Our Fathers (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "Do you have a phone?"

  The man looked at him uncertainly, wondering what was going on. "Why?"

  "I have to call the police. He's dead."

  CHAPTER 7

  It was one of the old Volkswagens, one of the Bugs, forest green, nearly mint condition. Harry was proud of it and took pleasure in keeping it that way. It was as close as he came to having a hobby. His wife referred to it as his obsession, but admitted privately that he could have had worse ones. He had washed it carefully and waxed it lovingly. He was just stepping back in admiration, when he heard the phone. It rang twice before he remembered there was no one there to answer it. Annoyed, he went into the house, wondering who would call him on his day off. Then he thought it must be his wife calling from Baltimore.

  It wasn't Karen. It was Ross, the Connor Beach Chief of Police.

  "Sorry about this Harry. We've got a problem. We just got a call. There's a body. Maybe a homicide."

  Harry said nothing.

  "I know, Harry. The dispatcher sent Reynolds to check it out, then called me. Maybe it's just an accident. People see a body, right away they think murder."

  "Does Reynolds know enough to stay out?"

  "I hope so. He's not stupid. Anyway, that's why I want you out there. If it is a homicide, I don't want it screwed up. I don't want people stepping all over it. Beverly's trying to locate Wilder. We'll get her out there as soon as we can."

  Harry said nothing.

  "If it's any help, I know how you feel about this. Just check it out. Make sure we don't mess up at the start."

  "Yeah, okay. I'll give you a call. Where you going to be?"

  "I'll be at the station."

  You'd better be, he thought. If I'm going to spend a day off messing with bodies . . . unfair, Harry, unfair. Ross was at home, too.

  Leaving Wilford, he drove over the bridge and the Inland Waterway, past the fishing boats and the weekend pleasure crafts. Straight ahead, on the ocean side, he saw the Mariner, the only sizable hotel on the island. He often wondered how they managed to stay open during the winter. Probably living off their summer fat, he thought. He turned right onto the main road, the Waterway on his right, houses and apartments on his left. The road was a wide four lanes for the summer traffic, but at this time of year he had it practically to himself.

  Just past the hotel, he turned left and right again into a narrow street with houses on both sides. Most of them were closed for the winter. Two hundred yards along, the street turned right again to rejoin the main road. He saw the patrol car and pulled in behind. Reynolds was there, starched and crisp in his uniform, notebook out, talking to two men. Harry still wore the khakis and the old Baltimore Colts sweatshirt from washing the car. The contrast made him feel a bit seedy.

  He guessed one of the men to be about thirty. The other was younger, twenty-something, with sandy hair and mustache, wearing a red and white striped T-shirt. He was tanned and fit looking. Harry pictured him on a surfboard.

  As Reynolds came up to him, he asked, "Did you go inside?"

  "Just looked in."

  Thank God for that. "Man or woman?"

  "Man."

  "Any doubt he's really dead?"

  "Christ, Lieutenant, it looks like a damn slaughterhouse." Then, more professionally, he added, "It looks like he's been there awhile. The blood's pretty dry."

  "Anybody else go in?"

  "I don't think so. I was just talking to the guy who found him. He says he just looked in, saw the body and came over here to call."

  "Okay. I don't suppose either one of them has confessed?"

  Reynolds grinned. "Not yet."

  "All right. Keep them here while I see for myself."

  "Right. Just go around the porch to the ocean-side door. He's right there."

  Harry saw as much as he had to see. The man was dead, the blood had been dry a considerable time and yes, it looked like a damned slaughterhouse. As he came down the front steps, he saw something that made him stop. A realtor's 'For Sale' sign was leaning against the side of the steps. He picked it up and saw that the strip of tough Bermuda grass it had been lying on was dying. Not dead yet, not brown, but pale from lack of sun. So it hadn't been there very long. How long? So who do I look like, he thought, Daniel Boone? How should I know how long? He took out his notebook and made a note of the realtor's name and number.

