Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries)

by Wendy Hornsby

  Tyler’s cheeks were red, his breathing fast and shallow. Tejeda was afraid he would hyperventilate.

  “Take it slow, Willie,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t.”

  “What have you got to lose?”

  “I mean, I can’t tell you because I don’t know. Don and I never talked about it. See, he used to be really close to Arty—that’s how we met. The way he talked, I thought he had done the killing to help Arty get off.”

  “Something changed your mind?”

  “He quit coming to see me. I thought he had deserted me, so I reminded him what I had done for him. He said he never killed anybody.”

  “Even if he had, why would you take the fall for him?”

  “I don’t know,” he moaned. “Don wouldn’t have lasted in here. He doesn’t read, he gets into fights. I thought that if I was going to die from AIDS anyway, I might as well die in prison. If I had known I would live this long, I wouldn’t have done it. Not even for Don.”

  “Have you told this to your attorney?”

  “Sure. He won’t believe me.” He looked into Tejeda’s eyes. “Would you?”

  Tejeda thought about it a moment, massaging the pain in his temple. “Maybe I would.”

  “Then do something, because I don’t want to die in here.”

  “Okay, Willie.” Tejeda pulled his chair closer to the bars. “Start at the beginning, from the day you first met Arty Silver.”

  20

  Kate dropped to her stomach in the ice plant and low-crawled into the oleander. The trail Lance had made dragging Reece’s surfboard across the sand was clear enough, if she could just get to it without being seen.

  The redheaded bimbo from the Channel 5 six o’clock news was showing her camera crew her war scars or something; at any rate, she had pulled her skirt up above the tan line on one leg and they were all certainly looking; even the soundman from Channel 2 was involved. Kate hoped that while they were distracted, she could slip down the bank behind them and merge unnoticed with a group of power walkers coming her way.

  When she’d set out, she hadn’t counted on the critters hidden under the ice plant or the slick green gel the plants oozed when broken. If she’d had time to rethink this move, she would have driven down to the marina and searched for Lance by boat. Or left him to fend for himself.

  Something on the bluff above her caught the attention of the Channel 2 man, and she ducked, getting a faceful of oleander leaves. She was tired of chasing after Lance. He was a nice kid and she sympathized with the pickle he had gotten himself into, but when Roger got back she was going to ask him to lock Lance away somewhere if he wanted to keep tabs on him.

  Hymie Osawa had come over after breakfast and questioned Lance, who had managed to be at the same time contrite and evasive. He didn’t know anything and hadn’t been anywhere, he said, and the pressure of questioning had given him a headache. He needed some fresh air. So, once again, he had borrowed a surfboard from Reece’s collection and managed to slip away.

  The power walkers were directly below her. She waited for the clutch of newspeople to look the group over and lose interest in them before she moved from her cover. She slid down the last five feet of bluff, swallowing a scream when something dark and furry scampered over her bare ankle, and made it to the sand unseen; the walkers were rubbernecking the newspeople.

  Lance had left an easy trail. The board he had selected this time was a pain to carry, a thirty-year-old that he was dragging behind him—it weighed well over a hundred pounds. Besides being cumbersome, the choice puzzled Kate. She looked from the deep track he left in the sand to the flat, lazy surf. Lance had presented himself to her as an expert surfer. At least, he seemed to know what he was talking about. This particular board needed two things: expertise and big surf. Kate was no surfer, but she knew there wasn’t a wave this side of Hawaii big enough for that board.

  So what was Lance up to?

  Once she had passed behind the first outcropping of Byrd Rock, she was able to relax her guard a little. The beach was quiet, a nice break from the tension of a houseful of people in shock. The sky was still heavy with rain, and the wind off the water was stiff and bracing. As always, there were a few people around, the stalwarts who came out, no matter the weather, to walk or run or just sit and contemplate. It was a relief, even under the circumstances, to be out in the open.

