by M. K. Wren
Conan arrived in time to hear Kleber, notebook in hand, ask the ashen-faced Lasky, “You say you’re Gould’s literary agent?”
If Lasky was aware of Conan, he gave no sign, nor did the women. Lasky answered, “Yes. Justine and I have an agency in New York.”
Kleber asked for the address and phone number, consigned them to his notebook, then looked at Marian. “And you are, ma’am…?”
“Marian Rosenthal, publicity director for Ravin’s publisher.”
When she supplied the address and phone number, Kleber wrote them down, then, “Where are you folks staying?”
“We’re all at the Surf House,” Marian answered.
“How long have you been in town?”
Again, it was Marian who answered. “Since Friday afternoon.”
“Mr. Lasky, did you touch anything when you were in the house?”
“No. Well, except for the phone. I called the police and then Justine. I used the phone in the office. Ravin calls it his office. That’s when I saw it had been ransacked, and all the manuscripts were gone.” His voice went higher as he added, “His new book, Odyssey—all three drafts and the fourth he’d just started and his working notebooks—all of them gone!”
Justine reached for his hand. “Byron, please, you must stay calm.”
Lasky nodded, but he was having a hard time of it.
Kleber said, “When you called us, you told the dispatcher that Mr. Gould had been killed with a chain saw.”
“Yes,” Lasky answered, nearly whispering. “It’s there by the…couch. It’s that logger’s saw, the man who broke up the autographing yesterday.”
Kleber’s face went pale, but he didn’t have time to question that.
“Chief?” Sergeant Todd stood at the open door of one of the patrol cars, the radio mike in his hand. “Chief, it’s Dave. Says he’s got to talk to you. It’s important.”
Kleber nodded and strode to the car. “You and Joe might as well start hanging the yellow ribbons,” he said as he took the mike and perched on the edge of the driver’s seat.
“Conan, how did you get mixed up in this thing?”
Conan turned, found Marian studying him over the top of her glasses. He shrugged. “Earl was at the bookshop when his dispatcher called about Gould. Someone broke into the shop last night and took Cady’s chain saw. Mr. Lasky…” He waited until Lasky’s distracted gaze focused on him. “You’re sure the saw in the house is Cady’s?”
“Yes, I’m sure. It’s the same color and size. Damn it, I was there at your shop yesterday when that madman came after Ravin.”
“It’s just that I’ve known Cady since he was a kid,” Conan explained, “and he’s never done anything…well, I find it hard to believe he’s capable of murder.”
Justine asked coolly, “Can one really know what another person is capable of?”
There was an undercurrent of rancor in that, but Conan didn’t pursue it. Instead, he asked, “Where’s Ms. Barany?”
“Portland,” Lasky replied. “Thank God she wasn’t here when…”
He couldn’t go on, and Conan couldn’t justify further prying. And it occurred to him that there was something beyond shock in Lasky’s pallor, that he was ill. Seriously ill. Justine stood beside him, solicitous and protective, even if she wasn’t at the moment touching him or looking at him. She was watching Billy Todd set long metal stakes along the front of the lot, while Joe Tasso followed with plastic tape to mark the boundaries of the crime scene, a yellow ribbon that symbolized a warning, not a hope for a return. Conan stared at the house and tried to imagine Ravin Gould dead. From here, it was an abstraction, even the means of death, however much it gripped the imagination.
Kleber’s radio conversation with Dave Hight was short and apparently not sweet, judging by the set of Kleber’s jaw as he left the patrol car. He paused for a few words with his men, then marched toward the Laskys and Marian, taking out his notebook as he approached. He squinted toward the house, asked, “Mr. Lasky, was the door open when you got here? What time was that, by the way?”
“About eight-thirty. The door wasn’t open, but it was unlocked. I rang the bell first, and when no one answered, I tried the door.”
“You don’t have a key?”
“No. Why would I?”
Kleber didn’t answer that. “Why did you want to see Mr. Gould?”
