Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death (12 page)

“The two fingerprints we succeeded in taking from the corpse fail to match the corresponding fingerprints belonging to James Gallant. We checked both with the prints we have on file here and with those the FBI has. There’s no question—whoever the stiff was, and we’ve been unable to ascertain its identity—it wasn’t Gallant.”

“I appreciate this, Walter.”

“Any time.” He hung up quickly, unwilling to risk a conversation of longer duration.

Harry had waited until now to notify Sheila that the man who had murdered her husband was not dead. He wanted to be absolutely sure beforehand. There was no sense in alarming her unnecessarily. But now there was good reason for alarm.

He had no doubt now as to who was running around town, killing people in his name thus setting him up. Nor was there a question as to who had stolen into Sheila’s bedroom and made off with his .44. If he had been able to get that close to her and her daughter, Harry was sure he could again. Gallant was more than clever. He possessed a certain genius. Where others might use that genius to send a space shuttle to the moon or find a cure for multiple sclerosis, James William Gallant was devoting his genius to the destruction of Harry Callahan.

That Harry had him in his custody and been unaware of it and that he’d slipped away from him, was so damn infuriating he chose not to think about it. Why hadn’t he recognized him? True, six years had gone by since he’d last laid eyes on him, and true, he was tired and preoccupied and it was dark, but none of these things excused him from himself.

Nonetheless, he knew now Gallant was somehow tied in with Turner and the Saving Remnant and that was a lead he promised himself he would follow up.

But first he had to tell Sheila. It had been several days since he’d last seen her. He was living like a monk, brooding over his suspension, his only communication with her had been by phone. Their phone conversations as always were hardly satisfactory. Lately, they had been reduced to inquiries after each other’s health and well-being, and nothing more. Sheila wanted to help him, but Harry was not inclined to accept help from anyone, especially her.

He deliberated over calling her, but decided with news like this, the best thing to do was to tell her in person. It wouldn’t be easy, but it had to be done.

First, though, he put in a call to Sergeant Reineke. He figured he could trust him enough to ask a small favor.

It took several minutes, but eventually Reineke was located. Like Walter White, he didn’t sound as though he cherished the opportunity to speak to Harry.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“I’ll do my best, Harry.”

“There’s a man named Grant Turner, he edits a newsletter called
The Saving Remnant
which is also what he calls his organization. He owns land not far from Santa Rosa, just off Route 12. Whatever else you can dig up about the guy, I would surely appreciate.”

“Grant Turner. Sounds familiar. OK, as soon as I have something, I’ll be back to you.”

Harry felt that he too was relieved to get off the phone.

Sheila and Louise were in the living room watching television when Harry arrived. Louise was dressed in her pajamas and it was obvious that her bedtime was rapidly approaching, an event heralded by much yawning.

As soon as Harry entered, the little girl screwed up her face and gave Harry a long curious stare. In the past, the two of them had gotten along famously, but now Louise acted strangely reticent. Shyly, she backed away when Harry approached her. It was as if he had been suddenly transformed into an ogre since she’d last seen him a week before.

“Say hello to Harry,” her mother said with the same tone of voice she might otherwise use to urge her to eat her spinach.

No, Louise absolutely refused to say hello. She attempted a tentative smile, but that was as far as she would go.

Sheila sighed in exasperation. “All right, sweetheart, time for bed.”

Louise shook her head defiantly.

But Sheila was determined. “Harry and your mother have to talk. Now say good night.”

Louise proved no more eager to bid Harry a good night than she was to bid him hello. She scampered off to her bedroom, dragging a stuffed blue rabbit after her. Sheila followed her in, telling Harry she’d be back in a few minutes. “Make yourself a drink, if you’d like.”

Harry made himself a drink and one for her. She was going to need it.

“We have to talk,” she said when she reappeared.

She was dressed simply, in a white blouse left halfway unbuttoned and jeans, and her hair was down, draping her shoulders. She looked bewitching despite the somber expression fixed resolutely on her face. Harry found himself wishing she did not look quite so desirable.