  Lance’s trail scalloped around the pillars of Byrd Rock and ended suddenly where the rock flattened into a shelf that extended into the surf like a reef. She climbed up on the first shelf of rock and spotted the tip of the seven-foot surfboard tucked into an eroded fold.

  The rock here was razor-sharp brescia, an aggregate of sandstone and shells, pitted everywhere with holes that ranged in size from thimbles to extensive interconnected pools of trapped water. Every pool teemed with tidal sea life—bright anemones, spiky black crabs, and tiny fish. It was a good place to lose yourself, she thought, if you had a lot to think over. Or something to hide from. And she thought Lance had both. She kept trying to make things Lance had told her mesh with what she knew from other sources, but they just didn’t.

  Coming around a corner, she spotted Lance. He squatted over a tide pool at the far point, just clear of the spray from the breaking waves. And he had company, she saw with dismay—Craig Hardy.

  She hadn’t given much thought to getting back through the gauntlet of reporters; if things got really bad, she could swim down to the pier to call for someone to pick her up. She bent down and rinsed some of the green ice-plant slime from her hands in one of the pools, and decided that a face-off with Hardy would be only slightly less uncomfortable than a quarter-mile swim in the frigid water.

  The two men seemed to be absorbed with the tide-pool creature Lance was prodding with a Popsicle stick. As Kate approached, Hardy looked up and grinned at her, seeming smugly triumphant, while Lance kept his head down.

  “Urchin or anemone?” she asked, bending for a closer look. “I never know the difference.”

  “I don’t either,” Lance said.

  “You don’t? I always thought you were in ocean studies of some kind, like Richie.”

  He shook his head. “Engineering.”

  Lance seemed either sulky or chagrined, it was hard to tell; he wouldn’t look her in the face. Not that she cared, really, how he felt. She had only come to make sure that he hadn’t taken a flying leap. Or worse; Tejeda had warned them all not to go off alone.

  Hardy stood up and stretched out his knees.

  “You two know each other?” she asked.

  “Not really,” Hardy said. “Just drifted toward the same tide pool.”

  “Lance Lumsden, meet Craig Hardy, reporter for the Daily Angel.”

  Lance looked up when he heard the word “reporter,” but Hardy was unfazed by exposure.

  “How are things up at the big house?” Hardy asked.

  “Very sad. And you can quote me.”

  “How’s the girl taking it?”

  “Theresa?” she asked. “As I said, very sad.”

  Hardy nodded with the sort of trained sympathy morticians wore. “Does she feel responsible?”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “The death of Sean O’Shay, of course. Wasn’t he chosen by the killer as a way to get a message to Lieutenant Tejeda?”

  “That’s absurd.” She tried to laugh.

  Lance stood up between them. “It was supposed to be me. The killer wanted to stop me.”

  Kate could almost see the light come on in Hardy’s eyes. But the tone of his voice remained very casual. “Stop you from what, Lumsden?”

  Kate put a hand on Lance’s arm. “Be careful.”

  “Nothing,” Lance said. “Forget it.”

  “Lance,” she said. “Get your board. Lunch is ready.”

  “Are you going to take that from her?” Hardy pressed. “You want to tell me something, don’t let her stop you.”

  “Go ahead,” Kate
said. “Anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”

  Lance seemed confused. Then he took a long, shuddery breath and faced Craig Hardy. “Arty Silver killed my brother. I just thought maybe his friends would come after me next, that’s all.”

  “She say your name’s Lumsden?” Hardy narrowed his eyes. “This a stepbrother or half-brother?”

  “No,” Lance said. “My real brother.”

  Kate considered pushing him into the water to shut him up. “Don’t say anything more until you talk to an attorney.”

  “I covered every Silver killing for eight years,” Hardy said. “There was no Lumsden.”

  Lance choked something back, then dropped to his knees and covered his face.

  “You better go, Hardy,” Kate said, pulling him by the arm when he moved to hover over Lance. “Lance doesn’t know what he’s saying; you can see that.”

  “He seems lucid enough.”