“I have some contracts to discuss with him, and he’s been putting me off. Normally I wouldn’t bother him so early. Ravin’s a night owl. Works late and never gets to his typewriter before noon. But I thought this was the only way I’d ever pin him down. Of course, I knew he’d be upset because of Savanna, and I wanted to talk to him about that, too.”
“That would be his wife, Savanna Barany? Where is she now?”
“In Portland. Oh, God, I’ll have to tell her—”
“We’ll take care of that, Mr. Lasky. Why did she go to Portland?”
“They have a condo there. It’s in a suburb, actually. Valley West. Savanna left Ravin last night. They had a sort of party earlier, and Ravin—well, he was drunk when we left, and Savanna said they had an argument. I guess it was the final straw. She plans to file for divorce.”
Kleber made a note of that. “Who was at this party?”
Lasky shook his head. “I…can’t remember exactly.”
Justine answered the question in her precise British accent. “Byron and myself, Marian, a television reporter named Shelly Gage, and Mr. Flagg. Later, Dana Semenov arrived. She’s an editor at Nystrom. A…friend of Ravin’s.” The inflection on friend was cold, hinting at something deeper than disapproval of Gould’s relationship with Dana.
Kleber raised an eyebrow, but only asked for the correct spelling of Semenov and her present location. With an indifferent shrug, Justine replied, “I don’t know. She said something about flying in from Portland on Baysea’s helicopter shuttle.”
“With Dan Arno, probably. Okay, ma’am, do you know when Ms. Barany left the house last night?”
“I only know that she arrived at our suite at eleven. We were getting ready for bed, and I looked at my watch because I couldn’t imagine who’d be knocking at our door so late.”
Lasky added, “She stopped to tell us she was leaving Ravin, and he was threatening to burn Odyssey because he didn’t intend to let her get a cent out of it in a divorce settlement.”
“Then maybe that’s why you didn’t find the manuscripts this morning. Maybe he did burn them.”
“No!” Lasky shook his head adamantly. “As soon as Savanna left last night, I drove down here to talk to him.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Sometime between eleven-fifteen and eleven-thirty, I suppose.”
“And you talked to Gould?”
“Not exactly. He was passed out on the couch where…where I found him this morning.”
Conan grimaced. The chain saw’s lack of finesse wouldn’t be such a problem if the victim was unconscious.
“But Ravin was all right then,” Lasky went on. “Snoring like a steam engine. I didn’t see any reason to wake him. I doubt I could have. I went into the office to check the manuscripts, and they were all there. But this morning—the office looked like a hurricane had hit it. And the manuscripts are gone, every one of them!”
“Well, what are we dealing with here?” Kleber asked. “What do we look for with these, uh, manuscripts?”
Lasky took a deep breath. “There were three drafts plus the beginning of a fourth. I don’t know how many pages the first three ran, but judging from past manuscripts, eight to nine hundred pages each. They were in typing paper boxes, two for each draft.”
“Chief!” Again Todd and the radio were the source of distraction.
“What is it now, Billy? “ Kleber asked irritably.
“Johnny and Elaine picked up Cady. He’s at the station now.”
Kleber smiled grimly. “Where was he?”
“At his house. Uh, Dave says Angie and Michael
were there, too.”
Kleber’s smile vanished. He nodded, then checked his watch, and turned a cold eye on Conan. “Come on, Flagg. I’ve got to take a look inside the house.”
Conan was so taken off guard by that invitation that Kleber was halfway up the flagstone walk before Conan caught up with him. The chief’s warning at the bookshop had been unequivocal: “Stay out of my way.” And now Kleber was inviting him—commanding him—to join him in viewing the crime scene?
Apparently recognizing Conan’s confusion, Kleber stopped when they reached the porch. “I need a witness,” he said, as if that explained his aberrant behavior.
“To what?”
“To the fact that I’m not going to monkey with any evidence. My men might be called biased. You—well, you’re better than nothing. I can’t ask those people to come in here with me. They knew the guy, and Lasky looks like he’s about to come apart at the seams already.”
