I left him alone. Went over and sat on a couch. I was just too damn tired to play the I-told-you-so-I-told-you-so game. And Brennan was boiling, anyway—why get him any angrier? It was hard to tell whether his irritation was because of my digging into this when it was none of my business, or if it was just because nobody is crazy about getting rousted out of bed in the wee morning hours. And, as he pointed out a number of times, I really should’ve called the Port City police instead of him.
But he had come out himself, and as yet hadn’t contacted the Port City cops. Which gave me at least some reason to stay a shade wary of his motives.
I yawned. In my head, my eyes were stones. A few minutes crawled by and Brennan drew away from the window and began pacing in front of the couch like an expectant father.
The couch was in a waiting area facing the elevator door, which I was staring at, Brennan’s form cutting my path of vision as he went by. Several minutes more dragged past, and I started nodding off, then got startled awake as the elevator door slid away like an effect in a cheap science-fiction movie. John was standing there with three Pepsi necks in the tortured grasp of one hand and a box of doughnuts in the other. He came over and sat beside me on the couch adjacent mine, and handed me over the box of doughnuts while he put the Pepsis safely down on the floor. Brennan immediately forgot his mad and joined the communal feed.
There were two doughnuts apiece, and I was finishing my first and Brennan was starting his second when he said, through a mouthful, “This Davis.”
John and I looked up at him and I said, “What?”
Brennan repeated, “This Davis,” and swallowed the bite of doughnut.
“Yeah,” I said, “go on.”
“I know him.”
“How do you happen to know him?”
“Know of him’s more like it.”
“Where do you know him from?”
“The Cities. He’s been involved in some things up there.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, you know, strong-arm stuff. Putting pressure on people.”
“He goes around putting pressure on people.”
“Yeah.”
“Why does he do that, Brennan?”
“That’s what he does, that’s all. That’s his living. Some people didn’t inherit money, Mallory. Some people got to go out and turn a buck, which is something you wouldn’t know much about.”
“What you’re trying to say is he’s a thug.”
Brennan shrugged.
“A thug for the Normans,” I added.
“I didn’t say that. The stuff I heard about Davis dates back to when he was working for some mob guys in the Cities.”
“What mob guys in the Cities? I never heard about any mob guys in the Cities.”
“There’s gambling up there, isn’t there? Anyway, Davis has been in and out of the frying pan, mostly in, and lost his job with his previous employers for fumbling the ball once too often.”
“When did Davis start working for the Normans?”
“Look, that’s an idea you got, not something either one of us knows for a fact.”
“What was he doing with Stefan Norman yesterday?”
“From what you told me, he was eating turkey.”
“Come on.”
“All I know is if Davis ever did do work for the Normans, it would’ve been back when Richard was running for office—you know, running for Congress.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, they were having some trouble keeping some of the garbage about old Simon from out of the papers. You know the press. Trying to do a smear job on Richard by using the old man’s record against the son. Really dirty tactics.”
“Really dirty tactics. I hope Davis straightened everybody out.”
“Listen, Mallory, this is nothing I’m sure about, this is just something I put together in my head.”
“Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden?”
“No reason.”
“Gee, I almost forgot what a nice guy you are.”
Brennan drained the remaining half of his Pepsi in one monumental series of gulps, then shrugged. He said, “All right, Mallory, I’ll give it to you straight. I mean, you’re my son’s friend and I guess I been a little down on you at times, so I’ll level with you once and for all. You were right the other day, I have been doing some... well... coverin’ up for the Normans.”
John dropped the final quarter of his doughnut and it rolled on the floor. He looked at his stepfather with open disgust.
Brennan’s face twisted, turned away from his stepson. “Hell, don’t everybody go all righteous on me, all of a sudden. Nobody’s making me tell you any of this.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Nothing to go ahead with. The Normans still got their share of pull in these parts, and that’s the whole story right there. Sure, they haven’t been so active since Richard died, but even now their people control county politics, it’s Norman money behind it all. Norman people got to okay the candidates, before they provide campaign money. Simple as that. How do you think I stayed sheriff as long as I have? Here I am, an elected official, still in office after more than twelve years.”
“But it’s a Republican county,” John said, “always has been. You wouldn’t ever’ve had any trouble getting elected, not when that’s the ticket you run on anyway.”
“First you got to get on the ticket, son. This ain’t Republican or Democrat, it’s politics. And I told you, Norman people control the politics in this county.”
I said, “And in return the Normans expect an occasional favor.”
“That’s right. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” John said, flatly. “Just small stuff, like covering up murders.”
“Aw, can the murder crap. Where do you get that from? All it was, was Stefan Norman said, you know, just look the other way a little on this Janet Taber deal. He explained it to me, how the girl had some kind of blackmail scheme cooked up, only it didn’t pan out, and then she ran herself off Colorado Hill, out of, you know, remorse. Stefan said a lot of noise over the girl’s death might drag in the Norman name and things could get blown out of proportion, so...” He shrugged again; he seemed embarrassed.