  “Tell you what, you go away and give Lance some time to collect himself, and when he’s ready, he’ll give you an exclusive.”

  “I’d rather hear it now.”

  “Or I’ll file harassment charges and get a restraining order against you. You know this is no bluff—I’ve done it before.”

  “I remember.” He bowed in submission. “Paper goes to press at eleven tonight. Get me a story by ten-thirty or the deal’s off.”

  “Fine. I have your number.”

  Craig Hardy hesitated, giving Lance a long hard look; then he squared his shoulders, leapt the tide pools, and was gone.

  While Lance settled down, Kate pried a mussel off the rock and flipped it into the air for a passing seagull. She watched the bird catch the mussel, then soar high with it before he dashed it to the rocks. The bird was picking the soft flesh out of the broken shell when she turned back to Lance. He, too, had been watching the gull.

  His face was splotched but his eyes were dry. Roger had told her to trust absolutely no one, and not to go off alone. And here she was, alone with Lance, the most suspicious character of the day, well out of sight of the few people on the beach. It hadn’t occurred to her to be frightened of him. If he had done what she suspected he had, he had gone to almost absurd lengths not to harm anyone. And “absurd” was the right word, she thought.

  When he looked up at her, she asked, “Electrical engineering?”

  “Mechanical.”

  “Close enough. I suppose that you don’t have to be an engineer to know how to flip off a circuit breaker.”

  “You know about that?” When he stood up, his knees were pocked and bloody from the sharp surface of the rock. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Lance, do you know an attorney?”

  “That’s what Mr. Osawa kept asking me. But why? I haven’t done anything illegal.”

  “Last night Roger looked for your brother’s name in every murder file in the county. Then he called L.A. and San Diego,” she said. “No one had heard of a Lumsden.”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” he said firmly. “I know Arty Silver killed my brother. And the police know it too. But they never found any evidence.”

  “Other than his head?”

  “All right, I did lie to you.” He looked absolutely miserable, like an injured kid who was afraid he was going to cry. “They never found any trace of him. He just disappeared. The Marines still have him listed as AWOL.”

  “Why do you think Silver killed him?”

  “I just know. The police said his disappearance was a Marine problem, and the Marines wouldn’t do anything. So my folks hired a private investigator. He traced my brother to Clyde’s on the day he disappeared, talking to a guy who fitted Silver’s description. Then he vanished.”

  “So years later you went to Clyde’s and started asking questions. What did you think you could accomplish?”

  “If you only knew what this has done to my folks—they might as well be dead. My mother keeps waiting for my brother to call. She can’t live again until she has a body to bury.”

  “Did you think you could find him?”

  “Maybe. But I ran out of time. I only wanted to delay the trial until I had something,” he said. “It’s real important that my brother get on the indictment against Arty Silver. I need someone to ask him questions about my brother.”

  “In the meantime, Lance, you’ve gotten yourself into one hell of a mess. I don’t know if it’s a crime to turn someone’s power off, then masquerade as a repairman. But I suspect there’s some law against stealing part of a corpse from a mortuary.”

  “You know about that too?” he asked. His surprise deflated into chagrin. “I’m sorry about everything. You’ve been so nice to me. But I don’t think anyone can help me at this point.”

  She sighed. “Let’s get the surfboard and go in. Lunch is ready.”

  She followed him over the rocks. “I hope you do very well in engineering, because you sure as hell wouldn’t make it through drama school.”

  “Guess not.” He actually laughed a little. He sidestepped a rough patch and reached into the hollow where he had left Reece’s surfboard. Then he recoiled, protectively pushing Kate away.

  Reece came out of the hollow, carrying the board and a big rock. He had ice-plant stains on his knees.

  “Did you see the size of the rats on the bluff?” Reece asked, dropping the rock.

  “You followed me,” Kate said.

  “Damn right. Whatever possessed you to go off alone?”

  Kate pointed across the beach to a phalanx of approaching reporters. “Define ‘alone.’”

