Find a Victim

by Ross Macdonald

  Several deputies climbed out of the second patrol car. One of them was a bull-shouldered man with bright quick Spanish eyes moving constantly in an Indian-colored face. He gave the sheriff an impatient salute:

  “Communications got in touch with Meyer. Tony was driving today all right, and the truck is missing.”

  “What was on the truck?”

  “Meyer wouldn’t say. He wants to talk to you about it. When I get my hands on the mother-lovers that did it—” The dark man’s roving gaze rested on me, so hard I could feel its impact.

  The sheriff laid a fatherly arm around the olive-drab shoulders. “Take it slow now, Sal. I know how you people feel about blood-relations. Tony was your cousin, wasn’t he?”

  “My mother’s sister’s son.”

  “We’ll get the ones that did it, Sal, but we’ll make sure that they’re the right ones first. This man here had nothing to do with the killing. He found Tony and brought him to the hospital.”

  “Is that what he says?”

  “That’s what I say.” The sheriff’s tone became abruptly official. “Where’s Meyer now?”

  “At the yard.”

  “Go over to the west side and get the dope on the truck. Tell the old man I’ll be along later. Put out a general alarm on it. And I want roadblocks on every road leading out of the county. Got that, Sal?”

  “Yessir.”

  The dark-faced deputy ran to his car. The sheriff and the rest of his men went over the ground with eyes and fingers and flashbulbs.

  Danelaw, the identification officer, took an impression of my shoe and checked it against the footprints in the ditch. There were no footprints except mine, and no new tire-tracks on the gravel shoulder.

  “It looks as if he was dumped from a car,” Church said. “Or maybe from his truck. Whatever it was, it didn’t leave the concrete.” He looked at me. “Did you see a car? Or a truck?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No.”

  “It’s possible they didn’t stop, just flung him out and let him lie, and he crawled off the road himself.”

  Danelaw spoke up from the side of the road: “I’d say that’s what he did, chief. There’s traces of blood where he dragged himself into the ditch.”

  Church spat on the concrete. “A God-damn nasty business.” He turned to me, almost casually. “Can I have a look at your license, by the way?”

  “Why not?” I showed him my photostat.

  “It looks all right to me. And what did you say you were going to do when you got to Sacramento?”

  “I didn’t say. I have a report to make to a legislative committee.” I named the committee chairman. “He hired me to study narcotics distribution in the southern counties.”

  “If I wanted to go to the trouble of checking that story, would it check out?”

  “Naturally. I have some correspondence with me.”

  I started for my car, but Church stopped me:

  “Don’t bother. You’re not under suspicion. Sal Braga’s an emotional bastard, and he happens to be related to Aquista. In this town everybody’s related to everybody else. Which sometimes makes things a little complicated.” He was silent for a moment. “What do you say we go and talk to Kerrigan?”

  “It sounds delightful.”

  By this time the roadside was lined with cars, official and unofficial. A highway patrolman was directing traffic with a flashlight. He made room for the sheriff’s Mercury to turn, and I followed in my car.

  The red glow over the city reminded me of the reflection of the emergency sign at the hospital, infinitely magnified. Beyond the glowing city, in the hills, the rotating beam of an air beacon seemed to be probing the night for some kind of meaning.

  CHAPTER 3: Kerrigan must have been watching for the sheriff. He came out of the lobby as I pulled up behind the Mercury.

  “How’s the boy, Brand?”

  “Good enough.”

  They shook hands. But I noticed as they talked that each man watched the other like chess opponents who had played before. Or opponents in a deadlier game than chess. No, Kerrigan said, he didn’t know what had happened to Aquista, or why. He had seen no evil, heard no evil, done no evil. The man in the car had asked to use his telephone, and that was his sole connection with the case. He gave me a look of bland hostility.

  “How’s business, by the way?” Church glanced up at the no-vacancy sign, which was lit. “I guess I don’t have to ask.”

  “As a matter of fact it’s lousy. I turned that on because my wife’s too upset to handle the desk. She says.”

  “Is Anne on her vacation?”

  “You could call it that.”

  “Did she quit?”

  Kerrigan lifted and dropped his heavy shoulders. “I wouldn’t know. I was going to ask you.”

  “Why me?”

  “She’s your relative, after all. She hasn’t been on the job all week, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”

  “Isn’t she in her apartment?”

  “The phone doesn’t answer.” Kerrigan peered up sharply into the sheriff’s face. “Haven’t you seen her either, Brand?”

  “Not this week.” He added after a pause: “We don’t see too much of Anne any more.”

  “That’s funny. I thought she was practically part of the family.”

  “You thought wrong. She and Hilda get together now and then, but mostly Anne leads her own life.”

  Kerrigan smiled his soft and ugly smile. “Maybe this week she’s leading her own life a little more than usual, eh?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whatever you want to put into it.”

  Church took a long step toward him, his hands clubbed. His eyes were wide and black, and his face had a green patina in the colored light. He looked sick with anger.

