Dead Seed

by William Campbell Gault

  Kelly smiled. Bernie said, “I guess that’s all. Be sure to keep your nose clean, Dwight.”

  “Hell, yes.” He looked at me. “Nice meeting you, Callahan. I hope we’ll meet again.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I told him.

  EIGHT

  BERNIE SAT IN THE CAR and stared moodily through the windshield. “So much for that. What a liar that son of a bitch is!”

  I agreed. The guy was good at it, knowing what to admit and when to lie—when his lies couldn’t be checked out.

  “Now where?” Bernie asked. “We can’t go prowling around town looking for a van with Arizona plates.”

  “Maybe it really is in the shop, as Kelly said. We could try a couple of garages. They might have her address.”

  He nodded. “Good thinking.” He started the engine. “Maybe the Volkswagen dealer? If she’s new in town that could be her first choice.”

  It was a lucky guess. The van was there. The service manager told Bernie that Mrs. Lacrosse had phoned them this morning and given them her new address.

  “The way that heap looks to me,” Bernie said, “it could cost her plenty.”

  “Not much,” the manager said. “Points and new plugs and a general tune-up. It runs better than it looks. We’re going to get our money out of her, aren’t we?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?”

  The man smiled. “Lieutenant, when you have to come in here to get the address of a driver with Arizona plates, how else can I read it? For all I know, it could be a hot car.”

  “Wise guy,” Bernie muttered as we walked out.

  I didn’t comment. I thought the guy was pretty sharp.

  The address he had given us was in a marginal section of town, a small frame house sadly in need of paint.

  “I wonder where she got that kind of dough?” Bernie said as we pulled up in front.

  “Dough? For that dump?”

  “In this crazy town today? A tent goes for six hundred a month. My daughter is renting an eight-hundred-square-foot cement block house for eight hundred and fifty.”

  There was some sag in the front-porch floor as we walked to the door. There was no bell button, only a crank in the middle of the door.

  Bernie cranked it and the bell jangled inside. The door opened.

  The man standing there was not tall, but very bulky. He was dressed in a T-shirt and dirty jeans. He was barefoot.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Bernie displayed his shield. “Is Mrs. Lacrosse home?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  The same silent answer.

  Bernie took out a notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped a few pages. Then, “Are you Alvin Chitty, Mrs. Lacrosse’s cousin?”

  “So what if I am?”

  “If you are, I’d like to ask you about that fuss you had at the gate of The New Awareness Saturday night.”

  “There was no fuss! My cousin asked if she could talk with her boy. Through the gate, you know—just talk? He’s her only kid! So the guard gives us a lot of static and we gave him some back and then the law arrived and we left.”

  “You know why the law arrived, don’t you? Because Kelly is a kidnapper and the officer thought Kelly was driving the truck.”

  “That’s your story,” Alvin said.

  Vogel nodded. “That’s mine. And what’s yours?”

  “The word I get is that Sarkissian is paying off half the cops in town. A kidnapper? You call a man that brings kids home to their parents a kidnapper? Jesus—cops—!”

  They stared at each other for seconds. Then Vogel said curtly, “Have Mrs. Lacrosse phone the station when she gets back. Tell her to ask for Lieutenant Vogel.”

  “If I remember,” Alvin said, and slammed the door.

  There was no place to go from there. We went back to the station. The desk sergeant told Vogel he’d had a phone call and the man wanted him to call back. He handed him a slip.

  Bernie called from his office, identified himself, and listened for about a minute. Then he said, “Thank you very much. I wish we had more citizens like you in this town.” He hung up and looked at me.

  “A break?” I asked.

  “It was the service manager we talked with. Mrs. Lacrosse stopped in to tell him not to work on the van.”

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “Mmm-hmm. She’s trading it in on a new one?”

  “How can she? It’s registered in Carl’s name.”

