County Kill (17 page)

“Every time they’ll let me,” I said. “I told you that the first night. A few of them down at Headquarters know about you and your little charity, don’t they?”

“Not much. They might suspect, but they don’t want to
know
. When did you get so friendly with the police?”

I didn’t answer.

She called out in Spanish to the bartender and he nodded and poured a tall glass of beer. He brought it to the table and set it in front of me as the guitar began to send sad music through the room.

“Thank you,” I said to the bartender. I looked at Juanita. “Do you know who the girl was?”

She didn’t answer me, staring gloomily into space.

“A chunky, blond girl,” I said. “She knows Mary Chavez and she knows Skip. Skip couldn’t identify her and I didn’t tell the police about Mary. I figured Mary had been bothered enough already by the miserable Vogel.”

Some interest in her sad eyes. “I thought you were working for them.”

“With
them,” I said; “not
for
them. My work is private and if they don’t respect that privacy, I don’t even work
with
them.”

The guitar went from the sweet sadness to the pure sirup and I sipped my beer.

“You will protect me?” Juanita said. “You have no reason not to protect me.”

“Protect you how?”

“If I find out the name of this girl, you will not tell the police where you learned it?”

“I can promise that.”

She stood up and looked down at me for a few seconds. Then she turned and walked through the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

She was quite a woman, growing more attractive in my
mind as I knew her better. If I had met her in my less sophisticated youth, there was a possibility that I would be behind that bar tonight. I knew she could cook; I had tasted her food. Even a bigoted slob like Lars Hovde was not immune to her charms.

The guitar followed my mood, sensual and ruminative, and I turned to study this psychic strummer. His long, thin face acknowledged nothing, his bony fingers plucked on, his expression as empty as the wine glass on the floor next to his chair.

Juanita came back and handed me a slip of paper. “The name and address are there. Remember now …” She put a finger in front of her pursed lips.

“I promise.” I stood up. “Juanita, this is the end of your misguided charity. You can’t hush up a murder.”

“The murderer will be found,” she said confidently, “and everything will go on as before.”

What was it to me? It wasn’t even my town. We stood gazing at each other while the guitar strummed softly. Sweet music and the big H, mantillas and murder.

“You go see that girl,” she urged, “that — anglo.”

I sighed and argued no more. She was the queen and we lived in a matriarchate. I nodded a good night and went out to look up the imitation blonde.

H
ER NAME WAS
Rita Wollard and she lived in the north end of town, a section given over to new tract housing and stucco apartment buildings, a raw area alien to the older parts of town.

It was a little after eight now and a Sunday night. She might have a date, though I doubted it. How many men in this town could be as hungry as Pete Chavez had obviously been?

On one of the stucco apartment buildings her name was paired with another on a mailbox. The other name was Helen Garden, and the apartment was listed as Number 23.

I went up the outside stairs to a roofed runway that served the second-floor apartments. Their apartment was on the end, with an unobstructed view of the supermarket parking lot.

I could hear voices through the door, a man’s voice and a woman’s. The woman’s voice didn’t sound like Rita’s, as I remembered it. I rang the bell.

Rita opened the door and the odor of cheap perfume
drifted out. “Jesus!” she said. “The Montevista hot-shot. Now what, muscles?”

“I’d like to speak with you,” I said. “Pete Chavez has been killed.”

Her mouth opened and her stocky body stiffened. She stared in silence.

From behind her, a man’s voice said, “If it’s a guy, grab him, Rita. It’s too late to be fussy now.”

A woman laughed.

Rita continued to stare at me. Finally, in a whisper, “How was he killed? His car?”

“He was stabbed,” I said.

She was breathing heavily. “What have I got to do with it? Why are you here?”

“You were with him last night. The police will want to talk with you.”

She looked back over her shoulder and then at me again. Her voice was anxious. “Do they have to know? They’re going out for dinner now. They’ll be gone in a couple minutes.”

“Shall I wait downstairs?”

“No. Come in. But don’t say nothing about Pete. These people here — well, they’re not crazy for Mexicans.”

