The Complete Krug & Kellog

by Carolyn Weston

  “I know, and I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you. Just one more question. About the lock,” he added hastily as he saw her protest surfacing. “When did she get it installed?”

  “Friday the ninth, that’s when. I remember ’cause her rent was due. Richy said it wasn’t, but I knew it was, so I sent him up there to get it out of her.”

  “That was a month’s rent?”

  “That’s right. Only she never had it all, so he let her pay it in two parts. Half on the ninth, half on the twenty-third. So now look what happens,” she added bitterly. “Two weeks lost and all her mess to clear out of there.”

  “Well, you’ve gained a new lock, that’s something, isn’t it? Maybe it might even protect your next tenant.”

  “Say, what kind of a crack is that? Listen, if you think—”

  “I don’t think anything, Mrs. Saretti. And thank you very much for your cooperation. I’ll leave my card on the table out here—just in case you think of anything else that might be of help to us.” He nodded, said good-bye to her, and gently closed the door.

  Outside, at the curb, Saretti was still sweeping up spilled garbage desultorily. And from the looks of his trash containers, it was not surprising he had to, Casey decided as he approached him. The stench was so noxious it seemed almost palpable, and through gaping holes in the bottoms of the cans, squirming clots of maggots oozed like thick foam. Nauseated, Casey smiled at the landlord. “Not your favorite job, I bet.”

  “You bet right.” Straightening with a grunt, he blew out his breath. “Phew! That’s some rotten stink, hunh? She ought to do this every week, maybe she’d forget about her hot flashes for five minutes.”

  “Mr. Saretti, about the mail. We noticed yesterday her brother had sent her postcards previously. From, uh, San Diego, I think it—”

  “Nah, Venice. It was Venice, I seen the postmarks.”

  “That’s right, it was. He probably sent them because he couldn’t phone here? Anyway, it occurs to me he might have sent one when he left Synanon. Saying where he moved—or where or how he’d get in touch with her.”

  “Why ask me? I don’t read my tenants’ mail. I just happened to spot—”

  Casey laughed. “Come on, Mr. Saretti, even mailmen read postcards. I do, too. Can’t resist ’em.”

  Saretti grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. Well. I guess they are kinda public property at that. I mean, you want to say something private, you don’t write anybody a postcard.” He hesitated, rubbing the stubble on his cheeks. “Seems to me I might’ve seen one laying on the table. But I don’t know—”

  “Can you remember anything about the message?”

  “Something about somebody she was supposed to meet, I think.”

  His eyes flickered toward the house as he spoke, and following his glance, Casey saw that the front curtain was swaying—as if someone had looked out, then let the curtain fall back. Hell, he thought, that does it. And he was right.

  “Maybe it was him, maybe it wasn’t,” Saretti went on briskly. “Like you say, he couldn’t phone her here. I just don’t remember, though. Listen, I got to finish up—”

  “All right, Mr. Saretti. I left my card on the table inside. If you happen to remember—”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” He grabbed up the broom and dustpan, calling “So long” over his shoulder as he waddled off around the side of the house.

  Krug would have nailed him, Casey thought gloomily as he crossed the street to his Mustang. Krug would have pried it all out of him in half this time. Starting the car, he sped off with a wild screech of his tires, plagued by a feeling that he had almost reached a point of revelation, but it had slipped away. Worse still, with a man like Saretti, whatever it was he had to tell might never be discovered now.

  SIXTEEN

  He worked until after seven—a long day of the sort of hard concentrated application which allowed him to cover an amazing amount of territory. “Dave’s yeomanship,” Drogey always called this gift of Farr’s for professional drudgery. “Rhymes with showmanship” was unspoken, but Drogey’s knowing grin usually managed to make the thought clear. Them that has to slaves and pleases, them that don’t, doesn’t. Drogey was distantly related to both Scobie and Stone.

  Once free of the silent almost-empty but still fume-filled garage, Farr turned his Jaguar westward. Beyond the Santa Monica mountains, the sun had set, but the sky was still luminous over the sea—azure fading into ultramarine, here and there a chip-diamond star already dimly glittering.

