Mildred Pierced (24 page)

There was a fence between the gas station and Hickory Heaven. I was in no condition for climbing. I went to the sidewalk, made the turn, and quick-stepped to the parking lot. Briefcase open, I headed for the Ford. I could see it was empty. So, I went to the restaurant door and turned the handle. It was open. I went in.

There were no lights on but there were enough dust-dancing beams coming through the windows to see past the reception podium in front of me into the restaurant. Most of the tables and chairs were piled in a corner at the back. One table sat in the middle of the room. Behind it, facing me, sat Anthony and Joan Crawford. Anthony had a gun in his hand.

“Will someone please tell me what is happening?” Crawford asked.

“Be quiet and you’ll find out,” said Anthony, his eyes and gun on me.

“You expected me,” I said, moving toward the table slowly.

“Saw you following in that little fridge of yours,” he said. “Thought it best to get things done as soon as possible. I knew about this place and … by the way, when they reopen, if you are alive, you should definitely try their ribs and mashed potatoes with the house salad and a glass of their Napa cabernet.”

“Spoken like a true Survivor,” I said.

“I was not always as you see me now,” he said with a smile.

“I gather from this that this man is not a policeman,” said Crawford.

“He’s not a policeman,” I confirmed.

“No,” said Anthony. “I’m a man with a simple mission. Peters, you are both to accompany me to the nearest telephone being very, very careful. There we will call Dr. Minck, who is safely watched and waiting. You will get from him the location of the will he wrote in the hotel.”

“Or?”

“I’ll put a bullet in the head of Miss Crawford,” he said with a smile glancing at her. “And then another in you.”

Crawford’s face went pale.

“And if I get the information from Shelly, you let us go, kill him, and no hard feelings?”

“Haven’t thought that part through yet,” he said. “But we really don’t need any more bodies cluttering the landscape. It’s money we seek, not mayhem. I’m afraid you’re right about Dr. Minck, though. He’ll have to go. Can’t have him writing more wills and can’t collect if he’s alive. That part’s not negotiable. I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can. Besides, with Minck no longer among the living, we won’t care if Miss Crawford persists in saying she saw him kill his wife.”

He was lying. After what he had just done and said, there was no way he could let Crawford and me live.

I considered my options. Go for the Buntline and risk getting Crawford shot, or stall and hope that the woman in the gas station had gotten through to someone who believed her.

“I’ve got to think about it,” I said.

He looked at his wristwatch. “Not much to think about. Not much time to do it.”

“What about Martha Helter?” I asked. “You were going to kill her in the hospital.”

“Not necessary,” he said. “Got enough from her to know she can’t hurt us.”

“You killed Lewis, sent her to the hospital, tried to kill me,” I said.

“Is that a question?” he asked.

“People have a way of not surviving around and among the Survivors,” I said. “All right if I sit?”

“Pull up a chair, but I’m afraid it will be a short rest. We have a phone call to make.”

“Wait a minute,” Crawford said. “I have something to say about this.”

“I can’t think what.” Anthony gave her a pleasant smile.

“Suppose I won’t go along with any of this,” she said.

“Can’t really see you have a choice,” he said. “Peters?”

“You’re Sax,” I said, changing the subject while Crawford folded her arms and fumed.

“Not relevant,” he said.

“Okay, let’s try this one. We don’t go along with what you want. You kill us. You have nothing.”

“We still have Dr. Minck,” he said. “And though he’s proving difficult to persuade, we really haven’t employed the most deplorable methods yet.”

The door behind me to the restaurant shot open.

I pulled out the Buntline as Anthony stood and aimed over my shoulder. Before he or I could shoot, Crawford reached over, grabbed his hair, and scratched his face.

“Drop the guns,” a voice behind me said.

I dropped the Buntline on the table, but Anthony pushed Crawford away and sent her tumbling over her chair onto the floor.

