surrounding streets on all four sides were the shops, restaurants and stores that marked it the hub of Barracks Cove. By now the sun had dipped behind an offshore fog bank, and a sharp breeze was blowing in from the sea. People were deserting the park as if a quiet warning had been passed. Most of the shops already were closed.

  The Frame Up was on the south side of the Square. A big, plate glass window provided a nice display area to pull in passing foot traffic. It now featured a huge mural filled with caricatures of local people and places. It was a busy piece of work, almost disjointed, with funny juxtapositions and oddly shaped forms in a variety of styles. It showed the Town Square, including the Frame Up, the ocean and state park up north, skinny dippers, service stations, firemen, sexy drive-in waitresses, humorless cops, dairy farms, bars, a chugging train, souped-up cars and enough other people and things to make a person dizzy.

  I went inside, tinkling an overhead bell. The shop was narrow, cramped and seemingly deserted. Things elbowed one another for space. Paintings covered the walls, hung from the ceiling and stood propped on the floor. Glass display cabinets stored charcoal, oils, pencils and blades. The propped and hanging work showed a multiplicity of styles, from delicate still life to portraits to exploding heavens. Something clattered behind a curtained doorway in the rear and a man’s voice cursed.

  “Hello!” it cried out. “Is there anybody out there?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well come on back here and give me a hand, will you?”

  I went back through the curtain to a disordered storage area more crammed with things than the front shop. Racks suspended from the ceiling held empty frames and wooden boards and slats. A long, sinewy fellow in his fifties wearing a smock was atop a stepladder. He leaned at a precarious angle with a large, ornate frame in one hand.

  “Take this for a minute, will you? And be careful of that one on the floor beside the ladder. I just dropped the damn thing.”

  I took the ornate frame and retrieved the fallen one. The man on the ladder did some more business with the rack until he pulled out yet another frame. “Now, if you’ll be kind enough to take this one for me.”

  I took it and put it aside.

  “Then hand back those others.”

  When we were all through he climbed down and wiped his hands on his
smock. “Much obliged, mister. Something’s got to give, there’s just no more room. Either I gotta expand or else touch off the whole shebang with a match.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “I am mightily torn,” said the older fellow, carrying the frame into the front of the shop. “What with all the different media and material the art gang wants—always something different. I swear to God I spend half my time on the ladder in back and the other half on the telephone to San Francisco ordering things. My name’s Wiley Huggins, by the way. Owner and proprietor.”

  He offered a narrow hand that had a strong grip. “Peter Bragg,” I told him. “Saw in the phone book you seem to be the only art supply place around.”

  “That is correct. Wish to hell I had some competition. But you have to know your business, same as with anything else. Plus not have any big dream to become a millionaire. That seems to be a hard combination to find anymore.”

  “At least it should make my job easier. I’m looking for a young fellow from San Francisco. I was hoping to find him through a friend he went to school with, living up here now. Probably an artist.”

  “Well there are plenty of them around. Some real, some pretending and a whole slough in between. The one who might be an artist you say, is it a man or a woman?”

  “I don’t know that. Here’s a picture of the man I’m looking for. His name is Jerry Lind. He was supposed to have been around town here a couple of weeks ago. Maybe he came in here with his friend.”

  Huggins adjusted his glasses and squinted at the photo. “No, I’ve never seen this man.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yup. He bears a strong resemblance to a nephew of mine. They both have weak chins.”

  “His friend would probably be about the same age. Middle or late twenties. Went to school down in Southern California.”

  “Oh, God,” said Huggins, dusting off the frame. “I don’t know where they all come from, or where they’re going. Half of them don’t know themselves. They’re a little crazy, you know, artists. And some of them, the long-haired and the unwashed, are apt to shamble around town with glazed eyes not knowing where they are right at the present.”