Rouse the Demon: A Krug & Kellog Thriller (The Krug & Kellog Thriller Series Book 3)

by Carolyn Weston

  They hadn’t taken the body yet, Casey saw. McGregor still crouched over it, high priest over a sacrificial victim. “Lieutenant’s upstairs,” he reported. “The way I hear it, there isn’t a sign of a break-in.”

  “Very slick, this killer,” the latent-print specialist working in the hall added. “Sees all the movies, reads all the books. Would you believe a doorknob without a print on it?”

  “Wiped, you think?”

  “Clean as a whistle. Want to bet your murder weapon’s a blank, too?”

  “With my luck,” Krug groaned, “why fight the odds?” He squatted by the body, staring at the massive wound which had all but destroyed the back of the dead man’s head. “A ten-, fifteen-pound hunk of brass—anybody who could lift it could’ve done this.” Then he rounded on Casey irritably. “For Chrissake, will you quit gulping? Go heave if you have to and get it over with. We got work to do.”

  “I’m all right.” Casey swallowed hard. “It’s the smell, I guess.”

  “Wait’ll you get one that’s gutshot, then you’ll worry about smell.” He sucked his teeth. “Could easy be a woman. All she had to do was come up behind him, grab that thing and take one good swing.”

  “She’d have to be strong.”

  Krug grinned. “Like that kraut back there, right? From the looks of her, she could shot-put that statue through a second-story window.”

  One of the medical men joined them, starchy whites crackling like paper as he squatted beside them. “We’re ready to take him any time the lieutenant says the word, Al.”

  “He’s upstairs. You got any opinions here?”

  “Well, in layman’s language, he’s in second-stage rigor. Coagulation looks like plenty of time, though. Roughly, I’d say last night. Closer than that, there’s no telling till we do the post. Help a lot if you could find out when and what he had for dinner.”

  “Probably a pint of blood and a couple spiders—What else would a self-respecting witch doctor eat to keep his strength up?” Grunting, Krug pushed himself upright. “Okay,” he said to Casey, “let’s have a quick look around, then we’ll hit the secretary.”

  Behind the sliding door to the right of the stair they found a small austere office. Locked files and bookcases lined the walls. A large metal desk and chair and a love seat were the only other furnishings. All looked battered, Casey noticed; even the metal desk was chipped and scarred. On the laminated wooden desktop sat an expensive-looking tape recorder. No pictures, no notations on the calendar block. Casey tried the desk drawers, but they were locked also. “If Mrs. Haas is the snoopy type, she’s probably learned to live with a lot of frustration. Either that or she’s an accomplished lock picker.”

  “Not her, she’s the crowbar type. You think this is Myrick’s office?”

  “Looks pretty plain for a man who wore three-hundred-dollar suits and handmade shoes.”

  Leaving the sliding door open, they crossed the entry to the large room they had seen before. The draperies had been opened now, but the lamps still burned. More than ever, the room looked un-homelike to Casey. They passed through a connecting door catercorner to the fireplace, entering what had been meant to be a dining room when the house was built.

  “Hey,” Krug breathed. “Looks like some millionaire head shrinker’s office, don’t it?”

  “Eames chairs, antique desk, Persian carpet—you’re so right.”

  “Another tape machine, too. What the hell, I thought a hypnotist’d have a lot of mumbo-jumbo stuff lying around.”

  “Looks like he was Doktor, all right.” Casey pointed to a framed parchment full of heavy Gothic lettering which hung near the desk. “PhD, not MD.”

  “Big deal,” Krug sneered. “The way I hear it, you can buy those by the dozen if you got the right connections.” He opened a door opposite the desk and peered into the long hallway. Then he tried another door. “Locked,” he said disgustedly.

  “Pantry,” Casey guessed, remembering schoolmates’ houses of this same vintage. “Probably leads into the kitchen. Mrs. Haas’s room is on the other side. Or a breakfast room, maybe, and then the maid’s quarters. Looks like those glass doors to the driveway are sealed.”