I went into a new apartment furnished in what looked like castoffs. Rita’s cellmate, Helen Garden, was a tall, thin girl with imitation red hair.

Her date for the evening was named Al Dunkert, a tanned and lanky man with an amiable grin and nasal voice. Why didn’t we join them for dinner? he wanted to know.

I told him I had eaten my dinner.

He smiled knowingly. “I get you. Maybe we can pick you up after dinner, huh? How much time you need?”

Rita flushed. “You got a dirty mind, Al.”

“Hell, yes,” he said. “Who hasn’t? O.K. You kids be
good then. No hanky-pank.” He waved a finger.

Helen Garden said frostily, “Let’s go, Al. If they want a comedian, they can turn on the TV.”

He sniffed and winked at me. Helen told me it had been a pleasure making my acquaintance and hoped she would have the pleasure again and they left.

Rita said, “Tell me about Pete.”

I told her what had happened and added, “There’s a possibility that Pete’s death is connected with his cousin’s. It might even be that Pete knew who killed Johnny.”

Her eyes were thoughtful. “Yeah. That could be.” She nodded.

I waited for a clarification, but none came. I asked. “Did he mention something like that to you?”

She paused and then said quietly, “He said the law wasn’t seeing what was right in front of their noses. He said he was almost sure he knew who killed Johnny.”

“Who?”

She shrugged.

“He told you that much and you weren’t interested enough to ask more?”

“I asked. He said it wasn’t my business.” She gulped. “I had a feeling … you know, that Pete was going to take care of it his own way. He … was wild at times.”

“How long were you with him last night?”

She stared at me suspiciously. “What difference does it make? He was alive when I left him. Drunk, but
alive.”

“If the police know when you left him, it might help to establish the time of death,” I explained.

“Police?” She stiffened, glaring. “Like hell! I thought you were a
private
eye.”

“The police are looking for you,” I said, “and I have to work with them. We’d better go down to the station now, Rita.”

She shook her head stubbornly, backing doubtfully away from me.

“I’ll go with you,” I said calmly, “and see that you get a square deal. You have to go down, Rita. They asked me to bring you in.”

She was breathing heavily again and her voice was labored. “How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know I’ll ever see the station if I go with you?”

“Phone the Police Department,” I said. “Ask them if I’m to bring you in. I’ll wait outside, if you want me to.”

She glanced at the phone and back at me. “Who told you my name?”

“A person who will also tell the police,” I lied; “a person who wants to stay out of it.”

“Mary Chavez?” she guessed.

“No. Rita, I’m not trying to pressure you and I’ll try to prevent the police from pressuring you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, they might threaten you with a morals charge if they think you’re not being co-operative. They can be rough.”

“Morals charge? Who you trying to kid? Pete wasn’t married and I’m not. We got a right to date.”

“All right,” I said wearily. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’ll tell the police who and where you are and let them take over. May I use your phone?”

There was a silence of seconds. Then, “How can I tell who’s side you’re on? You weren’t no buddy of Pete’s.”

“I’m working for a friend of his — for Skip Lund. You can check that, too, if you want to. Phone the station.”

Another doubtful silence of about ten seconds. Then she said dully, “Wait here. I’ll get a coat.”

When she came back to the living room, she was wearing
a beige car coat and I noticed that she kept one hand inside the coat, out of sight.

It wasn’t until we were in the car and moving that I learned why that hand had been hidden.

As we passed under a street light the hand came out, and it was holding a long, narrow, sharp and shining bread knife, which glistened malevolently in the reflected light.

“Right for the station,” she said hoarsely. “One wrong move out of you and you get it.”

I drove carefully and silently, making no wrong moves.

Vogel wasn’t there, but Captain Dahl was still in the chief’s office. He looked from me to Rita and asked, “Is this the girl?”

I nodded.

“Quick work,” he commented. “Will you go out and tell the man at the desk to send in Lynch for dictation? You can wait out there.”

“She’d like me to stay with her,” I said.

He shook his head. “If she wants a lawyer, she can call one. What’s she got to hide?”