“Yes, we do have to talk.” He took a long swallow of his drink.

“About us. We have to talk about us.”

“Before we get to that, there’s something more important I have to tell you.”

She was taken aback, as if he’d just slapped her. Suddenly, she sprang from the chair she’d been sitting in and turned away from Harry. “What is more important, Harry? Your work? Is that what you’re going to say? You don’t even have that excuse any longer, do you? You haven’t had anything to do with the department for the last five days. What do you do all day and night?”

There was no way he could stop her. All this had been building up and she was determined to let it out. Harry had the sense this was a speech she’d been rehearsing over long sleepless nights. Sleepless nights that were visible in the dark circles under her eyes, and she was bound and determined to deliver it.

My father was right,” she said in exasperation, “when he told me never to get involved with a cop. One is dead and the other might as well be for all I see of him. ”

Harry had to acknowledge the truth of what she was saying, but there was no way at this moment he could make her understand it was too late to change him. And as much as he wanted her he also had to admit—at least to himself—that she was better off without him.

Yet when she demanded an explanation from him, he could provide her with none. He had come to warn her of the danger that hung over her and her child. Nothing else, not even the fate of their relationship, mattered nearly as much.

“Will you listen to me a minute?”

She crossed her arms defiantly under her breasts, gave him a searching look, and waited. “I’m listening.”

“The man who murdered your husband is still at large.” He hadn’t meant to put it so bluntly, but now that it was out he felt a great weight lifted off him.

“What did you say?”

He told her all the details just as he’d learned them. He even told her the theft of his gun had taken place in her apartment. He’d led her to believe the theft had occurred when he was at home, again because he had not wished to alarm her. At the time, he had been under the impression the threat was directed against himself alone, and had had nothing to do with her. Now, he wasn’t at all sure that was so.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Her face was ashen. It was a struggle for her, Harry could see, to retain her composure. He felt suddenly they were strangers.

“I didn’t want to upset you,” he said.

It was the truth, but it didn’t sound convincing.

“What happens now?”

Harry realized how overwhelmed she was by this thing. She was not asking him what she should do now, because it seemed to her that events had spun out of control. She was a victim buffeted by the prevailing winds of fate, and the only determination worth making was to discover where trouble was next going to come from.

“The first thing I suggest you do is move out of here. It’s no good changing locks or putting in an expensive security system. If Gallant wants to, he can get around any lock or system devised by man.”

“You sound like you admire him.”

“Let’s say that I will no longer make the mistake of underestimating him. He hasn’t lost his touch after six years in prison. Actually I think he’s gotten better.”

“So I move. Just like that. I find a new apartment . . .”

“No. That’s not good enough, I’m afraid. A new apartment, a new phone number, it won’t mean a thing. He will still find you out.”

Sheila looked as though she might burst out crying, not from fear so much as from frustration.

“What the hell does the goddamn son of a bitch want from me?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I wish I did, but I truly don’t know.”

“Isn’t it enough that he killed Sam?”

Her voice was piercing, not quite hysterical, but building up to it.

“Evidently it isn’t. Look, Sheila, where is the safest, the most secure place you can think of?”

Sheila thought for a moment, then answered, “My father’s estate. He has enough guards up there to form an army. But I’m not about to move in with my father . . .”

Harry cut short her protest. “It’s only temporary, Sheila, until we find this bastard. And we will find him.” What he meant by we, of course, was himself. “Until then put aside domestic quarrels for awhile. It’s your life we’re talking about, your life and Louise’s.”

It was the mention of her daughter’s name that did it. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded her head, signaling her acquiescence. “I’ll call him tonight.”

“Just tell him you’re coming up there as soon as you’re packed.”

“This can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Don’t you understand, Sheila, you haven’t the luxury of waiting. James Gallant doesn’t wait. So get your daughter ready and I’ll drive you up there.”