  From his balcony, Farr thought, the view would be spectacular. Tempted for a moment, he considered skipping Kenji’s tonight. Then he remembered the exhibition. It was less that, he knew, than a sales pitch—the experienced students meant to encourage the newcomers to whom Tae Kwon Do seemed an impossible skill—but even so, he’d enjoy it, he always did.

  Most of the regulars had arrived Farr saw when he had climbed the stairs, each one in his stiff rough white uniform multiplied into quadruplets by the dance-school mirrors. The room looked jammed at first glance. The exhibitionists were already performing—one at savage practice kicks which smacked a weighted man-sized punching bag suspended from the ceiling, the other sparring, uttering sharp animal shouts—Hai!—as they lunged at each other. The novices stood in the corner with Kenji, their faces grave and doubtful as they listened to his pitch, watching the experienced students work out. There were two young ones, two older men, and a small stocky woman. Of the five, Farr bet himself the woman would stick for women’s classes. New Lib, he thought, and probably tough as hell. A whole new world for Kenji.

  Hanging his clothes on the hook marked with his initials, Farr pulled on his own cardboard-stiff white loose coat and baggy pants. The colored belt—the mark of his proficiency—he tied extra tight. Then, barefoot, he padded around the flimsy fiberboard partition which divided off the dressing room from the studio, allowing himself a moment’s vanity as he observed his own tall lean image in the mirrors.

  To desensitize his hands, he chopped at the stack of cord-wrapped bricks in one corner for a time. Then he performed a series of deep knee bends, surreptitiously watching the novices as they trailed into the dressing room. There were the inevitable guffaws soon after. Then one by one they shuffled out, barefoot and sheepish in their white uniforms.

  Kenji rapped the floor smartly when the last one appeared, calling “Line up, please!”—sounding, as usual, like a comedy Japanese: Rine up prease. “Bow, please. Is respect for teacher and tradition!”

  Uneasily, the novices waited, all bowing a second after the regulars. Then Jefferson Kim stamped through the door, refuting every preconceived idea of what an Oriental athlete should look like. He was tall, long-legged, and slender as a reed. But what he appeared to lack in weight and muscle, he more than made up for in the ferocity of his expression.

  Amused, Farr watched as the novices took him in. This is the teacher? He looks like a toe dancer. They had only a moment. Then in perfect unaccented English, Kim began their training; and in ten minutes, all were ready for collapse. Wercome to the crub, Farr thought in Kenji’s droll accent. Limber and sweating only slightly, he assembled with the other experienced students for the exhibition of chon gi huong—sparring, and the wildly dramatic kicks or sidehand blows which could break two inch-thick boards as neatly as an ax.

  When his turn came to approach the student holding the boards up like a barrier, Farr focused on a point exactly at the center where he must hit the wood, releasing himself like a coiled spring. His arm seemed to float through the solid wood. He had no sensation of the shock of contact. His own voice crying “Hai!” and the crack of the wood were the same sound in his perceptions. The novices applauded as he gravely accepted the splintered halves of board. Turning, Farr bowed to Kim. And on the mirror behind the instructor, spied them at the door—two business-suited apparitions…

  “If I didn’t see it with my own eyes,” the one named Krug said, “I’d say it was a fake. Wouldn’t you say it was a fake, Casey?�
� But his partner only smiled faintly, watching as Farr struggled to control his fury. “Let me see those things, can I?” Krug was holding out his hand, and not trusting himself to speak yet, Farr handed over the four pieces of one-inch board. Whistling through his teeth, Krug matched them together. “That’s what you call sudo, hunh?”

  “Sergeant, what the hell do you want?”

  But Krug didn’t seem to hear. “Clean as a hatchet. That’s really something.” He kept grinning at Farr. “You can do this”—holding up the boards—“Any time you want? Any time at all?”

  “Look—” Farr stopped himself. Anger is the lawyer’s worst enemy. “Sergeant,” he went on coldly, “if it’s information you’re looking for, I’m sure the instructor—Mr. Kim—will be more than glad—”

  “Who needs him?” Again Krug marveled over the split boards. “Anybody can do this, it seems like he’s expert enough for anybody.”