  “That can be worked out. Maybe he signed the title over to her and she never had it reregistered. But what I’m thinking—where in hell did she get the money?”

  Where else? I thought. I said nothing. We sat in silence.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “The same as I am. Grange, right?”

  “No. I doubt if he has it.”

  “Miss Medford?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And why?”

  “Who knows? Why did they park outside her house? Why did Miss Medford run to Solvang? You’ll have to ask her that.”

  “Oh, sure! Through the filter of about half a dozen of the most expensive lawyers in town. But you know her.”

  “The district attorney could ask her,” I pointed out. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence to make it a logical inquiry.”

  “He could ask her attorneys. If he had their kind of clout, do you think he would settle for being a DA? Hell, I’ve had him go after Kelly time after time. Nothing!”

  Kelly, Kelly, Kelly. The man was an obsession with Bernie.

  “I’ll try,” I said. “It will take some tact.”

  He nodded. “And that sure isn’t one of your strong points. But who else do we have?”

  I stood up. “Thanks a lot.”

  He smiled. “I apologize. You have tact when you need it. Luck, buddy.”

  There were so many questions. But who had the answers? It was possible that Sidney Morgenstern had, but he was dead. Carl Lacrosse had the same information, but where was he? The lovers had some of the answers, but they weren’t talking. Kelly and Mrs. Lacrosse? That would be getting blood out of a stone. Our last best hope seemed to be Joel Lacrosse. I hoped Corey would get to him.

  Mrs. Casey made me an omelet for lunch. I phoned the Medford house after lunch. Charles told me they still were not accepting calls. Not even from their friends and neighbors; the runners had turned into hiders.

  I put on my own running clothes and went out for a slow six miles. I came home and showered and sat out in back with a magazine where I could watch the Medford sanctuary.

  No soothing music came from the house, no clack of croquet balls from the lawn. I built another scenario in my mind:

  The opening scene was a suite at the Biltmore; the characters were an aging but still handsome movie star and his distinguished and still honest agent. They were arguing. The agent had brought some news that would get his client out of trouble if the client was willing to stand up and fight. The actor said he was tired of fighting.

  There were some angry words between them. The agent accused the actor of being a papier-mâché hero, an imitation macho man. The actor claimed that the macho-man image had not been his choice; he could have gone on to more serious parts if he’d had an agent who refused to let him be typed.

  The actor storms out of the suite and the scene changes. The agent is walking on the beach at night, a contemplative man. (Now we go into voice-over.) He wonders if he had really done right by his client. Had it been his fault that the actor spent so much money so fast that they couldn’t wait for the serious parts? And how many really serious films had the studios made in those days? He knew what actors thought of agents. One of his more cynical clients had explained it to him—changing agents was like changing deck chairs on the Titanic.

  Then, from the shadows of a shack near the beach, a shrouded and ominous figure picks up a large rock and—

  And Jan asked, “What are
you dreaming about? You were mumbling.”

  I looked up to see her smiling down at me. “I was dreaming about my youth,” I told her. “You sound happy.”

  “With reason. I finally found a client with impeccable taste.”

  Impeccable taste meant Jan’s taste. I didn’t put the thought into words, getting some practice on my tact. “Is it time for a drink?”

  “I’ll make them,” she said. “I’m not tired today. I didn’t have to spend my time dickering with impossible people.”

  We sat in our deck chairs, sipping martinis, within view of the quiet house next door. “And your day?” she asked.

  “Fruitless.”

  “You didn’t learn anything?”

  “I learned what I already knew, that people lie. I guess that’s what tact is, isn’t it—learning to lie gracefully?”

  “You’ve lost me again,” she said. “Just the facts, peeper.”

  I gave her the sordid details of my depressing day.

  “And now,” she guessed, “you’re wondering where the money came from.”

  “Not really. Maybe a little.”

  She nodded toward the Medford home. “There?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why don’t you phone them?”

  “I did. They’re not accepting calls.”