  21

  “I thought I heard someone come in,” Kate I said, coming down the hall to meet him. “I was hoping it was you. How was the trip?”

  “Productive. Thank you for breakfast.” Tejeda folded her in his arms and kissed her, starting at the base of her neck and working his way up. “And for lunch.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What’s all the racket?”

  “Come and see.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and took him by the hand. “We’ve relented.”

  The dining room was a hive of activity, all apparently under the noisy direction of Mike Rios. The furniture had been moved aside to make room for a long tarp and three ladders. Rios was atop the middle ladder, flanked by Richie and Lance. Together they held a yard-long form against a stretch of ceiling molding. On the floor along the baseboard there were three similar forms with perfect impressions of the carved wood, except in relief.

  Trinh, Reece, and Ricardo sat in the middle of the room and kibitzed, nursing beers and offering obviously unneeded advice. There was a round of elbow nudging when they saw Tejeda, and they all watched him closely for his reaction: Carl sat at the dining table opposite Hymie Osawa, passing a sheaf of legal-size documents between them.

  Carl looked up. “How are you, Lieutenant?”

  “No complaints. What’s up, Hymie?”

  “Rigo,” Ricardo interrupted, “look at Richie’s end. Don’t you think his end is a little low? Mike, take a look at Richie’s end. He’s low, isn’t he?”

  “It isn’t Richie,” Reece chimed in. “It’s Lance. Lance, your end is low.”

  Mike’s attention to his two helpers and their mold seemed to lapse as he watched Ricardo get out of his chair to plant a wet kiss on Tejeda’s cheek.

  “No, Reece,” Ricardo said, “it’s Richie.”

  Tejeda wrapped his father in a bear hug, holding him stationary. “Don’t pay any attention to Dad, Mike. He always has to be the conductor.”

  “Mike,” Ricardo said, “you ever play the trombone?”

  “Me?” Rios had leaned back to look at both ends. “I think it’s ready. Careful now.”

  While Rios pulled the form away and struggled with his helpers to bring it down intact, Tejeda released his father and turned to Kate. “What brought all this about?”

  “We did a little four-way bartering this morning,” she said. “Carl wanted the moldings and Mike wanted the job of
making them. So we made a swap: Carl is giving Lance some legal help and Mike is giving me some of his sketches for the privilege. The sidewalk superintending comes free.”

  “About what it’s worth,” Tejeda said, and went to help Lance set down his end of the mold. “Everything okay, son?”

  “He shouldn’t have any complaints,” Carl offered. He ripped through a sheaf of notes, set them aside, then slid a document and a gold pen toward Hymie. “I’m not sure about the propriety of this arrangement, but it’s certainly to Mr. Lumsden’s advantage.”

  “What did you give away, Hymie?” Tejeda asked.

  “The kitchen sink.” Hymie read over the document. “Lance, think you’ll be happy in Montana?”

  “I’d rather be there than in jail.”

  “Same thing, as far as I’m concerned,” Hymie said as he signed the papers. “You understand all this? You have immunity from prosecution on the body-snatching charge, on the condition that you go back to Montana with your family and seek professional counseling. If you enter the state of California, except under subpoena, during the next two years, immunity is automatically revoked. Capish?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lance said.

  “Just to be on the safe side,” Carl said, reading over the agreement, “I recommend you refrain from uttering the words ‘Arty Silver’ until you land in Billings.”

  “So?” Ricardo raised his hands as if cueing in the whole orchestra. “Is everybody happy?”

  “Delirious.” Carl collected his things and slipped on his suit coat. “Trinh, you have any more turkey? I only got one sandwich.”

  “Me too.” Reece picked up two beer empties and was first man to the kitchen door. “Hymie? How about it?”

  Tejeda watched the exodus until only Richie and Mike Rios were left. He draped an arm around Richie and watched Rios brush some extra material off a leaf whorl. “Nice work, Mike. Don’t you want a sandwich? Looks like you earned one.”