  But Krug wasn’t paying any attention to him. Peering intently at the tape recorder, he tentatively pressed the play button, and the reels began to turn, emitting a hissing sound. “Nothing on it,” he muttered. “This is probably the one he chewed her ass about last night.”

  While they listened, Casey scrutinized the appointment book on Myrick’s desk. Tooled leather, he noticed. Everything the best. Hypnotism looked to be very profitable. Under Monday, August 28—yesterday—he found two names, then Mona at noon, and nothing else until the seven o’clock slot, where someone had scrawled Group Five. “Not a very busy day.”

  Krug was going through the drawers of the huge carved walnut desk with the speed of a housebreaker. Locating the personal address book Mrs. Haas had mentioned, he gave it to Casey. “Keep that handy, we’re going to need it.” He whistled as he opened the wide, shallow center drawer. “Look at this,” he said, plucking out a framed photograph. “Nice, hah?”

  Casey stared at the artfully casual studio portrait, sighing unconsciously. A ravishing blonde. For Steve with all my love. Signed Lila.

  “Lady killer,” Krug grunted. “So maybe—just maybe—one of ’em returned the favor? Come on,” he added impatiently, “let’s check with the lieutenant, then start tracking down the women.”

  Cherchez les femmes, Casey thought. Even a homicide case can have its compensations.

  THREE

  From the top of the stairway they spied Lieutenant Timms standing in a doorway which opened into the second-story hall. “Come take a look,” he called. “See how the other half lives.”

  Casey followed Krug, not into the master bedroom he had expected, but into a sumptuous sitting room, all leather and dark glossy wood. Another glowing carpet like the one in the office downstairs. Chinese screens instead of draperies covering the windows. One wall was a gallery of paintings. Against another wall was a complex of shelves, the lower part of which housed an intricate and expensive-looking stereo sound system, and a large record collection. The upper part held books in old bindings, what looked to be a collection of bound periodicals and here and there, small sculptured pieces.

  Casey inspected one of the old volumes. Spirit Identity, read the faded print on the fragile title page, by William Stainton Moses. The book had been printed in the late eighteen hundreds. Wondering if it was valuable, Casey took a quick look at one of the bound periodicals: an English publication he had never heard of, called Light.

  Krug kept whistling through his teeth while they looked around. Appearing annoyed finally, Timms said, “All right, leave it to House Beautiful for the last word. What’d you get out of the housekeeper?”

  No wife, Krug filled him in, nobody in residence here but the decedent and his housekeeper. Possible trouble between Myrick and his secretary. Peering into the connecting bedroom as he talked, Krug beckoned to Casey. “Get a load of this playpen.”

  Looking over his partner’s shoulder, Casey smiled. Somewhere with these superstuds, the Playboy influence always shows.

  “Bathroom on the other side,” Timms was saying behind them. “There’s another down the hall, and two more bedrooms. Nothing in the drawers or closets, so I guess she told you straight.” They could hear him sigh. “So far, nothing from the neighbors but gripes about all the activity here. Begins to look like our killer either got in with a key or Myrick let him in.”

  “Could be somebody who stayed behind after that group deal.” Krug explained about the meetings on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

  “Kids, hah?” Timms chewed his lower lip. “No wonder the neighbors squawked.” He looked more and more unhappy when they told him about the photo they had discovered in the desk. “So on top of everything e
lse, we got here a womanizer?”

  “Probably hypnotized ’em,” Krug agreed. “We got four already. A Mona, a Lila, that housekeeper and the Crewes dame.”

  “All right, hit the secretary first. Then check out the housekeeper’s alibi. And not only with her sister,” Timms emphasized, “try the neighbors too. I want everybody nailed down tight on this one. You know the score, Al,” he added. “A murdered hypnotist’ll make great headlines. Isn’t a reporter alive won’t make a three-ring circus out of it if he can.”

  As he drove off, Casey fished one-handed in the Mustang’s glove compartment, trying to find his sunglasses.

