“Miss Crewes, do the dates have any significance for you? Can you think of anything?”
“Only the obvious.” She swallowed dryness. “Vandalism. But that awful voice seems to suggest—”
He kept nodding abstractedly. “You said before that only you and Dr. Myrick had access to these files. That means you both had keys?”
“Yes, but Steve kept his somewhere upstairs. We always used mine. I keep them locked in my desk.”
“Did Dr. Myrick have a key to your desk?”
“No, he didn’t. There’s only the one.”
“So Monday night, in order to play that June tape, he had to go upstairs and get his own keys for the files. And Tuesday morning the files were locked, leaving the tape he’d been listening to in his office, and the new one from the meeting still on the machine in the front room. Have to check if the file keys were on the body.” He was silent for a while, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. “Miss Crewes, in your opinion, could this much damage be done”—he indicated the list she had drawn up—“in a few hours?”
“No, that’s hours and hours of taping. Even if whoever—even if he didn’t listen to them, it would still take a great deal of time to erase that many.”
“So it couldn’t have been done in one sitting—between, say, midnight and four or five in the morning?”
“No, I don’t think so. In fact, I’m certain it couldn’t.”
He kept gnawing the side of his left index finger, biting, then smoothing the teethmarks, biting again. “How about your keys, Miss Crewes? You have a key for this house?”
“Two, for both doors. And my desk key, of course.”
“Three keys. How do you handle them, Miss Crewes?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you keep them somewhere special?”
“With my own keys. They’re always with me on one key ring. They’re never out of my possession. I’ve always been very care—” Her voice died, and appalled, she stared at him, her entire being infused by something dreadful as she read his thought. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Remember I told you—”
“Yes, your purse was snatched. When, Miss Crewes?”
“A month ago. The twenty-seventh of July.” They kept looking at each other intently. “The money was taken, nothing else. You remember my saying that? Just money, nothing else?”
“You said your purse wasn’t found till the next day.”
“In the morning, yes.” If only they could stop staring; her eyes felt pulled from their sockets. “You see, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. The keys could have been copied and put back in my purse. Then it was thrown where someone in the building would find it.”
“Did you see the person who attacked you?”
“Only a shadow. He was behind me.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“No, not really. Someone in pants. He knocked me down, you see. Not hard to do, as you can guess. And I was too frightened and shocked—”
“Yes, I understand. So it could have been anyone. Male or female.” He stood up abruptly. “Miss Crewes, have you had any dinner yet?”
“No, but I really don’t think I’ll be—”
“You have something at home in case you get hungry later?”
“Yes, some eggs and cheese, that sort of thing.” Why, she started to ask, but by that time he was saying that he would see her home. “That won’t be necessary, thanks,” Adrian told him. “I have my own car.”
“Then I’ll follow you,” he said firmly. “I’d like to have a look at your lock arrangements. If there isn’t a bolt or a chain on your apartment door, I’ll see that you get one on tonight.” He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t mean to frighten you, Miss Crewes. These are just precautions. We don’t want to take any chances.”
Then he told her about Judy Flesher, and she understood finally what he was getting at.
TWENTY-TWO
Something or someone waited to be recognized, but in his uneasy dream, Casey could see only a vague shadow. Then a ticking awakened him. Not the clock, he knew, for the tap-tap was uneven. What he heard must be a dripping from the eaves. Rain in August? He raised himself up and looked out. Gray-black, cottony silence beyond his windows, a thick sea fog. Jack the Ripper weather. The ugly old pines which lined his street looked black and menacing. A nut case, he could hear Timms saying. Two down, and how many more to go?
