by Jack Lynch
“I see. Yes, Mr. Wagner, and thank you very much.”
She replaced the phone gently, and spoke softly without looking up. “He withdrew a hundred dollars from an automatic teller late last night, then withdrew a large sum from his savings account from a branch in Santa Rosa soon after it opened this morning.”
“How large?”
“Low five figures. Translate that to ten thousand dollars.”
She took a tissue from a box atop the nightstand. She blew her nose, then got to her feet. Her face had hardened some. She looked like she was clearing the deck for action.
“Want a job?” she asked me.
“I’ve got a job.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Not really, but I might get lucky. Maybe it won’t take too long. What do you want done?”
“Find Duffy. Clear him. One, or both; whatever needs doing.”
“Will your father pay?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I have access to money. Not the family fortune, but enough. I’ve been good about putting it away.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be happy to take the job, once I clear up this other thing.”
“What other thing?”
“The Dustin construction firm wants me to find Andy. To tell him about his boy, along with some other things.”
“Have you any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“How will you go about it?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe your father can help. Know where he is?”
“No. Give me a number where I can reach you. I’ll phone when he gets in.”
“I’m going to be moving around some. I’ll phone back later.”
She nodded, and I followed her back outside to the pool. She moved slowly, in a distracted manner. She paused to stare down at the distorted pattern of green and black tiles at the bottom of the pool, then turned back. “Maybe you should talk to Melody.”
“About your brother?”
“No, about Andy Dustin. She might know where he is. She’s close to the woman he went off with, somebody named Gloria. I thought she was kind of a floozy, myself, but Andy thought she was pretty hot stuff. They met at the big barbecue and rally we had out here last summer.”
“Is she an older woman?”
“No, that’s just it. She was pretty young, and like I said, close to Melody. Maybe Andy would go off somewhere to play and not tell anybody where he was, but a woman couldn’t. Ask Melody.”
SIXTEEN
I made a detour on my way back to Sausalito. I drove into San Rafael, then up to the county civic center. It took a while to find the man most familiar with the Shores project. He was called a project design supervisor in the County Planning Department. His name was McHugh—a tall, slim fellow, thirty to thirty-five years old, wearing rimless glasses, who took his time before speaking.
I can never figure out if people like that are thoughtful or just tongue-tied. I was pretty straightforward with him. I told him my line of work, what had happened to Andy Dustin’s son, and said I’d been hired to find Andy to tell him about his son and some other things his chief aides found peculiar about the project. I told him I hoped the county might be able to give me their view of the Shores project, with the understanding it would be passed along only to Andy Dustin.
McHugh took his time getting started. He was sorry to hear about the Dustin boy. The older Dustin had a good reputation in the county and every other place McHugh knew of where he’d done business. In fact, I had the impression that if Dustin hadn’t been part of the Shores project, the county might have been reluctant to approve it in the first place.
I interrupted to ask what sort of reputation Paul Anderson had. McHugh had been going through a folder of papers on the desk in front of him. He looked up from them over the tops of his glasses.
“I would say mixed. He’s always been a front man. We always look behind him at the reputation of the rest of the people making up the package. Contractors, subcontractors, money angels, et cetera. Anderson’s a glad-hander. Never cared much for the type, myself.”
He said the project had seemed responsible enough at the onset, and a large part of their original pitch was that the convention center and marina would offer good employment opportunities for the people of Marin City. And so they got the green light, and the work began.
He shifted around in his chair some and stared at the folder of documents while he chewed the stub end of a pencil.
“However, in recent days, Mr. Bragg, some people around here have gotten the feeling the ground is beginning to shift beneath them on this Shores project. We have both large and small questions to ponder.”
“Can you give me a couple of examples?”
He gave a curt nod and pushed a finger at the folder. “They have submitted revised specifications of the parking area for the project. Nothing alarming, mind you. No great increase, just changes in dimension, indicating there has been a fundamental shift in how somebody sees the operation of the main plant.” He looked up and gave me a little wink. “You can tell a lot from the parking lot about what’s going on inside the building.”
“I heard from the construction foreman there have been recent changes made in the interior of the main building, as well.”
McHugh shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. Doesn’t concern us much if whatever they do comes up to code, and if the overall size stays the same. But this change in parking—that raises our interest, because one of the things we always had the most misgivings about with this large a development down there was the impact it would have on traffic. It’s near the freeway, but there’s still a stretch of Bridgeway between the highway and the convention center. Traffic’s already almost at saturation level from new town houses and other activities in the area and drivers just wanting to come into Sausalito from the north. But they assured us it would not add to traffic congestion, beyond some private conveyances they plan to use to transport people in and out to Oakland and San Francisco airports. But that’s crazy,” he added, looking up. “You ever hear of a convention center that didn’t attract congestion?”