That didn’t clarify the matter as far as Conan was concerned, but he decided that being better than nothing obligated him to some degree. And Kleber was already striding across the porch and into the house.
The double doors were ajar, and Conan had a clear image of Ravin Gould theatrically flinging them open with a smiling welcome to Casa Dement, a silly appellation that only now seemed prophetic.
In the foyer, Conan paused. The brass and glass table still offered its artful tidbits, the bottles on the bar stood ready. The coffee table had been pushed away from the couch, although the bouquet of orchids and ginger was still upright. There was a stale emptiness about the room; the smell of alcohol hung like smoke in the air.
And could he actually smell the pungent odor of gasoline? Perhaps. The chain saw, with its red motor housing, rested on the floor between the table and the couch. The blade pointed to the body.
James Ravin Gould lay with his head toward the windows, still wearing the white shirt and pants and the red handkerchief that had been stuffed with such careless artifice into the shirt pocket. His right arm had slipped off the couch, the hand palm up on the beige carpet. His head was tilted back as if to display the hideous, gaping wound under his chin. It seemed the site of a small explosion, skin, muscle, cartilage shredded, the ripped pillows and upholstery spattered with drops of blood and gobbets of foam rubber and flesh.
Kleber whispered, “Jesus…”
It took a certain mind-set to view this. Conan pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly as he walked toward the body, hands in his pockets, examining the carpet before him to make sure he didn’t step on anything that might provide the criminalists with evidence. Kleber was only a pace behind him.
The horror of the wound didn’t lessen with proximity. Yet there was something anomalous here. Conan said, “There’s not enough blood.”
Kleber stared at him. “What did you say?”
“There should be more blood. With the major veins and arteries in the neck cut, there should’ve been a rain of blood.”
“Should’ve been, I’ll give you that. So, what the hell happened?”
Conan studied the body carefully, holding on to his mind-set. There were no other visible wounds….
But something else was missing. “Earl, last night he was wearing a ring on his left hand. Turquoise and gold.”
Kleber scribbled in his notebook. “You figure it was valuable?”
Conan remembered Marian Rosenthal’s gasp when she saw that ring. “I doubt it was worth more than a few hundred dollars.” Then he leaned closer to examine the handkerchief. On its clear carmine was a spot of a slightly darker, duller color. “Earl, give me your pen.”
Kleber handed it to him. “What’ve you got?”
“I’m not sure.” He used the top end of the pen to shift the red handkerchief, thus revealing a small hole in the shirt. The white cloth was gray around its bloody rim. Again using the pen, he lifted the shirt by the edge of the buttonhole panel, and beneath the hole was a red, circular hole in the skin.
Kleber said, “That’s a gunshot wound.”
“Small caliber, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes. The usual Saturday night special, probably.”
“Looks like a contact wound. Point-blank into the heart.” Conan stared at the small wound, wondering why it seemed more shocking than the terrible gash that had all but severed Gould’s head.
Because this changed everything. Because this was the fatal wound.
Conan said softly, “He was dead when his throat was cut.”
“What the hell is going on here?” Kleber demanded, throwing up his hands helplessly. “Why shoot him good and dead, then—then do that to him? That stupid bastard!”
Conan straightened and faced Kleber. “You didn’t know Gould well enough to call him a bastard, so I assume you’re referring to Cady.”
“Damn right, I am! Look at that saw.”
Conan did, noting the smudges of oily fingerprints on the motor housing—Cady’s prints, undoubtedly—and the small metal plate identifying the saw as belonging to C.M. He nodded. “It’s Cady’s saw. You expected that. But, damn it, Earl, do you really think Cady is capable of a murder this coldblooded, this…bizarre?”
Kleber stood motionless, gazing at the saw, the muscles in his jaw working. At length, his shoulders sagged. “No. I don’t like Cady and never did, but I don’t figure he’d do something like this. He’s too damned thickheaded. But it doesn’t matter what I think. Come on. I want to see this office Lasky was talking about. Where is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe up here.”