  He came back across the street thinking about what he would say to Ross. He used the radio in the black-and-white to call the dispatcher. Ross came on almost immediately.

  "Is it homicide?"

  "Looks like it. Apparently a chest wound. I couldn't see a gun, but it could have dropped behind something. Probably not, though. Look, we're not equipped for this. We'll need an SBI homicide team. The works."

  Would he go for it?

  "Right. We'll get you a forensics team."

  No, he wouldn't go for it. Ross was a good man to work for. He was smart, he was honest and he tried to be fair. You couldn't ask for more. But he was also territorial, a trait he shared with a lot of people in the business. He was Chief of a small department, and he didn't like people from outside working his area. He tended to get bristly in jurisdictional matters. In a case like this, he could reasonably request an SBI homicide team, including investigators. Or, God forbid, he could ask for help from the larger, better equipped Wilford PD, but if he did, it would become their case, and that would rankle.

  "Harry, you've got more homicide experience than anybody they're likely to send."

  Yeah, he thought, that was the problem.

  "What kind of forensics will you need?"

  "Blood analysis, for sure. Medical, fingerprints, photographer. Whatever they can send."

  "Do you have anything yet?" He meant suspects.

  "Haven't even started asking questions. I'll let you know. Send me a couple more people. It looks pretty deserted here, but there might be someone who saw something. And get those forensics people here as soon as you can. From the looks of him, he's probably been dead since sometime last night."

  When he had signed off, he motioned Reynolds over and asked, "Who found him?"

  "Terry Eason. He's the older one. Says he knew the victim." He checked his notebook. "A Matt Carlsberg."

  "And the other one. Who's he?"

  "Mac Bonham. He and a bunch of friends had a party here last night."

  "And where are the friends? Gone, I'll bet."

  "Yes, sir. His girlfriend's in the house. They're about ready to leave."

  "All right. Listen, we've got some more people coming to help. What I want you to do is go up on that porch and make sure nobody goes in that house. Walk around. Watch both doors. Nobody. Not the owner, not the relatives, not your friends, not Ross, not even me. There's an SBI team on the way. When they get here, the house is theirs. But nobody else."

  "Okay."

  "If this overcast parts and Jesus Christ himself descends from Heaven and wants to look around, you be polite with him, but you don't let him in. Not unless he has SBI identification."

  Reynolds went away smiling, no doubt picturing himself standing square in front of the door while some unauthorized person tried to pass.

  Chervenic turned to the two men, introducing himself. He looked at Terry first. Very nervous and still shaken.

  "I understand you found the body."

  "That's right."

  "What can you tell me about him?"

  "Not much. I just met him a few days ago."

  "And how did that happen? Did someone introduce you?"

  Terry told him about the meeting on the beach, being invited in, and dinner the previous evening. Chervenic didn't interrupt. Sometimes he made notes, but mostly he just listened. When Terry finished he asked, "Who's Kelly?"

  "She owns the house I'm staying in."

  "You're renting?"

  "Borrowing."

  "I see. I'll need her full name and address. Yours, too. I take it this isn't your permanent address?"

&nb
sp; "No, I'm just here for a month."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "This is Sunday. I got here last Saturday."

  "And you met Mr. Carlsberg on Thursday."

  "I think it was. The days kind of run together down here."

  "How did you happen to find him?"

  "The door was open."

  Chervenic looked a question at him. "And?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. It was last night. As we were leaving, he shook my hand and said goodbye. He was serious, almost solemn. I asked him about it, and he said he had to go see some doctors. I got the impression he meant today. Then when I saw the door open, well, I thought maybe something had happened to him. Another attack or something."

  "Was it wide open?"

  "No, just not closed."

  "So you had to open it to go inside."

  "Yes. I mean, I opened it, I was going to just stick my head in and call. I didn't go in though. When I saw him I . . ."

  "What?"

  "I went to the rail and lost my lunch."