I shrugged, indicating it was out of my ken.
He went on to talk about financing, and a lot of what he said went whistling right over my head. I have never been able to understand the economy of one person myself, let alone that of commercial developments. Somewhere along the way I’d picked up a general feeling that the knack of it was to work at all times with other people’s money. Still, McHugh tried his best, and I got some of it. Because of the jobs for disadvantaged that the project had promised, it apparently would have been eligible for a certain amount of state and federal financing, and at first it looked as if that would be the case. But that had changed now. Applications for that sort of financing had been withdrawn.
“And they aren’t replacing it with the normal sources for this sort of construction, either—banks, insurance companies, et cetera. We don’t concern ourselves all that much with it, because where the money comes from is their worry, not ours. And even if we were interested, it probably would take a few weeks to dig our way through the various fronts and dummy outfits that money like that can come through. It’s almost as if some big Hong Kong financier were moving in, or somebody had unlimited access to a union pension fund. Or something.”
I asked if the change in financing would have an impact on how the county viewed the overall project.
“No, it’s gone too far down the track for that. They have the permits, and everything is in order. There is one little thing it could change.”
“What’s that?”
“If they should alter their implied sanctimonious intentions to hire a lot of black people out of Marin City, we wouldn’t have any leverage to make them keep their word. The ability to withhold money gives a lot of clout. No government agency has the clout any longer, so far as the Shores project is concerned.”
“What about the houseboats in the Basin? I’ve heard t
hat outside of Marin City itself they provide about the only low-cost housing in the county. Now I understand they face the threat of being forced out.”
“Yes, and I was wondering, way back when this all started, when they would get around to clearing their throats and talking about bringing things up to code and all. No way on earth, if somebody makes a beef about it—like the Shores developers—that the county can just ignore the codes on its own books. That, however, isn’t my department or concern. Thank God.”
I drove back to Sausalito and found a parking place about two blocks from Melody’s apartment building. That wasn’t bad, in view of the concentration of cars that try to find a resting place along Bulkley. The apartment building was two stories high, a blend of redwood and beige stucco. She lived in an upper apartment on the side of the building overlooking Bridgeway and the water.
It didn’t take her long to answer my ring. She opened the door as if she were expecting somebody she wanted to see. Obviously, I wasn’t the person. The expression changed to irritation.
“Why, it’s Mr. Bragg. What a surprise.”
“I told you we were apt to be running into each other. Am I interrupting something? Or about to?”
She didn’t make any moves to invite me in. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You seemed disappointed that it was just me.”
“Did I, now? Why don’t you just stop all your little speculations and tell me what it is that you want.”
“I want a lot of things. Some of it you can help me with. And if you want to discuss it with me standing here in the doorway, that’s okay with me. Did you know that Duffy Anderson used to be married to Red Dewer’s sister?”
From the way her face fell, I knew that she hadn’t. She opened the door wider, and I stepped inside. She closed it, and I followed her into the living room. She was wearing an old pullover sweater and a pair of jeans being advertised that year for women. The ads promised that after a few washings the jeans would shrink to skin-tight conformity to the figure. Melody’s was the sort of figure they had hoped the new pants would attract. It should have been a misdemeanor for her to walk down the street in them.
She turned, but didn’t offer me a seat. “Duffy never mentioned Red Dewer’s sister.”
“Did he tell you he’d been married before?”
“Yes, but he didn’t go into details.”
“Have you heard from Duffy today, by the way?”
“No. Why are you here, Mr. Bragg—to cause a rift between Duffy and myself?”
“Nope. Not me. I figure that boy’s got to learn how to grow up like we all do, by walking into things with his chin held high. Have you told him about the movies you and Cookie Poole have been making?”
She didn’t answer, but just glared at me.
“I finally figured out that you and Cookie must be pretty good friends. Maybe there’s even more to it than that. At least Cookie would like to think so, from the way his face went all moonstruck when he talked about you.”
The hatred flickered away. “When was that?”
“Last night. Kind of late.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Marin City, outside the general store. He was there with a couple of friends.”
“How did you find him?”
“I have a couple of friends too. One of them set it up. Why do you ask?”
“Never mind.”
My eyes roved over the place. The only way you could describe it was posh. Somebody had spent a lot of money on furnishings. There was a painting on one wall that had been done by somebody so currently popular that even I could recognize the style. He was a man named Ciampi, a native of San Francisco whose manner of turning commonplace scenes inside out in a way you’d never thought about them before had captured critical and popular acclaim. A painting the size of the one Melody had would bring in the neighborhood of five thousand dollars. And it wasn’t a print. It was the original.
“Have you talked to Duffy on the phone today?”
“No.”
“How about your daddy?”
“My—what?”
“Your father.”
She seemed to relax some. “Why, no. I haven’t spoken to him. Why do you ask?”
