The Complete Bragg Thriller Box Set

by Jack Lynch

  The man took Soldier’s arm and guided him back outside.

  “So now,” I told Anthony quietly, “the man in the hard hat, Mr. Dustin, will strongly suspect that you were with Cookie Poole the night his boy was killed. It really doesn’t matter which one of you did it. You were together. That’s enough, really. This isn’t a court of law. You might call it Mr. Dustin’s court.”

  I turned and stared at the photos of Shirley again. When I turned back, Anthony’s discomfort had turned to fear. A small film of sweat on his forehead glistened in the overhead light.

  “In Ensign, Kansas, many years ago,” I continued, “a man told me a story about the last horse thief they caught in those parts. It’s a small town on the Kansas prairie, about thirty miles west of Dodge City. In the early days, of course, they would hang a horse thief, or shoot him. Back then it was a mortal offense to steal another man’s horse. It made sense too back then. Back then, on those hostile prairies, a man’s horse often was the difference between survival or a nasty sort of death, either at the hands of Indians, or starvation or thirst. A horse was important. Steal my horse, steal my life. Same thing.

  “But then, the man told me, things got a little more civilized. Judges and marshals and established law moved into those remote areas and replaced the frontier justice. I think he said this happened right after the turn of the century. They caught this horse thief in Ensign, or just outside it. But they didn’t hang him, that was starting to be considered barbaric. No, what they did was to sever the big tendon on the back of his left ankle. By doing that, to his left foot, they made sure he’d never steal another horse, because he’d never be able to climb into the saddle again. His foot couldn’t hold the stirrup.”

  I shook my head. “Just after the turn of the century, and never able to ride a horse again.”

  Anthony’s nasal passages were becoming a little clogged.

  “I think the same sort of things might work with a man who shoots and beats up on others. It might not, but logic says it should. Man is one of the few animals on earth who can do clever things with his hands. Know why?”

  I was looking at Anthony, but I didn’t expect any reply.

  “It’s because in addition to his fingers, man has an opposable digit, the thumb, that can work in concert with those fingers, so he can handle all sorts of gadgets, turn them this way and that, move, bend, manipulate, everything from sophisticated tools to crude handguns.”

  Anthony slowly opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I lifted my eyes to Eric. He stood on the platform on the other side of Anthony with what looked like a shingler’s hatchet in his hand. I nodded.

  Eric had a sure eye and a controlled hand. The hatchet severed Anthony’s thumb on his right hand at the edge of the inner knuckle.

  Anthony’s eyes and mouth opened to their extreme limits. He grimaced at the severed joint spurting blood, and let out a wail. He shouted just once, then sagged against the board and panted heavily. Christopher climbed up on his platform with a compress he had prepared. He taped it over the thumb stump. It was messy looking, but helped staunch the blood.

  “It is said,” I continued in an even tone, “that severed joints now can be reattached to the hand with a high probability of restoring some, if not full use of it. Two things are necessary. One, you have to have a skilled team of surgeons nearby, who can perform such an operation. I’m sure we have some in the Bay Area. The other thing is, the severed finger, or in this case thumb, would have to be preserved in a bag of ice, preferably, and delivered quickly to wherever the surgery is to take place.”

  I walked over and picked up the thumb by its tip end, where it had fallen behind Anthony. I carried it around to where Anthony could watch while I studied it. “A good, clean cut.”

  I carried it over to the open end of the shed and looked back. Anthony had turned his head to watch me. He was making a noise of anguish and there were tears in his eyes. He knew what I was going to do.

  “No! God no, please!” he cried.

  I threw the thumb as far out into the Bay waters as I could. It slipped out of view in the blink of an eye. I turned and walked back to the cork board with the photos of Shirley on it.

  When I turned around, I ignored Anthony and spoke to Eric, who was waiting with hatchet in hand. “I was thinking of the other thumb next,” I told the man with thick lips. “But maybe the right trigger finger instead, just to make sure…”

  “Jesus God, no!” Anthony cried.