Against regulations, Casey had left the door on the latch, and after a quick check of Miss Crewes’s lock arrangements, he had returned to the house on Palisades Avenue. All fits, he kept thinking as he prowled the lower floor. But what pattern? Like a kaleidoscope, his mind turned bits of facts this way and that, creating enigmatic abstractions which connected no place. Narcosis. Psychosis. The words were legion. Crime of passion. Ritual murder. But the textbooks on homicide are being rewritten, he thought wearily as he listened once more to the eerie sobbing on the tape recorder. Perhaps even the victims hadn’t known why they were killed…
A car turned the corner, and through the lacy tangle of hibiscus which screened the front window of Miss Crewes’s office, Casey spied headlights. It was a cab drawing up across the street. As Casey watched, a man got out and paid the driver. For some time after the cab pulled away, he stood at the curb facing Myrick’s house. A tallish man wearing a dark hat and what looked like a raincoat.
His heartbeat quickening as he considered the possible significance of a coat worn on a summer night, Casey moved slowly away from the circle of light cast by the desk lamp. Then, catfooted on the crepe soles he habitually wore, he swiftly slid into the entry hall and waited by the front door.
Leather heels clicked on the pavement outside, a cautious pace. Then the sound stopped. Either thinking it over, Casey decided, or the man had reached the lawn. Opening his mouth slightly to quiet the hissing of breath in his nostrils, Casey waited for the scrape of soles on the steps. But no sound reached him, no hint of the sort of movement a caller might make. Loosening the .38 in the holster clipped to his belt, he leaned his back against the front door, his left hand resting lightly on the knob. But no hand outside turned it. No one fumbled a key into the lock.
Moving aside from the arc of the door’s swing, Casey reached out, turned the knob and flung the door open. No one was standing there. Taking the sort of chance he had learned not to, Casey stepped out onto the porch. The man was standing on the lawn near the hibiscus bushes, looking in through the lighted window.
It was William Myrick. “For God’s sake,” he cried furiously, “what the hell kind of a game—”
“Sorry to scare you, Mr. Myrick. It’s Kellog, Police Department.”
“Oh, I see. Wondered when I saw the light.” He crossed the lawn and came up the steps. “You fellows work late, don’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, we’re through here, but Miss Crewes called me.” Casey explained about the damaged tapes, but Myrick made no comment. “Will you be staying here tonight, Mr. Myrick?”
“Afraid I haven’t the stomach for that. I’ll be at the Miramar Hotel. Just came by to have a look before I check in.” Brushing by Casey, he stepped in and turned on the hall light. “God,” he muttered, “what a mausoleum. Why Steve didn’t modernize—By the way,” he added coldly, “shouldn’t I have been notified that this house would be unsealed before the inquest?” A loaded question, Casey realized from his tone. But it was not until the next morning that he discovered it was also a declaration of war…
He was half an hour late checking in, and Krug glowered at him, not bothering to say hello. Fog stuck to the second-story windows, the lights seemed dim. A curious quiet hung over the squad room. Weather blues, Casey decided, and ignoring Krug’s mood, he elaborated on the report he had filed on Adrian Crewes’s call last night. “So I checked to see if she had one of those burglar chains on her door,” he
finished, “and she does, so I figured she’d probably be safe enough.”
“Our gentleman cop.” Krug’s smile was ominous. “You had a good night’s sleep, too, I guess?”
“Not particularly. By the time I typed my report—”
“While I was downstairs getting puked on by that Flesher kid’s mother.”
“Sorry, Al, but I figured the report was more important.”
“Yeah, I can see what you mean, I read it.”
“Then you know what she might be up against. Al, just in case, I think we ought to arrange some protection—”
“Protection, my ass!” Krug exploded. “Who needs it is you, hotshot. Couldn’t wait to get out there and play Sherlock, hah? Detective Third solos and makes bureau history.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Stick around, you’ll see.” And Krug strode out.
Baffled, Casey glanced around the squad room, but every head was bent in deep concentration over sheaves of paper. Not a single eye met his. A familiar face smiled out of the Westside Section—a Thursday feature in the Los Angeles Times—lying on Krug’s desk. Santa Monica realtor predicts high-rise ghettos. It was Frank Simmons, and the prediction had been the highlight of his speech to last night’s meeting of the Westside Apartment House Owners Association.