“What was Janet Taber blackmailing them over?” I asked.
He pointed a thick finger at me. “I know for a fact that was just a damn hoax. Something she cooked up outta’ whole cloth. I know the details.”
“What are the details?”
“I gave my word I wouldn’t reveal them.”
“You gave your word to Stefan, you mean.”
“Don’t ask me to say more. At least not at this time.”
John said, “Don’t push him on it, Mal. Can’t you see he’s a man of principle?”
Brennan ignored the sarcasm. He said, “I just want you to know, Mallory, John, that I’ll handle this thing from here on out. You were right, Mallory—I was wrong: there probably was foul play of some kind, where the Taber girl was concerned. But now that I’m in, you’re out.”
“And you’ll start,” I said, “with Stefan Norman sending Davis after me?”
“Who says Stefan sent him?”
“Oh, Brennan.”
“Seems to me you assume a hell of a lot, Mallory. That’s why your half-ass investigation hasn’t got too far.”
“See to it yours doesn’t amount to you just looking the other way some more.”
“It won’t,” Brennan said, and he slapped his knees like a department store Santa summoning the next kid. “I see it this way: if the Normans got some secrets they want kept that way, well fine. But when those secrets start including crimes, like breaking and entering into your place, and I’ll grant you that Taber girl’s death is looking fishy in hindsight, well then...” And he paused to flash a big grin. “... then I’ll have to slap on my shit-kicking boots, boys.”
If that was meant to make me feel warm inside, it didn’t. And Brennan hadn’t endeared himsel
f to his stepson, either: John’s face had drained of color and his eyes were cold.
Down the hall the door to Davis’s room opened and the three of us stood up and watched the doctor walk down to us. He was around thirty, of medium height and had sandy, longish hair and wireframe glasses. He carried an aluminum clipboard, carried it like it was heavy, like he’d rather be anywhere at that moment than in a hospital in Port City, Iowa, at three in the morning.
“Can I have him now, doc?” Brennan said.
“Better we keep him here,” he said.
“Something serious?” Brennan gave me a quick sideways glare.
“No, doubt there’s much chance of that. Probably a mild concussion is all, though we’ll need a closer look.”
I said, “Can I talk to him?”
“You can try,” he said. “That is, if it’s agreeable with the sheriff. But you probably won’t have much luck.”
“Why’s that?’ Brennan asked, shifting foot to foot.
“Well,” the doctor sighed, “that is one of the primary reasons it’s best we keep him at least overnight. You see, he is conscious, but he won’t say a word. You can talk away at him but he won’t respond whatsoever.”
“What do you make of it?” I said. “Shock?”
“Amnesia?” Brennan chimed in.
The doctor chuckled and said, “Doubtful, though he may indeed be trying to simulate memory loss, for some kind of effect; that is, assuming he’s seen the same soap operas and old movies you have, Sheriff.”
“If he’s just faking...” Brennan said, moving forward.
The doctor held out his hand in a stop gesture. “Check back with us this afternoon. In the meantime, you’ll want to send someone to guard his room.”
Brennan nodded.
The doctor nodded back, then turned and walked off.
Brennan said, “I better go down and phone the chief of police and have him send a man over. This is going to have to be a cooperative investigation anyway, might as well take advantage of the situation.” He turned to John and said, “Keep an eye on Davis till I get back.” He looked at me and then back at John and said, “And keep his butt out of that room, okay? Keep in mind I’m handling this from now on, son.”
We watched Brennan walk to the elevator, disappear inside. When he was gone, John stared poker-faced after him. Then he jerked his thumb toward Davis’s room. “Go on down there and see what you can get out of him.”
Davis was staring at the ceiling, his hospital bed completely flat. His long arms lay in front of him like the branches of a dead tree; his flesh was nearly as white as the hospital gown. There was not a flicker of recognition in his face as I approached, no trace of anything, except a deep purple bruise on one cheek. On top of his head, however, in the nest of thinning, dyed-blond hair was the goose egg my frying pan had produced. That was the only thing remotely comic about Davis, however: otherwise you’d have to put a mirror to his lips and see the fog before attesting to his being alive.
“Davis.”
I cranked the bed into a sitting position and his eyes remained open and staring. Motionless.
“Davis,” I said, “why did you break into my place?”
It was like trying to communicate with a figure in a wax museum. His face stayed expressionless, his eyes didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“What did Stefan want done to me, Davis? Did he want me dead?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“Did you kill Janet Taber, Davis? Did Stefan ask you to do that?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“Did you break her neck with your hands? She didn’t have a very big neck. Did you pour booze all over her car and put her inside and push it off Colorado Hill? Did you do all that, Davis?”
Didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink.
“I’m going to find out,” I said. “You tell Stefan when he comes with flowers. If Stefan doesn’t show, tell the lawyer he sends, tell him to tell Stefan.”
Then he moved. Twitched. Blinked.
Crooked a finger and motioned for me to come closer.
I stayed where I was.