  I opened the car door and got one foot on the gravel. The sound of my movement checked him. He stood shivering, staring down into Kerrigan’s evil grin. Then he turned on his heel and walked away from us. He walked like a mechanical man to the margin of the light and stood there with his back to us and his head down.

  “Shut my big mouth, eh?” Kerrigan said cheerfully. “He’ll blow his top once too often, and blow himself out of the courthouse.”

  Mrs. Kerrigan opened the door of the lobby. “Is something the matter, Don?” She came toward us, wearing a silver-fox cape and an anxious expression.

  “Something always is. I told the sheriff Anne Meyer didn’t turn up this week. He seems to think I’m to blame. I’m not responsible for his God-damn sister-in-law.”

  She laid a timid hand on his arm, like somebody trying to soothe an excited animal. “You must have misunderstood him, darling. I’m sure he couldn’t blame you for anything she does. He probably wants to ask her about Tony Aquista.”

  “Why?” I said. “Did she know Aquista, too?”

  “Of course she did. He had a crush on her. Didn’t he, Don?”

  “Shut up.”

  She backed away from him, stumbling on her high heels as if she had been pushed.

  “Go on, Mrs. Kerrigan. It may be important. Aquista died just now.”

  “He died?” Her hands went to her breast and wound themselves in the fur cape. She looked from me to her husband, her blue eyes darkening. “Is Anne mixed up in it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “This is enough of this, Kate. Go inside. You’re cold and upset and making a fool of yourself.”

  “I am not. You can’t order me in. I have a perfect right to talk to anyone I choose.”

  “You’re not going to shoot off your mouth to this bastard.”

  “I haven’t been—”

  “Shut up.” His voice was quiet and deadly. “You’ve made enough trouble for me already.”

  He seized her elbows from behind and half carried her to the door of the lobby. She strúggled weakly in his grasp, but when he released her she went in without a backward glance.

  He ca
me back toward me, running his fingers lovingly through his hair. It was clipped in a crew cut, much too short for his age. I guessed that he was one of those middle-aging men who couldn’t face the fact that their youth was over. It gave him an unreal surface, under which a current of cruelty flickered.

  “You don’t believe in killing them with kindness.”

  “I know how to handle bitches. Purebred bitches or any other kind of bitches. I also know how to handle nosy sons of bitches. Unless you’re here in some official capacity, I suggest you get off my property. But quick.”

  I looked around for Church. He was in a public telephone booth at the end of the row of cottages. The receiver was at his ear, but he didn’t seem to be talking.

  “Take it up with the sheriff,” I said. “I’m with him.”

  “Just who are you, fellow? If I thought you sicked the sheriff onto me—”

  “What would happen, sweetheart?” He was my favorite man now. I kept my hands down and my chin out, hoping that he would swing and give me a chance to counter.

  “You’d be flat on your back with a throatful of teeth.”

  “I thought you only pushed women around.”

  “You want a demonstration?”

  But he was bluffing. From the sharp bright corners of his eyes he was watching the sheriff approach. The sheriff’s face was solemn and composed:

  “I owe you an apology, Don. I don’t often lose my head like that.”

  “Don’t you? You’ll try it on one too many taxpayers. Then you won’t be able to get yourself elected dogcatcher.”

  “All right. Let’s bury it. I didn’t hurt you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “I said bury it,” Church repeated quietly. His facial muscles were anatomized by the effort he was exerting to hold himself under control. “Tell me more about Anne. Nobody seems to know where she is. She didn’t tell Hilda she was quitting her job or going anywhere.”

  “She didn’t quit the job. She just went away for the weekend and didn’t show up for work Monday morning. Apparently she didn’t come back from the weekend. I haven’t had any word from her.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “You tell me. She doesn’t report to me.”

  They faced each other for a long still moment. There was something worse than potential violence between them, a hatred that went beyond violence and absorbed them completely, like a grand passion.

  “You’re a liar,” Church said finally.

  “Maybe I am a liar. Maybe it’s just as well I am. If I am.”

  Church saw me watching them and jerked his head in peremptory command. I left them bound in their quiet vicious quarrel and went into the dark lobby.

  Its darkness was barely penetrated by the green and yellow light that filtered in through the venetian blinds. Mrs. Kerrigan was curled on a lounge in the farthest corner. All I could see of her was silver-pointed hair and the wet gleam of eyes.

  “Who is it?”

  “Archer. The one who brought you the trouble.”

  “You didn’t bring the trouble. I’ve had it all along.” She rose and came into the center of the room. “You’re not on the local police force, Mr. Archer.”

  “No, I’m a private detective. The southern counties are my normal beat. I stumbled into this one.”

  “Didn’t we all.” Her odor was faint and fragrant, like nostalgia for half-forgotten summers. Her troubled whisper might have been the voice of the breathing darkness: “What does it all mean?”

  “Your guess is better than mine. You know the people involved.”

  “Do I? Not really. I don’t really know my own husband, even.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Seven years. Seven lean years.” She hesitated. “Mr. Archer, are you the sort of detective people hire, to find out things about other people?”

  I told her that I was.

  “Could I—can I trust you?”

  “It’s up to you. Other people have been able to, but I don’t carry references.”