  “Suit yourself. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Sure, don’t mind us.” And as Farr turned away: “We just dropped by to tell you the news,” grinning as Farr turned back again. “But maybe it isn’t news.”

  “What’re you talking about? What news?” Farr looked from one to the other, catching his breath. “You’ve found him?”

  But Krug was shaking his head. “It’s about the autopsy, Mr. Farr. Kind of a rough development. See, it showed she was beaten. Yeah, that’s right.” His eyes bored into Farr’s. “The medical examiner says it looks systematic. Like punishment. Or torture. Whatever you want to call it, she took a hell of a pounding.”

  “With a weapon,” the other one added in a curiously gentle tone. “Or there’s a possibility it was karate, Mr. Farr.”

  He was not aware that he had left them until he saw himself in the mirrors, walking stiffly across the long room; saw them watching him walk away. A bitter fluid filled Farr’s mouth, and he swallowed convulsively, his stomach lurching. Under the rough cloth jacket, his skin crawled and he began to shiver.

  “You are ill, Mr. Farr?” Kenji asked as he passed by.

  “No, something’s come up.”

  “Ah, too bad.” He was still commiserating as Farr ducked into the dressing room.

  He made it as far as the basin in the corner by the closet-sized toilet before the first spasm seized him and a flood of acid spewed out. But the hard painful mass in his stomach would not dislodge. Shivering so hard his teeth chattered, Farr rinsed his mouth, using his cupped hands. Then he splashed his face. Shuddering helplessly, he leaned on the basin while the tap gushed and trickles of water slid down his neck under his jacket.

  Beaten, he kept thinking dully. Systematically beaten. But his horror was an abstraction, he realized, not to be faced yet, not to be compared with the paralyzing reality of what so clearly lay in the minds of those men out there.

  Murder. Torture. “Christ,” he whispered furiously. Get hold of yourself. Suspicion isn’t fact, they’re only doing their job. But they can ruin me, he thought desperately. And at the center of his mind the old fear rose up, summoned like a spell out of the remorse and guilt he thought he had dismissed this morning.

  Dressing quickly, Farr smoothed back his longish hair, breathing deeply, summoning an appearance of calm. But when he left the dressing room, he saw that they had gone. Heart pounding, he ran down the stairs, looking up and down the mall. But he could not see them anywhere along the paved store-lined walk. Relief felt like a collapsing shell inside him. But even so, the curious shivering which had seized him upstairs would not stop. Ague. His teeth ached from clenching them by the time he got to his car. Pulling up the top, sealing himself inside with closed windows and locked doors, he turned the heater on high. Then he drove home very slowly.

  As soon as he got in the door, he poured a stiff drink. It helped, but not much. Dragging the phone on its long cord over to the window where he could look out at the sea, he dialed Information, got the number he wanted, then dialed again, morbidly aware as he did so that he should probably let well enough alone. But he could not; for his own sake, knew he dared not.

  “Hey, Al,” one of the night men called just as Krug was leaving shortly before nine, “some guy on the phone asking for you.”

  “Tell him I’ve gone home, for chrissake. Or let Casey take it.”

  “He says his name’s Farr, and it’s important.”

  Casey bounded from behind the typewriter which held his half-written report. Without having to be told, he was ready on another extension by the time Krug had the nearest receiver in his hand.

  “Krug speaking. What can I do for you, Mr. Farr?”

  “A better question might be what I can do for you, Sergeant. To keep you from getting yourself in trouble—for harrassment, that is.”

  “Well”—Krug winked at Casey—“like I told you, Mr. Farr, we’re just doing our job.”

  “I’m sure that sounds fine at that end, Sergeant. But you and I both know you’re out of line, don’t we? You’ve no right to treat witnesses as suspects, and you know it.”

