Chapter 11
My first stop in town was the tire place, where fortunately Molly was ready. I parked the rental, telling the shop manager to leave it there, transferred my gear and hopped into the Subaru with a sigh of relief. Turning on the GPS, I set it for Frank’s and blasted out of there.
I doubted anyone would try for another shot. Not in a populated area. By the angle it had looked like the assassin had been high on a hilltop. Maybe got up there in a jeep, a motorcycle or even a horse. How did he know I’d be along that road?
Marilou, of course. Once Davis called it in, it would be all over town. I tried to recall whether he’d mentioned me on the radio. Then I wondered if he was all right. The deputy would have been an easier target, wallowing along in his cruiser. On the other hand, killing a cop would rain down all sorts of hellfire. I crossed my fingers.
Relief flowed through me with the adrenaline as I pulled up at Frank’s and saw the dusty Crown Vic. Hopping out, I threw on my blazer and scampered up the steps to the front porch of the small two-bedroom.
Around it stood an old and somewhat seedy neighborhood, the kind of place that mixed pensioners that had lived there all their lives with working-class families scraping by and students looking for cheap rooms. Dogs barked within fences and a hot Meringue blasted out from a low-rider down the block, two guys working on it beneath a lifted hood.
The door stood open and I walked in, calling out for Davis.
“Back here,” I heard him yell. “What took you?”
“I decided to get my own car back, seeing as how the rental has a new bullet hole in it,” I said in a droll tone.
“Bullet hole?” Had he been a dog, his ears would have stood up.
“Someone took a shot at me from up high on the left side as I was coming down Indian Hill Road. Bullet struck about a foot behind my head. Rental’s at the tire shop and I have my own car back now. Once they’re done at the quarry, maybe CSU can come find the slug.”
Davis grunted. “They’re going to be busy. Guess I should phone that in, too.”
I grabbed his arm as he made to go out the front door. “Let’s not, huh? They didn’t shoot at you, right? Just me. They must have known I’d be along that road and the only way they’d find that out is from your blabbermouth dispatcher.”
The deputy shook his head in disgust. “Marilou.” He turned back to looking around the house, and I followed him.
“I guess you already called Allsop, seeing as we’re searching the place.”
“Yes, but I’m searching the place. You just happen to be with me,” Davis said.
We poked around, trying not to disturb anything as we opened drawers, cabinets and closets. A cozy home, it seemed an unlikely den for a drug-using sex-crazed cross-dresser. Then again, I already knew Frank had tried to keep his two lives separate. “You investigated the break-in here last Thursday, right?”
“Right. Came in through the bathroom window. These old houses have big ones, and it must have been left unlocked. Had no idea that a few days later I’d be back and Frank would be dead.”
“I know how you feel. I was talking with him last night and this morning I find him hanging from a light fixture in a cheap hotel.”
Davis blew air out in a long, theatrical sigh, as if it was all getting to be too much. “So what are we looking for here?”
“Look, Mike, something made someone decide to blackmail him right after the break-in. I have to believe the two are related. They wanted a thousand a week, which would have been most if not all of Frank’s paycheck. So either the perp had no idea what a teacher makes…
“…or he believed Frank had some other source of income.”
“He admitted he did, though not a thousand a week. He picked up a few bucks at the drag shows. But it might make sense if he prostituted himself.”
Davis jerked his head in surprise. “What? A man?”
“Yes, Frank. They call them gigolos. There are also little people fetishists that might pay premium rates. It’s just a guess at this point, but I was asking myself: what’s the best way to ensure he goes home with the wrong woman and gets his pictures taken? What if he was the one that got paid, not the other way around?”
“She pays him to do what he wants to anyway and sets up the blackmail. Okay.”
“Anyone in town seem like the type to do that?”
“Here? In Granger’s Ford? No way.”
“Did you know Frank had a thing with Carol Conrad for a while too?”
“What?” Now Davis seemed really shocked.
“You’re saying what a lot, Mike. Like you think your little town isn’t subject to all the human failings of the big city, but it is. Maybe there’s more going on here than you know.”
Davis sat down and I joined him at the other end of Frank’s comfortable sofa, watching carefully. Cool and unruffled by two murders, telling him people were having lots of extramarital sex in his little burg had rocked him to the core.
“Anyway,” I went on, “Frank’s place gets burgled, then someone sets him up for the arm-twisting, thinking he can pay. Something the robber found made him believe it. What would that be?”
“If we assume the blackmailer wasn’t a complete fool,” Davis said slowly, still in a bit of a daze, “then it was some kind of evidence, something that convinced him or her. What would that be?”
“That’s what I asked.” I relented, seeing him still trying to catch up. “It has to be money – or something just as valuable as money.”
“But if it was money, most burglars would have just taken it and disappeared. Blackmail exposes the perp to repeated risks. Regular protection money is even worse. You have to have organization. For it to work, the victim has to know turning in one low-level perp will only bring retribution.”
“Evidence of money, then, or a way to make it. Otherwise there’d be no point in putting the squeeze on a working stiff like Frank. Notes? Accounts? Some kind of paperwork?”