“Nothing,” Rita said. “What kind of crack was that?”

Dahl looked at her without interest and said to me, “Have Lynch sent in and stay out there.” He looked back at Rita. “None of your Constitutional rights are going to be violated here, Miss. You don’t need Mr. Callahan present.”

Rita Wollard looked between us doubtfully and then said, “O.K., Callahan, I’ll talk to him alone. You stay within shouting distance, though.”

“I certainly will,” I promised. “And if you feel you need a lawyer, you don’t have to tell the captain anything until your lawyer gets here.”

“I don’t want a lawyer,” she said. “They’re as bad as cops.”

“Worse,” I said and obediently went out to send in Lynch.

There wasn’t any reason why I couldn’t have stayed in the room while Dahl took Rita’s statement. There wasn’t any reason but Dahl’s ego. They couldn’t find Skip Lund and I had brought him in. And now Rita. His arrogance, like mine, was based on his lacks.

It didn’t soften my resentment. I sat on a bench in the hall and watched the man called Lynch go in with his notebook. After about five minutes, I grew bored with sitting on the bench.

I went out to the front room, where the man who had let me see Skip last night was once more in charge of the desk.

He smiled genially. “You mustn’t mind the captain’s bias. His first wife used a private man to get grounds for a divorce.”

“I don’t handle divorce work,” I said, “and I’m sure he knows it. Has Sergeant Vogel come back from wherever he was?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “He went over to see Montegro. He’s on vacation, but Vogel wonders why he didn’t start on his trip. Would you know?”

“I might. Maybe Officer Montegro will be disciplined?”

The man shook his head again. “Montegro is an old and respected name in this town. I’m sure Juan can take care of himself in all ways.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “He struck me as a very conscientious man and a capable officer.”

“Oh, yes.” The man sighed. “And we sure as hell could use a few more like him around here.”

A traffic officer came in then and I went back to the bench in the hall. The death of Pete Chavez had made the trail to the killer no clearer. So far. To me. I had no way of knowing if it was making the trail clearer to Dahl and
Lynch, in there with Rita. I wondered if they were learning any more from her than I had.

At ten o’clock she came out, her eyes blazing. “Cops!” she said. “The snotty bastards!”

“It’s all over,” I soothed her. “It’s behind you now.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. “I hate the smell of the place.”

From the open doorway behind her, Dahl said, “Will you come in here a moment, Mr. Callahan?”

I nodded and said to Rita, “Wait in the car if you want the air. I’ll be right out.”

She went down the hallway as I went back into the chief’s office.

Dahl was smiling slightly, a welcome change. He said, “We got off to a bad start, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

His voice was humorously dry. “You managed to come up with Lund and now this girl despite that, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Maybe we need you more than we realize,” he said.

I would have felt smug except that this Dahl was too cute. I looked for the angle and said nothing.

“We’ll work together from now on,” he said. “You keep us informed and our files will be open to you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” I said humbly, and went out wondering why the wind had shifted.

Perhaps Vogel had reported back and I hadn’t seen him. Perhaps he had reported back by phone after talking with Juan Montegro.

In the car Rita Wollard was still miffed. “Cops!” she grumbled.

“Aw, they’re not so bad,” I said. “There are times when they can be real sweet.”

“Phooey!” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

We made the trip in silence. I could have asked her what she had told them, but I didn’t need to. Their files were open to me, Captain Dahl had said.

In front of her place, as I stopped, she sighed. “Sunday nights. They’re the worst, huh? I suppose you have to keep working.”

“Unfortunately I do,” I double-lied. “Damn it!”

“O.K., O.K.,” she said. “I get the message.” She opened the door and stepped from the car.

“Wait,” I said, and opened the glove compartment.

She turned. Hopefully? She turned, anyway.

I took out the long, narrow, sharp, and glittering bread knife and handed it to her. “You forgot your protection,” I said. “Sleep tight.”

I
N MY RENTED
room, futility gnawed at me. I was doing as well as or better than the San Valdesto Police Department, but it didn’t diminish my sense of insufficiency. I was on a cold trail.