Sitting at his own desk, Casey began to scan the overnights. Myrick’s inquest was slated for ten o’clock, he noticed. The old night clerk who had been held up at the hotel had died. From the captain’s office he kept hearing muffled voices, impossible to identify. Something was going on, all right, and from the mood of the office, it had to be dire.
The captain’s door banged open, then shut after Timms. “All right,” the lieutenant called wearily, “let’s get started. We got a hell of a mess here and the sooner we get at it, the better. Where’s Al?”
“The can or some place,” Zwingler answered. “Want me to track him down?”
Timms shook his head. “Leave it—he knows, anyway. He’s due at Myrick’s inquest at ten.” He started assigning the day’s details—one detective to keep canvassing Judy Flesher’s street, another to continue on Palisades Avenue—“I want somebody who saw that girl Monday night. Saw her leave Myrick’s, and if somebody was with her. Ralph,” he said to Zwingler, “you keep bird-dogging that hotel holdup. Better check with Robbery, too. We had two come in last night that looked suspiciously like that hotel job. Haynes, you’re backup again today until further notice.” Then he leaned back against one of the desks, folding his arms, and said, “Okay, now for our new thrills.” He briefly reviewed Casey’s report about the destroyed tapes, the strange sobbing voice he had heard the night before. “According to Kellog, we’ve got ourselves a whole new ball game here. What we’re looking for is somebody who knew how and where to get keys. Somebody who knew about those tapes. Somebody familiar enough with the household to know that Myrick was usually out late, and the housekeeper was off Sunday and Monday.”
“Your fat girl was made to order,” Haynes commented. “To get back at Myrick for kicking her out of the group, she was busy vandalizing when he caught her—”
“Don’t strain your imagination,” Timms cut in sourly. “There’s enough of that going on here already.”
“What’s the hassle with the captain?” Zwingler asked.
“Myrick’s brother is in there lodging a formal complaint.” Timms glared at Casey. “We’re about to be charged with negligence. Specifically, being party to the destruction of private property. Start praying right now that he doesn’t specify it could be evidence, too.”
Bewildered, Casey stared at him. “You can’t mean the tapes…”
“Save it, Kellog. I’ll talk to you later.”
When the meeting was over, Casey fished coins out of his pocket and wandered forlornly downstairs to the coffee vending machine. As he stooped to extract the steaming cup from its automated slot, he heard someone clattering down the stairs. A familiar voice—Zwingler’s—said behind him, “The game’s called ‘Tag a pigeon,’ Casey. Don’t you recognize it?”
Balancing the brimming cup, Casey straightened. “I dig I’m ‘it,’ all right, but why?”
“Ah, come on, use your head. It’s politics. The pressure bit. You know if Myrick wasn’t a lawyer, he’d get the fisheye and a fast shuffle. But mouthpieces, you know, they got ways and means. He’s got this five-foot chip on his shoulder because he thinks we’re pussyfooting with the juveniles. You heard what Timms said yesterday. The legal eagle’s blown his mind on the idea it’s another Manson-type slaughter.”
But that was only half of it, Casey discovered later when he was finally called on the carpet. Myrick was present—not the usual procedure with complaints of this sort—and as well as the charge of departmental negligence, he seemed determined to work up a bill of particulars against Adrian Crewes. “Not that I’m suggesting anything more now than malicious mischief,” he said several times. “But the fact remains, she had more reason than anyone to destroy those tapes.”
“I disagree.” Casey finally spoke up. “Of all the people involved, she seems to me to have less reason—”
“Wait a minute, Kellog,” the captain interrupted. “If there’s a possibility of some misguided loyalty on Miss Crewes’s part, either to the material or the patients in that group, we have to consider it.”
“Thank you, Captain.” Myrick kept staring at Casey. “I might add that I mentioned to her Tuesday that she ought to turn those tapes over to you as possible evidence. A mistake, I soon realized. She flew at me as if I’d suggested she burn them instead.”
“Well, it could be,” Casey ventured, “she was thinking of them only in terms of privileged material.”