Davis shrugged, and I knew how he felt: stymied.
“Can you get a look at Frank’s bank statements?”
“With a court order. It’ll take some time. You really think he’d put dirty money in a bank account?”
“In a fake name. Or a safe deposit box.” Just then my phone buzzed. “Hey, Mickey. What you got?”
“Kerry Linquist and Jerry Conrad are related. Kerry’s –”
“His nephew, got it. That’s no secret. What else?”
“Those aren’t their real names. Check it out – I found Illinois court records that they had them changed in 2001, but their former names are sealed too tight for even me.”
“Illinois? Like, Chicago.”
“Could be.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Pass what you got on Conrad and Linquist to Cole Sage, will you? He’s from Chicago. The name change, pictures, everything. Ask him for anything he knows about these people.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, Mickey.” I hung up, turning to Davis. “Where’d Jerry Conrad say he moved here from?”
“I’m not sure he ever said. I got the impression it was somewhere up north. Seattle or Portland maybe. He had a bit of that ‘oh-yah, you betcha’ accent for a while but it’s faded now.”
“Maybe Chicago?”
Davis shrugged. “Maybe. Why?”
“Just a hunch. You ever had any suspicions Conrad was dirty?”
“Dirty, no. Shady…aren’t all accountants?”
I stood up to pace back and forth in Frank’s living room. “You said Kerry was an ex-con?”
“Yeah. I saw him at the gym once. Has some prison ink on his chest. No record in California, so I figured he’d been inside somewhere else.”
“Why didn’t you dig further?”
“How? Inquire of forty-nine other states with just a name, which we now know has been changed?”
“Pull him over. Run his license, his plates. Find out his social security number. Th
ere are databases.”
Davis’ face stiffened. “I don’t manufacture traffic stops. That would be illegal and unconstitutional. People have rights.”
I stared at Davis in near disbelief. “Sometimes you have to bend the law to uphold it.”
“Maybe that’s the way you big-city cops do it, but not me. I play by the rules.”
“Substituting the rules for your own better judgment is a cop-out, Mike. Two people are dead in the last two days and I have a feeling they won’t be the last ones before this is over.”
Davis’ face started to get red. “The end doesn’t justify the means, and I’m not going to stoop to criminality. I’d be no better than them.”
I shrugged, exasperated. “It’s your town. You tell me how we’re going to clean it up.”
“We?”
“Frank was my client. I want to find the bastard who did it.”
This time Davis didn’t seem to notice the vulgarity. “Yeah. Me too. And the poor slob in the quarry.”
“Mike, I got something else to tell you, but you have to give me your word you won’t hold it against me.”
“What?”
“Your word, Mike. Even if I bent the law.”
Davis stared at me for a long while, debating, and then nodded sharply. “My word.”
“I interrogated Kerry at his house today. And by interrogated, I mean I threatened him with bodily harm.” I wasn’t going to tell Davis I’d handcuffed Kerry to a drainpipe and whacked his foot repeatedly with a steel rod. Not yet anyway.
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. And a lot.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he was the most genuinely confident low-level dealer I’ve ever encountered. Implied he had big mojo on his side. That he was untouchable and I was going to regret pushing him around.” I continued to pace.
“You sure it wasn’t just bluster?”
“I’m sure. So, let’s connect some dots.”
“Okay.”
“Kerry the ex-con dealer works for his uncle Jerry, who both had different names before they got changed. They’re both from up north somewhere and moved here a couple years ago. Jerry Conrad is flush with cash he claimed is from smart investments, but who knows? He buys prime property and puts his no-good nephew in charge of the best piece, the Old Mill, which by the way seems to be giving away its bar food at below cost, something no business can sustain for long.”
“Unless the money is made up from something else, like the alcohol sales.”
I shook my head. “The alcohol is cheap too. Probably sold at cost plus overhead.”
“So where’s Jerry Conrad’s profit coming from?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“You think the Old Mill is a legit front for, what? Drug dealing?”
“I think Jerry Conrad’s name used to be something a bit more…Sicilian, let’s call it, back in Chicago. He comes out here with a suitcase full of mob cash and sets up shop, maybe with their blessing. Or could be he’s an informant and got a sweet immunity deal from the Feds.”
“That’s a big leap.”
“I know, but it fits. A guy like that can’t stay clean for long even if he’s doing fine in the legit trade. He can’t stand to be a straight-laced mook taking what life hands out, can’t keep away from the action. He sees an opportunity for some fast money – the bikers and their meth trade, maybe, or dope, or guns, whatever’s floating around these hills – and he can’t resist. Or possibly, someone disrespects him and he pushes back, old school.”
“On Frank? You think Conrad had him killed because of the affair with his wife?”
“Or he was the blackmailer.”
“But not both.” Davis said this firmly. “Blackmailers don’t have their marks killed before their first payment is due.”
“I agree. That’s why I like door number two. Mobsters will kill if they feel they have to, or if the victim is a nobody – a hooker, a crackhead – but Frank’s staged suicide was amateurish and unnecessary. Besides, wise guys start with a beating, maybe a few broken fingers, and then move on to kneecaps. Killing ends the profit stream. It’s a last resort.”