Blood trailing down his cheek, he aimed at Crawford. Bullets shot past me. I heard them, but none hit me. Anthony was blown back, his gun flying in the air. He didn’t scream, just let out an “oooff” sound like an out-of-shape heavyweight taking a solid right to the midsection.

A uniformed cop ran past me. A second cop faced me, gun in hand.

“What’s going on here?” asked the first cop, an old-timer with his hat tilted back.

I moved to help Crawford up. She gave me her hand. She looked dazed.

“My name’s Peters,” I said. “The lady is Billie Cassin.”

Crawford was on her feet now.

“And I still don’t know what’s going on.” the old-timer said, moving to the fallen Anthony. “We got a call on the radio. Said get over here and find Peters and Minck.”

“You found one of them,” I said.

“And a hell of a lot more,” said the old-timer. “This guy’s dead. Who is he?”

“He said his name was ‘Anthony.’ I think he might also be James Fenimore Sax. Cawelti at the Wilshire will fill you in.”

“And that?” the cop asked, pointing at the Buntline with his pistol.

“An antique,” I said. “Family heirloom. I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a permit to carry a gun.”

I started to reach into my jacket. The second cop pushed my hand away and did the reaching. He came out with my wallet and found my card.

“He’s a private investigator,” he said. “Like he says.”

“Go to the gas station next door,” I said. “The woman there will tell you I was the one who told her to call the police.”

“So,” the old-timer asked again. “Kindly tell me who the hell I just killed. I haven’t put a bullet through anyone since Verdun.”

“He … it’s a long story,” I said.

“Best told to a detective,” he said.

Crawford looked at me with large, pleading eyes.

“You happen to know Lieutenant Phil Pevsner?” I asked.

“Yeah,” the old-timer said warily.

“He’s my brother. He’s at County Hospital. You can reach him through the nursing station on the sixth floor. He’s on a case.”

“He knows all about this?” asked the cop.

“Give him a call,” I said.

The old-timer nodded to the younger cop watching me, and the younger cop put his gun away and headed for the pay phone next to the door.

“Can I get you a drink of water or something, Miss …?”

“Cassin,” she said, sitting at the table again. “No, thank you.”

“You look a lot like—” the cop said, as I jumped in.

“Faint,” I said.

The cop turned to me. “What?”

“The lady looks like she’s going to faint,” I said, raising my voice.

On cue, Crawford closed her eyes and conveniently dropped her arms and head on the table.

“I’ll go in the kitchen and get her some water,” I said not knowing if the water was turned on.

“All right, all right,” said the cop, touching Crawford’s shoulder. “Hurry up.”

When I came back with the water, the younger cop was just getting back.

“Lieutenant Pevsner says we should wait right here,” he said. “He’s on the way. Said not to report this until he arrives, is what he said. And don’t question either of these two.”

While I gave Crawford some water, she winked at me without cracking a smile and the younger cop added, “Ted, you sure he’s dead?”

“It’s the coroner we’re going to call, not an ambulance,” said the older cop. “When the lieutenant gets here. Go to the gas station next door and see if there’s a woman there who’ll confirm what Peters here says.”

The young cop hurried away and the three of us who were still alive in the room sat down to wait. I thought I smelled the faint aroma of barbecue. It smelled good, but I didn’t think I’d be taking Anthony’s advice about returning to Hickory Heaven when it reopened.

W
ATCHING
P
HIL WORK
John Cawelti was the highlight of my year. Of course the year was just a little over a week old but I was sorely in need of a highlight.

We sat in the interrogation room at the Wilshire Station. Neither Cawelti nor Phil wanted to go into Phil’s office. The two of them faced each other across the small table. I sat in the corner, a fly on the wall, a speck in the dust, a private eye watching silently. I was a catalog of near-biblical anonymity.

Cawelti began the battle with a careful attack. He knew Phil’s flash-point anger, had seen my brother’s fists drive hard, his face red with uncontrolled anger. Phil usually reserved his anger for criminals and his kid brother, but Cawelti was definitely catching him on a bad day.