  “To hell with both of them,” she said. “Mrs. Casey is making Irish stew for dinner. That should cheer you up. And remember, there’s always tomorrow, lover.”

  The Irish stew helped. I was almost back to my natural ebullience when Corey phoned.

  “Learn anything?” I asked him.

  “I sure did. I talked with Joel. He works in the kitchen, too. That’s part of his incubation period. You know—honest toil?”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He told me he hates his mother. It really floored me. I mean, he seems like such a nice, gentle guy. And I talked with Penelope.”

  “Who is Penelope?”

  “You know! That girl who works up here, the secretary, the girl I went to high school with.” A pause. “We’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Doesn’t she live up there?”

  “Of course not! She’s like me, an employee. She’s no weirdo.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Stay away from weirdos, Corey.”

  “I plan to. What I wondered—you see, after the movie I figured we could grab a sandwich or something. But I’m a little short of cash right now. I put in eight hours today. That would be sixteen bucks.”

  “You’re good at figures. Isn’t Mrs. Lacrosse paying you, or Kelly?”

  “Do you think I would work for them after what you told me? Do you think I’m unethical?”

  “Don’t con me, Corey,” I said sternly. “They dumped you.”

  Silence on the line.

  I said, “All right. Drop in at the house before you go to the movie. I’ll give you your pay for today.”

  When he rang our bell, around eight o’clock, I gave him his sixteen dollars and asked him, “Would you like a beer?”

  “Penelope is waiting in the car,” he said.

  “Doesn’t she like beer? Bring her in.”

  He stood there, looking doubtful.

  I said the magic word. “Einlicher,” I told him.

  “I’ll get her,” he said.

  The girl with the flaxen hair was not wearing charcoal denim tonight. She was wearing blue linen. But it was as unadorned as the charcoal denim had been. Her face was devoid of makeup, her long hair free of frizz. This was the genuine article.

  She stood in the center of our living room and said, “What a lovely room!”

  “It’s my wife’s taste, not mine,” I explained.

  “I know,” she said.

  That could be read several ways, one of which was not complimentary. I decided not to ask for her reading of the remark, still getting in more practice on my tact.

  She smiled at me. “That was dumb, wasn’t it? What I meant to say was that I knew Mrs. Callahan worked for Kay Décor. Corey told me.”

  “I assumed that’s what you meant,” I said. “Did he also tell you never to mention my name to your boss?”

  “He did. He’s—creepy, isn’t he? I mean Mr. Sarkissian, of course, not Corey. But handsome!”

  “That he is,” I agreed. “He reminds me of Tyrone Power.”

  “Who is Tyrone Power?” she asked.

  “I’ll get your beer,” I said.

  “While I show Penelope the rest of the house,” Jan said.

  They were still prowling the other rooms when I told Corey, “You had better get that lovely girl out of there before Sarkissian starts chasing her around the office.”

  “Nah. He’s gay.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Positive. I was thinking—now that I’m working up there exclusively for you—”

  “All right,” I said. “Three-twenty an hour.”

  “Fair enough. What did you learn at your end today?”

  I didn’t tell him all of it, only that Mrs. Lacrosse had suddenly come into money and was no longer living at Kelly’s.

  “So that’s why they bounced me,” he said. “It’s a really strange case, isn’t it? But challenging.”

  “We’ll solve it,” I assured him.

  Ten minutes of chitchat after that, they left. Five minutes later, I remembered that Corey wasn’t working exclusively for me as he had claimed; he had another source of income as a dishwasher. The kid should go far. He had the true hustler’s instinct.

  “I wonder what she sees in him,” Jan said. “Not that he isn’t nice enough, in his way. But she is lovely!”

  “We made it. Why shouldn’t they?”

  “I’m not following you again.”

  “They are our junior clones,” I explained, “a lovely girl with taste and a vulgar private eye.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not at all like Corey, Brock.”