He spoke and it was just a whisper, like a guy with terminal laryngitis. I couldn’t make out a damn thing he was saying.
I leaned in a bit and his big hands reached out and clutched my neck.
And squeezed.
He was strong, Christ was he strong. Those hands had only been on my throat a few seconds and already the world was turning red-fading-to-black, but somehow I found the strength, and the sense, to throw a punch into him, into his chest, a pretty damn good hard right hand, considering the strain I was under.
Since he was still in bed, and at an awkward position to maintain a stranglehold, the punch was enough to send him back and his hands, thank God!, went with him.
But not for long. They both lashed out at me, fists now, and I felt my face go to the right and then to the left, like I was slapped, twice, by a two-by-four.
I was on my butt, then, sitting with my head in my hands, vaguely aware that Davis was lumbering out of bed and toward the door; from the sound of it, he was moving fast, and awkwardly. I glanced up and my eyes focused and saw him go out, hospital gown flapping, slamming the door behind him, only it closed hospital soft.
I tried to yell out, but my throat hurt; there was no sound there to come out. I pushed up, got onto my feet and went to the door myself, to warn John
But John didn’t need warning.
Halfway down the hall, on his way to the elevators, Davis had been met by John, and the two faced each other in crouches; John’s crouch spoke of martial arts training—Davis’s spoke of single-minded brute force.
I wanted to come up behind Davis and put an end to this—who the hell needed a fair fight when a lummox like him was involved?—only my head was whirling and when I went to move fast, I stumbled and fell to my knees. Those two punches I’d taken from Davis—and the choke-hold—had done a number on me.
In a way, though, that was enough to help John.
Because Davis heard me, and turned his head to see what it was, and John karate-kicked him in the stomach, sending Davis backward and sitting him down hard on the cold corridor floor.
It had been a quiet fight so far; no doctors or nurses, and certainly no patients, had come running.
That was about to change.
Davis got up and ran barreling toward John, making a sound like a wounded, pissed-off buffalo, and even karate couldn’t stop that beast, in that confined a space. He plowed a block-like shoulder and head into John, and John went skidding down the floor into some of the furniture in the reception area by the elevators.
Before John could get up, backed up against a sofa by a window, Davis was bending over him, pummeling him with rocklike fists, and I was finally stumbling down toward them, so I could get into this, and I hoped to put a quick stop to it. That doctor I’d seen earlier was coming up behind me—I could hear his voice: “Stop this! Stop it!”—and some nurses were bringing up the rear, though that I couldn’t see at the moment.
And then before I or the doctor or anybody else could put a stop to it, John did.
He’d taken half a dozen vicious fists in the body and face when he thrust a leg up, straight up into Davis’s belly and hurled Davis up and over and toward the window just behind that sofa John was backed against.
And whether it was what John had in mind or not, I can’t say—and he never told me, because I never asked—but Davis went sailing through that window, taking a curtain and venetian blinds with him, and the shattering glass rained down on John and he shielded his eyes as it did.
Davis didn’t scream, but he made a thud, three stories down.
I helped John up—his eyes were wide but not wild—and he rushed to the window, putting a hand less carefully than he should on the jagged teeth of glass as he looked out.
Davis was sprawled on his stomach, tangled in the curtain
and blinds; a motionless white splotch against the dark ground.
“Let’s get down there,” John said.
The doctor was just reaching the window as John and I got on the elevator; we went down alone, and were out to Davis before any of the hospital staff.
John leaned over him, felt for his pulse on his neck; but we both knew the man was gone—his blood-flecked face had its eyes open in the stare of the dead.
John stood up and walked across the hospital lawn and stood and stared at nothing in particular; I followed. Both of us were bleeding a little, from the punishment Davis had dished out on us. Behind us the doctor and a couple of orderlies rushed to the body.
I stood there with him; put a hand on his shoulder.
He turned and smiled at me. Not his dazzler: a tight-lipped, sad smile.
“See, Mal?” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What?”
“Where you go,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “You sure don’t need to go to Vietnam.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to go there to find it,” he said.
“What are you talking about?”
He looked older to me then than anybody that young ever looked, except maybe for Janet Taber.
“What are you talking about?” I repeated.
“Killing,” he said. “Death.”
Pretty soon Brennan showed with some local cops and we gave him our statements while the emergency room doctor looked us over and cleaned and dressed the places where we bled.
TWENTY–TWO
I got back to my trailer around four-thirty and found Rita up, stirring around in the kitchenette. She was wearing a stretched out old Iowa sweat shirt of mine that hit her mid-thigh like a miniskirt, and normally I’d have spent some time wondering what she had on under there, only I was too burned out to really care. I had called her from the hospital an hour or so ago, to warn her I’d be late—and to tell her about Davis’s fall. As I walked across the living room I tripped over the empty beer bottle I’d tossed at Davis and the bottle seemed an apt metaphor for how I felt: empty, useless, nonreturnable.
No Cure for Death (A Mallory Mystery) Page 12