“And her professional scruples wouldn’t allow her to let go of them?” Myrick smiled unpleasantly. “Detective, don’t try to sell me that story. I believe I know what Miss Crewes is up to. But let it go for now,” he added. “What I’m here for is a satisfactory explanation why you took it upon yourself to open my brother’s house to a possible suspect, leaving her alone there to do whatever she pleased.”
“I didn’t open the house, Mr. Myrick. Miss Crewes has keys. If you didn’t want her there, you should have asked her Tuesday to surrender them. As for her being a possible suspect, we have no evidence so far—”
“And she’s lame, and a woman, therefore automatically passed over.”
“Not automatically, Mr. Myrick. Until we prove otherwise, no one connected with your brother will be passed over. Not even you,” Casey added unwisely.
Myrick’s pale, parched-looking face flamed, and for an instant his hard professional poise deserted him. “That woman deliberately destroyed evidence,” he shouted. “She as good as told me herself…” Suddenly he calmed down. “Are you aware that she was determined to break her contract with my brother and their publisher?”
Casey glanced at the captain. No help there. These were courtroom tactics.
“Of course she denies it, but you can see the possibilities.” Again Myrick smiled unpleasantly. “But the real question is, Why would she want out of a profitable project she’s already given six months to?” A skillful pause, then he answered himself: “I say she realized they had a tiger by the tail with those hoodlums. And to nullify her contractual obligation—as well as save her own skin!—she sabotaged the project.”
“Well, so much for the flimflam man,” the captain said when Myrick had finally gone. “I think we’ve seen everything in his bag of tricks. But if he talks to any reporters”—he made a futile gesture—“we’ll probably get some flak.” A very tall, deceptively bland-looking man, he looked down on Casey. “Incidentally, you want to watch how you handle these types hereafter,” he suggested mildly. “You go treading on any local toes like that, you’ll make Detective Second about the time you’re ready to retire.”
“I’m sorry, sir,
but he’s so far out of line…”
“How can you be so sure when all you’ve got is the word of a suspect? Don’t you realize what a bind you’ve put us in, letting Myrick see your prejudice for this woman?”
“It isn’t prejudice, sir, it’s common sense. This is a professional woman we’re talking about. I’ve seen her books in the reference stacks at the library—”
“All right, Kellog, let’s not argue the matter. All I’m telling you is, watch it.” Then he dismissed Casey, and it was Timms’s turn.
“Listen,” the lieutenant said harshly, “in the first place, that report you filed is so much quicksand. You’re talking about damage to material we haven’t officially recognized. Can’t, as you know, without legal red tape. Then, in the second place, you refuse to see what’s obvious. If Crewes wiped those tapes, she could be building up a neat little defense for herself.”
“I don’t believe that, Lieutenant.”
“Goddammit, you know the woman’s a question mark! She’s not in the clear by any means. And if she—Ah, the hell with it,” he said impatiently, “you know the score. You’ve stuck us on a tightrope, and whether Crewes is guilty or innocent of anything, Myrick’s got us dead to rights if he wants to start a stink about mishandling.”
“Lieutenant, I heard that tape, and I’ll stake my bottom dollar it’s either a nut of some kind or somebody bombed out of his mind.”
“Or somebody who wants us to think just that? Whatever happened to those tapes, they’re dynamite. And officially they don’t exist. Can never exist now—you understand—because they’re conveniently destroyed.”
“Not completely, sir,” Casey said. “Miss Crewes monitored each tape and took notes, she told me. So if it was the killer who wiped them—”
“But you told me yourself, she said there was nothing incriminating on them! Don’t push it, Kellog,” Timms warned as Casey opened his mouth to argue. “You’ve had your say. Let’s just finish up with a little piece of news you don’t seem to have heard yet. Your crippled lady wasn’t home last night after you tucked her in. Either that, or she wasn’t answering the phone.” He smiled chillingly. “Something to think about, isn’t it?”
Rouse the Demon: A Krug & Kellog Thriller (The Krug & Kellog Thriller Series Book 3) Page 11