  “You didn’t know me when I was his age,” I told her.

  NINE

  CHIEF HARRIS HAD PROMISED BERNIE that we could take all the time we wanted on this case. It was possible that Bernie and I were not on the same case. I was out to nail the killer of Sydney Morgenstern. Bernie hoped to nail Kelly. As for the third fearless bloodhound on this hunt, crafty Corey Raleigh, his primary goal was to build up his bank account.

  Over our waffles in the morning, Jan told me she was going to play golf today.

  “A sound idea,” I told her. “All work and no play could make Jan a dull girl.”

  “It’s work, in a way. I’m playing with my new client.”

  “Ms. Impeccable?”

  Jan nodded. “She’s a twelve-handicapper.”

  Jan was a fifteen. “Be sure,” I advised her, “that you don’t play her like you play me. Don’t ask for strokes, and don’t putt well.”

  “That would be dishonest, Brock. That would be customer golf.”

  “Pardon me! I forgot—she’s not a customer, is she? She’s a client.”

  “She is. And I hope you recognize the distinction.”

  I did; about eighty percent in markup. I tactfully kept my big mouth shut.

  When she left, I phoned Bernie and asked if I should come down this morning. We had no place to go, he told me. Why didn’t I keep an eye on the Medford house? He would phone me around noon.

  And then a thought hit me. In our talk with Kelly, Bernie had not asked him for a Saturday-night alibi. “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because Captain Dahl thought it might be smarter to find out where he was before we asked him. We can catch him in a lie easier that way.”

  I didn’t try to follow the police logic of that. I told him about Corey being fired by Mrs. Lacrosse.

  “Naturally. She doesn’t need him any more. She got her blackmail money. What we’re going to try to find out this morning is how much.”

  “We—?”

  “Captain Dahl and I.”

  They had never been soul mate
s, those two. They had found a bond of common interest; they both hated Kelly.

  “Remember now,” he warned me, “if you get a chance to talk with Grange or Miss Medford, don’t get too pushy. We don’t want to scare them off.”

  “I will be my usual suave self,” I informed him coolly.

  I poured myself another cup of coffee and took that and the Times with me to the backyard. The people next door had paid off. But Mrs. Lacrosse was not leaving town. She still had to recover her son. She didn’t need Kelly for that, she now figured, not even low-pay Corey.

  He was, she thought, too bright to buy the Sarkissian pitch and would soon leave the place. That might be true. But if he hated his mother, where else could he go to escape her, where else could he find free board and a guarded sanctuary?

  He must have assumed she wouldn’t stay in town forever. She probably had other relatives back in Skeleton Gulch. San Valdesto could be an uncomfortably alien environment for Mrs. Carl Tryden Lacrosse.

  Tryden. For the second time that word rang a muted bell in my unconscious. Tryden and Tyrone? Tyrone Power? No, that wasn’t it.

  I was deep in the trenchant prose of Ellen Goodman when, from the other side of the hedge, Fortney Grange called, “Good morning, Brock.”

  “Good morning,” I said, and stood up. “Come on over. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  He came over to take the chair next to mine. I went into the kitchen where Mrs. Casey was eating her breakfast. “Is there enough coffee left for Mr. Grange?” I asked her. Then I saw the decanter was still half full. “Never mind,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

  “No, no!” she said. “It’s cold. I’ll warm it up and bring it out to you in a minute.”

  I felt the side of the decanter. “It’s hot enough.”

  “Please?” she asked.

  Fortney Grange had at least one loyal fan left. “All right,” I said. “But if you’re going to ask for his autograph, be sure to bring the paper and pen with you. I’m sure he didn’t bring either with him.”

  I went back to tell him Mrs. Casey would bring his coffee. I sat down and said, “That was shocking news about your friend.”

  He nodded. “And for the police to suspect me—!”

  “They have to follow all leads,” I explained, “even remote possibilities. Will his funeral be in Los Angeles?”