“So your theory is Conrad was blackmailing Frank –”
“– or Kerry, without Conrad’s knowledge –”
“– okay –”
“– but someone else killed him, for much more personal reasons.”
“Who?”
I licked my lips. “Someone fairly strong, unless there were two people. Frank weighed probably one-twenty and there was no sign the perp had any particular difficulty hanging him. Someone close to him, with a beef.”
“Carol?”
I shrugged. “Frank broke it off a while back, so there’s the ‘woman scorned’ possibility, but why delay? And I think Kerry was having an affair with her lately. Still, Mrs. Conrad is a wild card in all this. I haven’t met her. What’s she like?”
“Sharp. Very sharp. A good match for Jerry despite fifteen years difference in their ages. She does a lot of community work. Volunteers for civic improvement committees and charitable groups. A bit of a temper, now that I think of it. Gets her way.”
“Where do you think she is right now?”
“I know one way to find out.” Davis called Marilou on Frank’s landline and spoke to her for a moment. After he hung up he said, “Grace Presbyterian on Salem. Initial meeting for the fall festival. Should be wrapping up soon.”
“Let’s go.” Davis locked up Frank’s house, checking every door and window before heading out to his cruiser. I followed him over to the church and parked next to the squad car, hoping that would deter any more would-be tire slashers.
Inside the modern church building Davis quickly led me to a hallway with a series of small meeting rooms, checking each one until he found what he was looking for: a gaggle of well-dressed women standing around sipping coffee or punch and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres.
“That’s her,” Davis said with a jerk of his head toward a statuesque redhead with a clique grouped around her, though his tipoff was unnecessary; I recognized her easily from the photo, which hadn’t done her justice. Except for her normal weight she could have been a high-end fashion model. “I can see what Frank and Kerry saw in her, but not vice versa.”
“Women usually have affairs because their marriage sucks, Mike, not because the guy is too hot to resist.”
“I get it.”
“So what happened to your wife, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Passed a few years ago. Heart disease. They said it was genetic, but I think God just decided it was time for her to go home. She never was very happy in this life.”
I put my hand briefly on his arm. “I’m sorry. Alice seems good.”
“Yeah. I’m a lucky man.”
Davis said it so drily that I wasn’t at all certain he was serious. I wondered what he wasn’t telling me, or if he even knew himself. Presbyterians believed in a rigorous version of predestination, I knew from discussions with Dad, where God determined everything and no free will was involved. This belief system often clashed with how the real world seemed to operate, in my experience leading to a stoic, joyless fatalism or to cognitive dissonance. It appeared to me Davis fell into the former camp.
“Why don’t you wait in the next room,” I said as the after-meeting socialization began to break up. “I doubt she’ll react well to being braced by a uniform in front of her social set.”
“Good idea,” Davis said, and then walked though the next doorway down.
“Mrs. Conrad?” I said as I approached her.
“Yes?” An immediate and winning smile broke onto her face and I felt myself responding in kind.
“I’m Cal Corwin.” I lowered my voice. “I’m working with Deputy Mike Davis. He’s in the next room, and we’d like to speak with you if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. What’s this about?”
“I’ll let him tell you.”
&nb
sp; When we entered the next room over, Davis stood from where he’d half-seated himself on the central table, holding out his hand. “Carol.”
I closed the door for privacy.
Carol took Davis’ hand with both of hers, a warm social gesture. “Mike. What can I do for you?”
“You can answer a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Should I get my lawyer over here?” She said it lightly, but there may have been an undertone of gravity in her words.
“That’s your prerogative, any time you feel you need to.” Davis motioned toward the table and folding chairs. “Have a seat?”
“All right.” We sat.
“Carol, Frank Jackson’s dead,” Davis said, holding his Smokey hat in front of him almost like a shield.
The redhead’s eyes widened in what seemed genuine surprise. However, an accomplished socialite like Carol would naturally be a good actor, so that proved nothing.
“Oh, my. That’s awful. How did it happen?” she asked.
“It looks like suicide.”
Carol’s brow furrowed. “That makes no sense. Frank wasn’t the suicidal type, and he had a great life, as far as I know. He was well liked and respected in the community, and he loved his kids. If I were you, Deputy, I’d look for evidence of foul play.”
“We are,” Davis replied.
“So why are you talking to me?”
Davis cleared his throat. “I understand you two might have been…intimate a while back.”
Carol’s nostrils flared and she glanced at me. “Maybe this is a good time to call my lawyer.”
“Ma’am,” I spoke up, “in any homicide we have to dig into the personal life of the deceased. We’ll be discreet.”
“So you say.”
“Carol,” Davis said, “I have to ask everyone this question: where were you last night and early this morning?”
“At home, with my husband. Feel free to ask him.” She turned to me. “What’s your role in this, if I may ask?”
“Frank was found dead in a hotel room in San Francisco. I’m consulting with the police department there, and with the sheriff’s department here.”
In a Bind Page 13