  Chervenic thought about that. Satisfied, he asked, "What can you tell me about him? Was he married?"

  "No."

  "Was he gay?"

  "No. What the hell difference does it make?"

  The detective's expression didn't change. "Some people are. Sometimes it makes a difference."

  "I guess so. Sorry. I'm just beginning to realize he's dead. I don't like it much. I'm not sure, but he seems to have lived with different women off and on, but it never lasted."

  "Did he mention any names?"

  "No."

  "Do you know what he did? What his work was?"

  "He said he was retired."

  "From what?"

  "I have no idea. Whatever it was, he said he had made enough that he didn't have to work, so he stopped. I think it was in Europe somewhere. He spoke about France and Italy and England."

  "No hints about what it was?"

  "Not that I picked up on, except that he traveled a lot. He retired a couple of years ago and went to Japan."

  "Why Japan?"

  Chervenic listened, his eyes half closed, as Terry tried to explain.

  "Did he say what he was doing here?"

  "Kelly asked him. He said he was recuperating from an operation. Oh, and he also said he had a brother and sister who live in Wilford."

  "Did he mention their names?"

  "No, I don't think so. They weren't very close, I guess. He said he hadn't seen them for twenty years. Until last week. I guess that's when he got here."

  "Did he mention anyone else? Business associates, lovers, enemies?"

  Terry tried to remember. "I don't think so. There was one thing though. Last night, just as we were going in to dinner. We'd been having drinks on the porch. When we stood up we could see the beach. There was a woman walking by the water. She was past us, and she had this big hat on so we couldn't see her face. But I think he recognized her. He said she reminded him of someone, but I got the impression he knew her."

  "He didn't say anything else about her?"

  "Not a word."

  "What time did you eat?"

  "It was just about 7:00. After that we had coffee and brandy, and just sat around talking."

  "And when did you leave?"

  "I'm not sure. Somewhere between 8:30 and 9:00, I think."

  "The houses aren't very far apart. Did you hear anything unusual during the night?"

  "I think I heard sounds from the party here. Someone laughing. Some music. But it was very faint. Kind of came and went as the wind shifted."

  "Nothing that could have been a gunshot?"

  "No."

  "It might not have been very loud."

  Mac Bonham was sitting on the steps, listening. He said, "They're usually not as loud as people think. More of a pop. Unless it's a really heavy caliber."

  Chervenic glanced at him, and he added, "I do a little shooting."

  Harry wrote something else in his notebook, said, "All right. That should do it for now, Mr. Eason. We'll probably talk again. You aren't going anywhere, are you?"

  "Four houses down. I'll be there."

  Terry left reluctantly, walking back slowly. He stood in front of Kelly's house, not wanting to go inside. Like many of the houses here, it stood on pilings driven into the sandy soil, high enough off the ground that a driveway went in underneath to serve as a garage. To keep it from looking like a large, square spider, this bottom area was skirted with wooden slats. The whole thing was painted a monotonous white. Steps led up to a small porch. From under its roof, two small windows and a door gave him a blank, closed look. He had lived and worked there for over a week, had made love there, and still he didn't feel welcome.

  He looked back at the two men, one sitting on the steps, the other with one foot on the lower step. He wanted to go back and be with them, to listen to the questions and answers. It wasn't just curiosity. For some reason, he didn't want to be alone just then.

  "You're Mac Bonham?"

  "That's me."

  "And what can you tell me about this?"

  "Nothing. I've been asleep most of the day. We had a party here last night. It went on till . . . I don't know when I crashed."

  As he spoke, a woman carrying a soft-sided suitcase came quietly out of the house and down the stairs. She was in her late twenties, and was probably pretty, but her eyes were squinted against the light, even though it was now early evening. She walked carefully, as if any kind of jolt might cause her head to come loose. As she reached the bottom, she asked, "Have you seen my sunglasses?"

  "No. Did you bring them?"