  There was a commotion over by the door. Two men were blocking Melody’s way.

  “That’s all right, she’s with me,” I told them.

  The men had disapproval on their faces, but they stepped aside and let her enter. She took a few steps toward us, then stopped, transfixed by the sight of the man pinned to the wall.

  “Stay there,” I told her.

  I turned back to Anthony. “This is going to get messier.”

  “Don’t,” he pleaded. “Please don’t. You didn’t bring me here just to cut off my hands. I don’t believe that.”

  “We didn’t bring you here to cut off your hands at all.” I moved a step closer. “We brought you here to cut off your fingers.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut a moment, then opened them again. “What do you want?”

  “Well, yes, there are a couple of things you could help us with.”

  He nodded. “I’m ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Whatever you want. Just tell me. But please, don’t cut off any more fingers.”

  “It’s up to you,” I told him.

  “Let me down?”

  “Not yet. What was the name of the man with you when you beat up the girl?”

  “Jackie Clark. He’s vicious. I tried to hold him back…”

  I nodded to Eric. The big man swung the hatchet. This stroke wasn’t as clean. He had to chop at it a second time before Anthony’s right forefinger fell to the floor. I stooped and picked it up, and carried it to the open end of the structure with a heavy cadence. It was an awful way to make something work. I threw the finger into the Bay.

  I don’t think Anthony even watched that time. He hung from the board, palpitating, his mouth and eyes both open wide. But he wasn’t focusing. I took one of the photos of Shirley off the board and brought it up close to his face.

  “Don’t lie to me, Anthony. She told me how it went. You held her. Jackie hit her. You gave the orders. I already know the answers to some of the things I’m going to be asking you. The next lie is your left thumb.”

  I stood back while Christopher manfully climbed atop the platform and placed another compress over the stump of the newly missing finger. When he was finished he stepped down and looked up at his handiwork.

  “Guess I’d better get another ready,” he said to me.

  “I guess,” I told him.

  Anthony was gulping for air. He finally managed a deep breath. Sweat was rolling off his forehead.

  “Anthony, who shot Red Dewer?”

  “Cookie did. I was there. But Cookie shot him. Mr. Fitzmorris ordered it.”

  “Who shot Cookie?”

  “I did. After we torched the dock. Mr. Fitzmorris ordered it.”

  I glanced at Melody. Tears were brimming in her eyes, but she didn’t make a sound.

  “Why did you leave the gun that killed Dewer on Cookie’s body?”

  “Because Mr. Fitzmorris told me to. He told me exactly what he wanted done. I did it. Cookie shot Dewer. I didn’t know if he’d be able to. Don’t think he ever did anything like that before.”

  “Why did Fitzmorris want Dewer killed?”

  “He was snooping. Becoming a nuisance.”

  “Why did you torch the dock?”

  “To intimidate people. Get them to move out.”

  “And after that you were to kill Cookie.”

  “That’s right. And to be sure to leave the twenty-two where it would be found.”

  “Why did he have the girl beaten up?”


  “Same thing. Intimidation. Terror. Get people out.”

  “Who killed the man living in Cookie’s house in Tamalpais Valley?”

  He swallowed once, and I knew the temptation of a lie crossed his mind, but he thought better of it. “I did.”

  “Because Mr. Fitzmorris ordered it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did Mr. Fitzmorris want that man and Cookie killed?”

  “Mr. Fitzmorris has been taking control of the Shores project. All along the line. One of the things he had to do was to get the smokes out.”

  “Smokes?”

  “That’s blacks, Charley,” Melody said quietly from behind me. She’d moved closer while I was questioning Anthony.

  “Mr. Fitzmorris shouldn’t have done that to Cookie,” she said softly, not addressing anybody in particular. “He was my main man.”

  I turned to watch her for a moment. She was staring at Anthony in a way that wasn’t nice. Anthony stared back, blinking rapidly.

  “What sort of weapon did you use on the man in Tamalpais Valley?”