  “Would it cost a great deal? I have some money left.”

  “I don’t know what you have in mind.”

  “Of course you don’t. I’m sorry. I’m awfully scatterbrained tonight.”

  “Or else you don’t want to tell me.”

  “That may be it.” I could sense her invisible smile. “Or it may be that I don’t know exactly what I want done. I certainly don’t want to make trouble for anyone.”

  “Such as your husband?”

  “Yes. My husband.” Her voice dropped, almost out of hearing. “I found Don packing last night, both of his big suitcases. I believe he intends to leave me.”

  “Why not ask him?”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” she said with a desolate kind of wit. “He might give me an answer.”

  “You’re in love with him?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said a little wildly. “I was at one time, quite a long time ago.”

  “Another woman?”

  “Other women, yes.”

  “Would Anne Meyer be one of them?”

  “I know she used to be. There was a—a thing between them last year. He told me it was off, but it may still be on. If you could find her, find out whom she’s seeing—” Her voice trailed off.

  “Exactly how long has she been missing?”

  “Since she took off for the weekend, last Friday.”

  “Where did she spend the weekend?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “With your husband?”

  “No. At least he says not. I was going to say—”

  Kerrigan spoke behind me: “What were you going to say?”

  He had quietly opened the door of the lobby. His bulky shadow moved forward out of its panel of light. He pushed past me and leaned tensely toward his wife:

  “I told you not to shoot off your mouth.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “But I heard you. You wouldn’t call me a liar now, would you, Kate?”

  His back swung sideways. I heard the crack of the blow, and the woman’s hissing gasp. I took him by the shoulder.

  “Lay off her, bully boy.”

  The heavy wad of padding came loose in my hand, and something ripped. He let out a canine yelp and turned on me. One of his flailing fists numbed the side of my neck.

  I backed into the light from the doorway and let him come to me. He charged like a ram, directly into my left. It straightened him up, and I followed through with a short right cross to the jaw. His knees buckled. He swayed for ward. I hit him again with my left before his face struck the carpet.

  His wife kneeled beside him. “You men. You’re like horrible little boys.” She cradled his head in her hands, and wiped his cut chin with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Is he badly hurt, do you think?”

  “I doubt it. I didn’t hit him often.”

  “You shouldn’t have hit him at all.”

  “He asked for it.”

  “Yes. I suppose he did.” Kerrigan stirred and moaned. She looked up at me fearfully. “You’d better get out of here now. Don has a gun and he knows how to use it.”

  “Did he use it on Aquista?”

  “Certainly not. That’s ridiculous.” Her voice was high and defensive. “My husband had nothing to do with it. He was here with me all afternoon.”

  Kerrigan struggled groggily in her arms, trying to sit up.

  “Please go now,” she said without looking at me.

  “What about the job we were discussing?”

  “We’ll simply have to forget it. I can’t stand any more trouble.”

  “Whatever you say. It’s your marriage.”

  CHAPTER 4: The sheriff’s Mercury was gone, and the floodlit gravel was like a deserted arena. I wheeled my own car out onto the highway and joined the citybound traffic, not for long. An indefinable feeling of relationship pulled at me like a long elastic tying me to the Kerrigans and their trouble. Call it
curiosity; but Mrs. Kerrigan’s oblique blond beauty had a lot to do with it. I wanted to see her out of trouble, and her husband in deeper trouble.

  The elastic reached the limit of its stretch and pulled my car to a stop on the shoulder. A break in the traffic let me make a U-turn. I drove back past the motor court, U-turned again a hundred yards beyond it, and parked in the deep shade of a roadside oak.

  I smoked two cigarettes. Then the floodlights around the motor court were extinguished. The green and yellow sign was plunged into darkness. I turned on my ignition and pressed the starter.

  The lobby windows went dark, and Kerrigan emerged. Taking noticeably short steps, he crossed the gravel to an alley that ran behind the row of cottages. A minute later his fire-engine-red convertible appeared at the mouth of the alley. He honked impatiently. Mrs. Kerrigan came out, holding her silver fox around her shoulders, and ran to the convertible.

  It was an easy car to tail. I followed it into Las Cruces and across the city to a hillside residential section. There Kerrigan dropped his wife in front of a big two-story house set on a terraced slope. I noted its location.

  Kerrigan turned back toward the center of town, driving as if his car was an engine of destruction. He parked it eventually on a side street near Main. I found a space for my own car and went after him on foot.

  We were in the lower reaches of the downtown section, an urban wasteland of cheap hotels, rummage and secondhand-furniture shops, Mexican and Chinese restaurants. Kerrigan paused under a café sign: SAMMY’S ORIENTAL GARDENS, and started to look up and down the street. I stepped into the doorway of a hockshop. Its feebly lit interior lay behind barred windows like an insane memory of civilization.

  When I stepped out onto the sidewalk, Kerrigan was gone. I double-timed to the front of the café and looked in through the fly-specked plate glass. He was walking toward the rear of the place, escorted by a Chinese waiter who beckoned him smilingly through a curtained arch way. I waited until he was out of sight, and went in.