  “You drive, I’ll look,” Krug told him, and pawed through the jumble. “Christamighty, you got everything in here but a collapsible bed. Look at that,” he marveled. “Three packs of cigs. Matches from every disco joint for fifty miles around. Kleenex. A Chap Stick. Nail file. Bottle opener. Pencils. Scratch pads. Breath mints. Hair spray…” He glanced at Casey, sniffing the can. “Perfumed, too. For a partner I got a closet queen?”

  “It’s Joey’s. That’s a girl, Al. Joanna.”

  “You serious about her?”

  “Because I’m carrying her hair spray?”

  “Come on, smartass, just answer the question.”

  “Well, I suppose it depends what you mean by serious, Al.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Krug laughed. “Little matter of—whatchamacallit—semantics, right?”

  “And lifestyles.”

  “Oh, yeah, lifestyles. Yes, indeedy. Remind me to be grateful I don’t have any daughters. There it is,” he added, pointing. “The building on the corner.”

  Casey pulled into the curb. And when they climbed out of the Mustang, he saw that Krug had been sitting on his missing sunglasses. One mystery solved. Fortunately they hadn’t been expensive.

  The front of the building was smoked glass, four stories high. They could make out a shadowy metal staircase inside, tropicals planted in huge pots, a small elevator like a wrought-iron cage. “Very fancy for little old Santa Monica,” Krug commented as they pushed through the Plexiglas doors. “You believe your average everyday secretary can live this good without pushing something besides her typewriter?”

  They found the name on the building directory inside—Ms. A. Crewes in 404—and stepped into the elevator. Krug punched the floor button. “What’re you betting, sport—blonde or brunette?”

  “Why limit myself? My money’s on redhead.”

  “A bombshell, yeah.” Krug was beaming. “Like that pussycat in the picture. Lila. That guy Myrick was a real tomcat, for sure.”

  Behind the brass-numeraled door, they heard a single chime when Krug punched the doorbell button. A card in the brass slot below the number read Adrian Crewes. Not a printed card; it was neatly hand-lettered. After a moment they heard a measured, muffled thumping inside. “Who is it?” a light female voice called.

  Krug winked at Casey. Pussycat voice, sweet as sugar. “Police Department, Miss Crewes. We’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Oh? What about, please?”

  “Come on, honey, you want your neighbors to hear us? Open up, we won’t bite.”

  They heard the lock click back, then the door opened. Unprepared by the voice and their expectations, Krug and Casey stared at her, speechless for a moment. No mistaking from honey’s expression that she knew she was a surprise.

  FOUR

  “What’s this all about? Has something happened to my car?”

  “Nothing like that, just some routine questions, Miss Crewes.” Krug tucked away the leather folder containing his badge and ID card. “In connection with a case we’re investigating.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, come in…”

  She was just over thirty, Casey guessed, slender, dark-haired, distinctive-looking and very badly crippled. Watching her levering herself step by painful step balanced on two aluminum crutch canes, he could only imagine and admire the steely resources which had let her acknowledge, then ignore that she had been a shock to their expectations. My money’s on redhead. Pussycat. Chagrined by their petty male chauvinism, Casey followed Krug into a small, sparsely furnished apartment in which the only homey touch was the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

  “I’ve never been questioned by detectives before,” Adrian Crewes was saying. The braces which encased her withered legs clicked rhythmically. “Not familiar with the rules, you see. But I suppose the usual amenities apply?” Poised, cool, she glanced from one to the other. A small, faintly derisive smile. “Please sit down. I’m taking you at your word that you don’t bite.”

  Casey chose the black-and-white side chair opposite the one she sank into. Krug thumped down on the Naugahyde divan. “We’ll tell you what this’s about in a minute,” he began slowly. “A few questions first, Miss Crewes. For the record. We’d like you to tell us where you were last night.”

  “If you mean evening, I was here, Sergeant. From seven o’clock on.”

  “You live here alone?”

  “With my cat, yes.”