  “The revolver. The same one Cookie used to shoot Dewer.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Mr. Fitzmorris gave it to me. I preferred my own. He told me to use the revolver. I used the revolver.”

  “Why did he want it left on Cookie’s body after you shot him?”

  “He never told me.”

  “Do you know whose gun it was?”

  “No.”

  I figured Melody should have gotten the point by now. I moved along. It was time to see if Anthony really was going to level with me.

  “Why is Mr. Fitzmorris doing all of this? What does he want with the Shores project?”

  “He wants a semiprivate vacation spot for—some gentlemen in the Midwest and their associates. Colleagues and employees. Like that.”

  “Who are the men in the Midwest?”

  He hesitated only long enough to moisten his lips. “Mr. Marshal Glickman of Lake Forest, Illinois. Mr. Cassie Castelli of Grosse Point, Michigan. Mr. Mervin Wen of Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “And who do you work for? Mr. Fitzmorris, or one of the others?”

  “I work for Mr. Glickman. I’m on loan to Mr. Fitzmorris. He temporarily pays me and gives me orders.”

  “What about the other men at the Fitzmorris house?”

  “Mr. Glickman, same as me.”

  “Whose idea was the Shores project?”

  “That was Mr. Fitzmorris’s idea. Mr. Glickman and the others didn’t think he could pull it off. Because of certain local attitudes. But Mr. Fitzmorris wanted to try. Mr. Glickman loaned me and the others to Mr. Fitzmorris to help out in any way we could. Mr. Fitzmorris doesn’t know too much about some things.”

  “But you do.”

  He licked his lips again. “That’s why we’re here. Mr. Glickman loaned us, and helped along in some other ways.”

  “What other ways?”

  “Money. Financing for the project.”

  I crossed my arms and pretended to be thinking about things. Anthony was staring at me. Blood was dripping from the compresses on the elevated hand to his shirtfront.

  “Tell me, has Mr. Fitzmorris been a cautious man, in your estimation, about this financing?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Has he sufficiently buried the sources of his financing, do you think, in the event somebody wanted to establish a link between Mr. Fitzmorris and Mr. Glickman and the others?”

  “I’m not sure if I understand you even yet, sir.”

  “I think you do, Anthony.”

  He licked his lips twice this time. “I think he’s concealed it the best he can. All except for the records he keeps at home.”

  “Ah, then you do understand, Anthony. I have heard that he is a man who keeps meticulous records.”

  Anthony looked at me in a new and funny way. “That information could only have originated in the Midwest. To my knowledge I am the only man on the West Coast who knows about that. And I have told nobody out here.”

  “Nevertheless, several people in this area know about it now, although I suspect you’re right. It probably originated in the Midwest. But then this isn’t a primitive territory any longer, Anthony. We have telephones and airports and everything. Even sources in the Midwest.”

  “Then we’re fucked,” Anthony said more to himself than anybody else.

  “It’s beginning to look that way. Do you know where Mr. Fitzmorris keeps these documents?”

  “In a file cabinet in his office.”

  “Is the cabinet locked or unlocked?”

  “Locked, but I know where there’s a key to it.”

  “Could you and I get into that office this evening, Anthony?”

  “Maybe. Mr. Fitzmorris plans to be out this evening.”

  “Splendid. Let’s plan on it then, you and me.”

  I turned to Christopher. “Help Eric get him down, and see if you can do something more for his hand.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I phoned Captain McDonnough to bring him up to date. If he was impressed, he didn’t let on. I said I was going into the Fitzmorris house that evening.

  “When?” he wanted to know.

  “As soon as it’s dark.”

  “Not before eight-thirty.”

  “Our friend’s apt to bleed to death before then. I’ll have to go in earlier.”

  “I can’t get everybody in place before then. Not before eight-thirty.” He wasn’t in any mood to talk it over. He hung up on me.

  I didn’t think I could wait that long. It was going to be nip and tuck so far as Anthony was concerned. The blood had been staunched, but he was suffering from shock. He drifted in and out of consciousness. During one of his coherent phases I tried to get what information I would need as to the setup inside the Fitzmorris house. Without being asked to, Melody was able to supplement and correct some of it. It became apparent she’d spent a substantial amount of time in the house herself.