  "Of course I brought them." She massaged her temples with her free hand. "I need them."

  She seemed to notice Chervenic for the first time. "Come on, Mac. Let's get the hell out of here. Your stuff is still in the house." Her voice held raw, irritated impatience, but she spoke slowly, trying to talk around the pounding in her head.

  "I know. I'll get it and lock up."

  "Well, come on then, damn it. I don't want to stand around here all night."

  "You get in the van if you want. Lie down in the back. I'll be there pretty soon."

  "What are you waiting for?"

  "There was a murder across the street."

  "Well, hell, I know that. You didn't do it. They can't arrest you, so screw 'em. Why do you want to get mixed up in a murder?"

  "Myra, shut up." He said it quietly and, surprisingly, she didn't seem to be offended by it. Without changing expression, or looking at either of them, she went to the van and got in, closing the door as gently as she could.

  Mac had watched her. Now he turned back to Chervenic. "She's normally pretty nice. Great for partying, but you pay for it next day. She's a royal bitch with a hangover." He pulled a little at his mustache, and said, "I wish I could help you, but I've been out of it."

  "What about yesterday?"

  "Yesterday? We didn't get down here till about 3:00, 3:30. Spent the time getting stuff in for the party, getting set up, you know."

  "Did you see the man across the street?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "See anybody going into the house?"

  "Well, the guy that was just here. I was getting some beer out of the van. He and a woman walked up the road. I think they went in."

  "What time was that?"

  "Who knows?" He looked up at the sky. "Maybe an hour later than this."

  Harry looked at his watch. 5:30.

  "Did you see them leave?"

  "No, but then I wouldn't. I was inside then. Later on I was out here on the porch, but that wasn't until after ten."

  "Why out here?"

  "It was getting stuffy and loud in there. I came out here and sat on the steps. Then a couple other guys wandered out. You know how it is. Nobody was blitzed, but we'd had just enough to get philosophical. We sat out here solving the problems of the world."

  "And you didn't hear anything like a shot?"

  "Nary
a pop."

  Mickie Wilder's old blue Honda came down the street, and pulled in behind Harry's VW. Closely behind it came the second of Connor Beach's two patrol cars, with two more uniforms. Harry excused himself and went over to meet them.

  Mickie's tight-waist, flared skirt gave her a bit more shape than nature had so far provided. She was younger than either of the uniformed officers. In her mid twenties, she had made detective at the same time that Harry had come to Connor Beach. They had been assigned as sometime partners more from convenience than anything else, but there was also logic to the move. Harry had the experience and Wilder, being local, had the knowledge of people and places that Harry had lacked.

  He told the three of them what the situation was, what he needed. Splitting up, the officers taking one side and Mickie the other, they started down the street, house to house, hoping to find someone at home. Harry came back to the porch to pick up where he had left off.

  "How long were you out here?"

  "Oh, maybe an hour and a half, give or take."

  "So you were facing the house across the street."

  "Pretty much."

  "You hear anything from over there? Voices? Yelling, anything like that?"

  "No. The light was on, but that was it. We had a party going on right behind us, so it was kind of hard to hear anything else."

  "But nobody went in or out?"

  "No. I'd have noticed. It's really deserted here this time of year. I was thinking what a great place to party. All the time we were out here, only one car went by."

  "Did it stop?"

  "Yeah, it parked down the street a ways."

  "Four houses down?"

  "You mean where Eason went? Nah, it was farther down than that. It didn't pull in anywhere — just parked by the curb."

  "See anybody get out?"

  "Didn't notice."

  "What kind of car?"

  "Sedan. I don't know; it was dark. I wasn't really paying attention."

  "All right. Somebody will get in touch with you pretty soon. We'll need a list of the people at the party, especially the ones who were out here on the porch with you. It would help if you could have it ready."

  "Sure, no problem. If that's it, I'd better get Her Highness on the road." He stood up, not looking happy about it. "I just hope to God she sleeps."