  “But, Mr. Farr, you got the wrong idea. Nobody’s said anything about suspecting anybody.”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Sergeant, it won’t work. I know what you’ve said, and I know what you’re doing. And I assure you I’m not holding still for any more. For God’s sake,” he cried, “this isn’t some sort of game to me! Involvement in a mess like this could be disastrous—” Then he stopped, and in the moment’s silence, they could hear him draw in his breath. “That’s why I lied about that weekend I spent with her. To keep my name out of the papers.”

  “Is that so?” Krug was playing the avuncular role now which was so familiar to Casey. Good old Uncle Al, your friendly neighborhood detective. The one with the manacles handy up his sleeve. “We couldn’t know that, now could we, Mr. Farr? All we’d know is for some reason you were covering up. Naturally we’d think it was fishy.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But now you understand—” He hesitated, then apparently lulled by Krug’s tone, went on: “Sergeant, the way I see it, this all seems to begin with whatever Holly’s brother saw in someone’s car. You recall my mentioning that. And that she was terrified from the time he told her about it. Isn’t it obvious the brother’s the key to all this?”

  “Could be—but he’s disappeared.”

  Farr hesitated. “What if I told you I know how to find him? Or think I know.”

  Krug looked at Casey, his face impassive, eyes gleaming. “Either way, Mr. Farr,” he said gently, “you better tell us.”

  “Not unless you promise to keep my name out of it.”

  “I can’t promise anything, Mr. Farr—except to do my job which is finding whoever killed her.”

  “Then we’re back where we started from.”

  “Not quite, Mr. Farr.”

  “Oh, yes, we are. Listen,” Farr said quietly, his voice unsteady now, “I know what a kick it’s giving you to bug me. Believe me, I know. You make a meal off anybody you can bully every day—innocent or guilty—I’m sure of that. Well, don’t imagine you’re going to get me for your menu. So forget it, Sergeant. Because I’ll find her brother myself, if you can’t. Then we’ll see what kind of a case you have!”

  “Wow,” said Krug as the receiver crashed at the other end. “There’s a guy really boils at zero. I thought keeping cool was one of the first things these shysters learned.”

  “Well, you’ll have to admit he has a right to be sore. We’ve been pushing him pretty hard.” Casey hesitated. “You think he means it about looking for the brother?”

  “For my dough, he’s got him stashed someplace.” He looked pleased in some secretive way. “I know this much, we got him really spooked. If he wasn’t, why didn’t he squawk about harassment? Officially, I mean. Why call me tonight instead of the Captain tomorrow?”

  “To make a deal—?”

  “Bullshit! What he called for was to find out how close we are. Smart lawyer. Like hell he is.” But his smile disappeared as he loo
ked at Casey. “Okay, you’re so smart,” he said belligerently, “you add it up. First he covers up that weekend he spent with her. Then he waits till now to make all those points about her brother. Why all of a sudden the helpful-citizen bit? Because we got him measured, that’s why! And with a little more time, we’re going to fit him into that killer’s suit, just like it was made for him—”

  SEVENTEEN

  Overnight there were two burglaries—a jewelry store on the mall, and a gun shop on Wilshire Boulevard. Both proprietors had prepared lists of what was missing from their stores—minor items in the case of the jeweler, since the thieves, obviously amateurs, had only managed to grab what had been left in the window display. “But listen to this,” Lieutenant Timms said, tapping the gun-shop list. “Shotguns and shells. Two rifles with telescopic sights, and all the handguns in the place.”

  “Sounds like somebody’s starting a revolution,” Zwingler commented.

  “You better hope it isn’t here.” Then he turned on Krug. “What’s the problem on this Berry case, Al? Thought you said you had that lawyer sweating.”

  “We do.” Krug glanced at Casey. “Soon as we’re through here we’re headed for the marina to check out those people live on the boat next to his. Maybe we can pick up something.”

  “How about the brother—any sign of him yet?”

  Casey shook his head. “Nobody’s seen him—or that’s what they claim, anyway.”

  Timms shuffled through the reports. “No record on Farr back East. No sign of the uncle. Nothing on the brother but the usual—possession and so forth.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” Casey began, ignoring his partner’s sharp warning look: Farr’s call is off the record. “It’s about Saretti, her landlord.”