  I figured my plan would work once we got inside and up the front stairs without being detected. Fitzmorris’s bedroom was on the second floor, and beyond that was the study where he kept the family secrets. Off the study was a bathroom. The study was the room I had to get into. Fitzmorris carried a set of keys to the cabinets, but he kept a duplicate set in a nightstand next to his bed. Without going into the details of how she knew, Melody confirmed it all. She’d seen them one time.

  I had phoned Jimmy Harrington and at a little after 7:00 p.m. he drove down to the Shores site with the camera he’d picked for me. It was a Minox 35-millimeter.

  “All the best spies use it these days,” Jimmy assured me.

  It was small enough to slip into a pocket, and came equipped with a smart little accessory that Jimmy said they’d probably added for people who didn’t know any more about cameras than I did. It was a little metal chain about fourteen inches long. Jimmy said I should hold the camera at just the chain’s distance from whatever was being photographed. It assured focusing.

  Andy Dustin wanted to keep a hand in things. He wanted to mount up a couple of truckloads of his men and have them hang around the road out in front of the Fitzmorris place like a bunch of street louts, in the event things went wrong inside the house. I had to talk him out of it.

  “If this doesn’t work by stealth, it isn’t going to work at all,” I told him. “There’s already supposed to be backup for me on the way, armed with search warrants as soon as Jimmy processes the film. That’s what I need, not a bunch of roustabouts looking for a chance to bust heads.”

  “How long will it take to process the film?”

  “Jimmy says forty-five minutes, including travel time between Ross and his studio in San Rafael.”

  Dustin still insisted on being along with the two men who had corralled and tamed Anthony. I agreed to that.

  “They might have to get him to the hospital in a hurry.”

  We arrived a little before
eight o’clock. Dustin drove us all up in his shamelessly long Cadillac. Melody wanted to come along too. She was a source of information, so I agreed. She and I rode in front. Christopher and Eric sat on either side of Anthony in back. Anthony moaned from time to time. Dustin had another of his men tail us in a pickup, as additional transportation if we had to get Anthony to the hospital. As we sat waiting down the road from the house, I was having increasing doubts about Anthony. He wouldn’t be much good if he accompanied me upstairs only to pass out on me there.

  I rolled down the window. There was a soft stillness in the air. The Fitzmorris house was a hulking block of shadow and slanted light in the distance. I studied the darkness around us, trying to find some evidence of the men McDonnough had promised. At least some of them should have arrived by then. I couldn’t find any. Maybe he’d been telling me stories. Maybe it was the department’s big joke on private investigators that week. My stomach turned over on me.

  “Come on, let’s go,” I growled, opening the door.

  Everybody scrambled out, as if they were all going. Anthony looked plain awful, sagging between the two men.

  “Are you going to be able to make it?” I asked him.

  He nodded his head. “Try. Gonna try.”

  He was going to try. And that wasn’t going to be good enough, I was certain of it. Melody put one hand on my arm. I turned to her.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said quietly. “If he can get us in the house, I’ll go upstairs with you. I know the house. I know where things are.”

  “But if there’s more than a couple of cabinets, you won’t know where the material I need is.”

  Anthony was listening to us, then he lowered his eyes to the drenched bandages wadded and tied over his hand. “Look for the label, ‘The West,’ ” he told us. “On the cabinet drawer.”

  “ ‘The West’?”

  He nodded, smiling grimly. “Dumb bastard. Planned to write a book someday, about how he made it possible for us to set up things out here. Planned to call it, ‘Opening the West.’ It’s in there. Correspondence. About local activities ripe for acquisition. Things like that. Dumb bastard.”

  That nearly indescribable sensation I used to feel back in the days when I played chess went right up the middle of my back. I felt it when I knew with utter certainty I was going to win the match. McDonnough couldn’t have known for sure we might find that sort of incriminating evidence. It would be criminal conspiracy.