“He seems like a nice man. He worries about you. He wishes the two of you were a little closer. It probably would be a good thing for both of you if you were.”
“You know my father?”
“I spent a couple of days working for him.”
“Doing what?”
“I can’t tell you that. You could ask him. It might lead to the sort of talk I think would do you both good.”
The telephone rang on a low, glass-topped table beside the sofa. She went to it quickly.
“Yes?” She glanced at me once, then turned away. “Yes. Yes, I know…No, not today. Have you?”
I turned around and looked out the window for a while. She gave monosyllabic replies for another moment or so, then hung up. I turned around.
“Did you know that somebody shot Red Dewer in the head last night? That he’s dead?”
She hadn’t known that, either. She settled slowly onto the sofa, her eyes not leaving my face, waiting to hear what other news I might have for her.
“Where’s Gloria, these days?”
“Wha…what?”
“Terri Anderson told me you’re good friends with a woman named Gloria, and Gloria’s good friends with Andy Dustin. She said they went off on a holiday together. I want to know where they’re at.”
She was wavering. I thought for a moment she’d tell me, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. “I don’t know any Gloria.”
“You’re saying that Terri Anderson is a liar?” I reached down for the phone.
“I mean, I know her, of course. I don’t know where she is.”
I went across the room to the heaviest chair she had and dragged it by an arm, leaving deep grooves in the thick carpet, until I was close enough to reach out and touch her. I sat down.
“Listen carefully now, Melody. Last night was sort of joking and sparring around. This isn’t. This is fourteen-carat real. Of all the things I’ve been asking about, the last one is the one I really want to know. I have to find Andy Dustin. I have to tell him that his boy, who around here was going by the name Red Dewer, is dead.”
Her eyes grew a little bigger.
“Your fiance, Duffy Anderson, is a prime suspect in that killing. He was seen last night in town here having an argument with Dewer. Later, he was seen down near the docks where Dewer lived and where his body was found today. This morning Duffy took a big wad of money out of the bank and disappeared. It doesn’t matter what anybody who knows Duffy might think about whether he could kill somebody or not. What the sheriff’s investigators think is what matters. If they don’t find another promising suspect, and could hang it on Duffy and wipe it off the books, they’ll do it. And they would like very much to talk to Duffy. I don’t know if your name has come up in their investigation yet or not. But when it does, they’re going to come looking for you. I can speed things up for them if I tell them about you. You’ll be spending at least the rest of this evening up at the County Hall of Justice being interrogated. I don’t think you’d like it up there.”
I let her think about it for a couple of minutes.
“Do they really think Duffy did it?”
“Right now, he’s their strongest suspect.”
“He didn’t do it, I’m certain.”
“Have you talked to him since last night?”
“No, but…What’s apt to happen to Duffy?”
“Not too much. When they find him, he might have to spend a few days in jail. They’ll put him through a lot of tough questioning, but if he’s innocent, he or his father can well afford a good enough attorney to get him out. He’d just be a lot smarter if he pulled himself together and came on back here and got it over with. If he stays on the run, he might end up bein
g hurt by some trigger-happy lawman out in the boonies somewhere who’s convinced that Duffy’s a killer on the run, instead of a dummy on the run. You might tell him that when you do talk to him.”
She was silent another moment. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, then looked up at me. “I did talk to Duffy last night, after he had his argument with Red. I didn’t know that Red was Dustin’s boy. Red came up here late yesterday afternoon. He found out what you did. That Gloria was with his father. He didn’t tell me Dustin was his father, but he wanted to know how to find him. He cuffed me around a little. When I threatened to call the cops, he left. He intercepted Duffy later last night, when Duffy came back to town after taking Terri home. He still wanted to know the same thing, where Andy Dustin was. Duffy didn’t know, but he’s easily frightened. That’s what Red was counting on. After Duffy saw Red, he came up here and pleaded with me to tell him where Dustin was. I found it all a little sickening—a grown man like that. Finally I told Duffy what he wanted to know, and he left. If he was down at the docks later, it was to tell Red what he wanted to know.”
“Why is it so important that Dustin’s whereabouts be kept a big secret?”
She hesitated a moment. “Dustin himself wants it that way.”
“But you keep in touch with Gloria.”
“She calls from time to time.”
“Where are they?”
“The last time I spoke to her, she said they would be in Gold Beach by today. Up in Oregon.”
“Did she say where they were staying?”
“No, but she said Dustin does everything first-class. It’s sure to be the best in town, wherever they are. Are you going to look for him?”
“As soon as I go home and pack.”
“When you get back, would you be willing to help Duffy?”
“I’ve already promised his sister I would. But he can help himself the best by getting back here and telling the sheriff’s people what he knows. I hope you can tell him that when he calls.”
“I will.”
SEVENTEEN