  One of her crutch canes knocked the arm of her chair as she moved slightly. Casey noticed that the arms of his own chair were badly nicked. He knew now who that austere little office behind the sliding door in Myrick’s house belonged to.

  “Have any visitors last night?” Krug was asking.

  “No, no one, Sergeant.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Quite positive.” The derisive smile flickered again, illuminating her fine dark eyes, softening the remoteness and pride which made her appear unapproachable. “No visitations of any kind, I assure you. No incubi. None of those strangers which supposedly populate women’s dreams.”

  “I meant friends, Miss Crewes, somebody like that.”

  “I don’t have any friends out here, Sergeant. Now will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “In a minute, Miss Crewes.” Krug hesitated. “We heard you own a car. There a garage here in the building you use?”

  “Yes, in the basement. We drive in through the alley in back.”

  “Is there a garage attendant?” Casey asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Any guard?” Krug inquired. “Or a night watchman, maybe?”

  “I suppose so now, but I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask—” she began, then stopped. “Sergeant, if you’re looking for someone who might have seen me last night, you’re wasting your time. I came home at seven, took a long bath, watched television for an hour, then went to sleep.”

  “What happened to dinner, Miss Crewes?”

  “I had a hamburger at one of those drive-in places before I came home.” She leaned forward. “Why are you asking all this? If it has anything to do with that purse snatcher…”

  “What purse snatcher?” Casey smiled reassuringly. “Save a lot of time if you’ll just answer our questions, Miss Crewes.”

  Several weeks before, she told them, someone had grabbed her handbag in the garage downstairs. She had been out late—to a drive-in movie, she added—and when she got out of her car after parking it, the attacker jumped out from behind the parked car next to hers. “I reported it right away, of course. But he wasn’t caught. The police told me they very seldom are. But they did find my bag the next morning. He’d taken the money, but nothing else, fortunately, so I suppose I should feel lucky.”

  “Some junkie or wino, probably. Happens all the time.” Krug hesitated again. “We’d like to hear something about your work now. You’re a secretary, is that right?”

  “Who in the world told you that?”

  “Never mind, Miss Crewes, just tell us what you do.”

  “Dr. Myrick and I are collaborating on a study of the application of hypnotherapy on drug addicts.”

  Krug blinked. “Come again?”

  “A book, Sergeant.�
�

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Do you use tape recorders in your work?” Casey inquired.

  “Dr. Myrick does, yes.” Her eyes flickered from one to the other. “Has this something—”

  But Krug didn’t let her finish. “You got a tape of last night’s meeting, Miss Crewes?”

  “If you mean here, no. They’re all kept at Dr. Myrick’s.” She kept staring at him intently. “Is it the damage you’re here about?”

  “Just answer the questions, please. How long have you worked with Dr. Myrick?”

  “About six months now.”

  “You get along with him all right?”

  “Why, yes, of course.”

  “The way we hear it, you’ve been having some trouble lately.”

  “Really?” Her voice was calm, but Casey noticed her fingers tightening in her lap. “And from whom did you hear this, Sergeant?” She leaned forward again, suddenly blazing. “Why are you interrogating me like this? You have no right to continue without telling me why.”

  “In a case like this, we got no choice, Miss Crewes.” Then flatly Krug told her that Stephen Myrick had been killed the night before.

  “No, that’s—Oh, no,” she protested softly, “you must be mistaken.” She kept shaking her head. “I’m sure you’re wrong. He must have lent someone his car. Look, I know it can’t be Steve because he called me at nine, and he was home then! Said he’d been listening to one of the tapes and—”

  “We’re not talking about an accident.”

  “The housekeeper found him this morning,” Casey explained. “He was murdered, Miss Crewes.”

  Her mouth opened wide—a mimed shriek which sounded in Casey like a racial memory, a scream across time. But later, when he compared impressions with Krug, he realized how subjective police work must be, for Krug believed that her reaction was false. Now she leaned back, closing her eyes, and thinking she was faint, Casey asked if he might get her a glass of water. “No”—she shook her head—“I’m all right. Just give me a minute…”