“All right,” she said, lighting a cigarette. She detested cigarettes, and had given them up when Harry first met her. She only resorted to them when she was very anxious. And God knows, she had reason over the past five days to be anxious. “All right, it shouldn’t take long.” There was something else on her mind. She hadn’t left the room yet.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“I want you to know that I love you, but it takes too much out of me, loving you. So once you leave me off at my father’s I want you to promise me one thing.”

“Of course.” He might have spoken too soon.

“You’ll never see me again, and you’ll never call me. Because you’ll start it all over again in me if I see you or hear the sound of your voice. Do I have your word on that?”

After a long silence, Harry said, “You have my word.”

C H A P T E R
T e n

“N
o, I am afraid Mr. Turner is on vacation, but if there’s anything I can help you with.”

Harry told the woman he needed to speak to Mr. Turner personally and asked when he’d be back.

“At the end of the month.”

“That’s a fairly long time.”

“Well, he had it coming. He saved up his vacation days so he could go to Hawaii. He’s always been fond of Hawaii.”

Hawaii, Harry thought. He supposed it was a fitting place to contemplate the impending collapse of the world’s economy and a nuclear holocaust.

In spite of Turner’s absence from the city, Harry decided to return to his apartment on Jackson. Perhaps there he could discover something—aside from fading newsletters of
The Saving Remnant
—which could shed some light on the man’s activities. Other than providing Harry with information relating to Turner’s work with the city government, Reineke had dug up little useful material. Turner’s record was spotless. His credit rating was superb and so far as the SFPD was concerned, he’d never been in trouble with the law. This image of respectability did not square with the picture of a militant survivalist who sanctioned war games and orgies on his property.

For what Harry planned on doing, there was no more suitable time than night. It was when most burglars operated, it was also when police officers without a warrant operated—particularly those officers who were on temporary suspension.

The Chinese matron he’d spoken to the last time he’d tried calling on Turner at home was not to be seen. It was possible Turner had chosen to live in Chinatown because of the lower rents. It was also possible, and more likely, that he’d done so because he preferred an obscure location to hole up in.

Turner lived on the third floor, in an apartment that overlooked the street. There was a backway reached by a small paved alley and Harry proceeded down it. An elderly man, also Chinese, was sweeping a neighboring porch. When he saw Harry he watched him quizzically.

Harry pretended to ring Turner’s bell. The Chinese man shook his head, then resumed his sweeping. Harry waited until the man finished and went inside.

The door had been left open. In the gray light of the empty hallway, Harry noticed a set of stairs which he took up to Turner’s apartment. From a door opposite, rock music was blasting. The snap of the lock as Harry forced it, was scarcely audible with the music so loud.

Rather than switch on a light and attract attention, Harry elected to use a flashlight. He needed little light to see it was a drab apartment consisting of three rooms, and cluttered to the rafters with newspapers, many of which had been clipped for specific articles, and magazines which lay in stacks along the walls. There was hardly room enough to move to the bathroom or to the bed which had been left unmade.

Notebooks were piled on top of a table in the front room, and examining them, Harry assumed they were in Turner’s hand, and found they constituted an outline of a book he appeared to be writing. The book Turner envisioned, championed putting money in gold, silver, antiques, rugs, strategic metals, anything, in short, that wasn’t paper currency or bonds. A part of the book—and it seemed to be an enormously ambitious project—was to be devoted to the war that was sure to follow in the wake of the economic decline. Turner made it clear that survival was not only possible, but probable, so long as the reader followed his prescriptions.

Harry was in the midst of perusing these notebooks, hoping to find the clue Turner might have left to identify himself, when the door behind him squeaked.

It wasn’t much of a sound, and with the rumble of music coming from across the corridor, it virtually drowned it out. Nonetheless, the squeak was sharp and cutting, like chalk scratched across a blackboard. Harry felt it more than heard it. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing in the gloom.