Conan crossed to the opening to the left of the fireplace. No door, just two steps up to a room perhaps half the size of the living room. It was flooded with light from the windows on the south and west. Facing the west windows was a desk supporting a vintage electric typewriter. The hurricane Lasky had described was more of a whirlwind, but obviously someone had made a hurried search here. Books had been pulled off shelves, blank typing paper was scattered on the floor, the desk drawers had been emptied.
Kleber surveyed the room, then turned. “Well, somebody was damn sure looking for something. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Conan gave the living room a last look as he followed Kleber to the front door. The fireplace, he noted, hadn’t been used since it was last cleaned. And it seemed odd that he saw no evidence that Savanna Barany had ever occupied this room—except the broken champagne glass on the hearth. Of course, the house was a temporary residence, and no doubt she led a nomadic life. Still, he expected something beyond a memory: the memory of her husky voice in a recording of “I Never Asked for Forever, “ the memory of Savanna in the Broadway production of Blitz, alone on a dark stage with a single spot lighting her exquisite face, her hair a flame in the darkness, and she had bound her listeners in breathless silence at the point of tears.
When they reached the porch, Kleber stopped and squinted past the yellow tapes. Todd and Tasso leaned against one of the patrols, chatting amiably, unconcerned. They hadn’t seen what lay inside this house. Lasky, who had seen, slumped on the front seat of the gray Buick, while Justine and Marian waited in the backseat. And Conan considered the fact that Byron Lasky had not only found Gould’s body, but had possibly been the last person to see him alive—if Gould had in fact been alive when Lasky left him.
Kleber eyed Conan speculatively, then finally seemed to come to a decision. He said, “I’ll tell you what Dave was in such an all-fired hurry to talk to me about a little while ago. After he called me at your shop, he phoned the medical examiner in Westport, but Dr. Feingold wasn’t in his office. On his way back from a drowning in Yachats. So Dave got him on his car radio. Damn it, I should’ve told Dave to keep this thing off the radio, but I figured he’d have the sense—” Kleber’s teeth seemed to be grinding dangerously. “If some reporter happens to be listening to the police band…well, this isn’t your run-of-the-mill murder. As soon as word gets out, we’ll be hip-deep in reporters.”
Conan said dryly, “The
chamber of commerce people should love it.”
Kleber gave him a baleful look. “Sure they will. So will Giff Wills.”
“This is your jurisdiction, Earl. The sheriff hasn’t any business in this case unless you ask for his assistance.” Then, seeing the smoldering resentment in Kleber’s eyes, Conan asked, “Or does he?”
“I guess Giff figures he does. That’s what Dave radioed to tell me. Giff’s on his way up here. And I might as well forget the election. My lunkhead son-in-law saw to that.” Before Conan could object, Kleber added, “Not because I think he killed Gould. What the idiot did was rampage into your bookshop yesterday and threaten Gould with that chain saw in front of a hundred or so witnesses plus the TV camera. And now Gould’s lying in there with his throat ripped open by the same saw. Yeah, I know the bullet wound complicates things, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s Cady’s saw by the body. And it doesn’t change the fact that Giff damn sure won’t let an opportunity like this pass him by. Can’t you see the headlines? ‘Police Chief’s Son-in-law Murders Bestselling Author.’ Giff’s going to pin this murder on Cady any way he can just to make me look bad. Just to win a goddamn election!”
Conan considered that and found nothing in it he could argue. “What are you going to do?”
“What the hell can I do? Not a damned thing. I’m going to turn this investigation over to Giff Wills like a lamb, because any court would call me biased, and that means any evidence I come up with is tainted. And that means Giff is going to have a free hand here, and I can’t stop him. This election is history, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Here’s what matters: Giff is going to try to nail Cady with the murder, and God help me, I figure you’re right for once. No way Cady’d shoot Gould first, then tear his throat out with his chain saw. That doesn’t make any sense. Not even for a lunkhead like Cady MacGill.”
Again Conan waited, noting the reluctant set of the chief’s mouth, and it was obvious what was coming next, but Conan gave him time to present it in his own terms.