“What are you doing, Phil?” Cawelti asked evenly.

“Looking across the table at a putz,” Phil answered, just as evenly.

“Come on,” Cawelti said. “We’ve got a problem here, a couple of dead people, one shot by a cop, a woman in the hospital, and a fugitive dentist.”

“You’ve got a problem,” Phil said. “Not ‘we,’ ‘you.’ I’m officially retiring.”

“Effective in two weeks, DeVilbus tells me,” Cawelti said.

“I’m touched,” said Phil. “You’re sorry to see me go.”

Cawelti hesitated, thought, face starting to turn red.

“Truth? I’m not sorry to see you go,” he said. “You know it. I know it. You don’t like me. I don’t like you and your smart-ass brother over there.”

I smiled politely.

“You know my wife died,” Phil said, looking at his fingernails, which I knew from experience was a dangerous sign.

“I know,” said Cawelti carefully. “I’m sorry. Believe me.”

“I don’t think you give a shit either way,” said Phil. “I was called to the scene of a crime. I wrote a report calling it justifiable homicide by the policeman on duty, Ted Havlichek. In fact, I’m recommending him for a departmental commendation. He saved the lives of two people from a nut with a gun.”

“The nut with the gun was one of the Survivors for the Future, the group of nuts Minck is involved with,” said Cawelti.

“He kidnapped the witness to Minck’s killing his wife,” Phil said.

“Why?” asked Cawelti. “I’ll tell you. To make her take back her statement or to kill her. No witness, and maybe Minck walks.”

“Could be,” said Phil. “You’ve got signed statements from Toby, the woman.…”

Cawelti looked down at the papers in front of him and said, “Lucille LeSueur? I thought Crawford was using the name ‘Billie Cassin.’”

“Lucille LeSueur is her real name,” I said. “Billie Cassin is the stage name she used when she was a kid.”

Cawelti patted the small stack of statements and reports in front of him.

“What you were doing at County Hospital?” he asked my brother, letting a small touch of aggression creep into his voice.

“Guarding your witness,” Phil said. “I have good reason to believe Anthony—”

“Anthony Mastero,” Cawelti supplied.

“Anthony Mastero”—Phil went on—“had made an attempt on Martha Helter’s life while she was in the hospital.”

“Why?”

“To keep her from telling where Sheldon Minck is,” Phil said impatiently.

“Did she tell you?”

“No,” said Phil. “She woke up a couple of times, talked a little, didn’t know. You’ve got one more question. Then we’re walking—after I pick up my things.”

Cawelti tried to come up with something, but stalled.

“What do you have on Mastero?” I asked from my seat against the wall.

Phil looked over his shoulder at me. I think he was deciding who he was going to beat into the wall, me, Cawelti, or both of us. He had told me to be quiet. With more than forty years of experience with me, he should have known better.

Cawelti looked at me, then at Phil who nodded at him. Cawelti pulled a sheet from the bottom of the pile in front of him.

“Anthony Mastero, forty-two, Australian. Served time in Kansas for a jewelry-store robbery. Seven arrests, all for weapons-related charges. No convictions on those. California driver’s license. Appendix scar, no military-service rec—”

“Aliases?” I interrupted.

Cawelti scanned the sheet.

“Tony McGuin, Terry Magnus, Thomas Meehan … Kept his initials.”

“No Sax?” I asked.

Cawelti ran his finger down the page and said, “No, no Sax. Why?”

“We’re leaving.” Phil stood up. “John, I’d appreciate it if you’d put my things in a box and bring them to me in the hall.”

I knew they were already in an orange crate. I got up and said nothing.

Cawelti was considering whether to say more and decided not to. He nodded and went into the hall. Phil and I followed.

We didn’t talk. I knew Phil didn’t want to face the awkward contact with the cops in the squad room. He had decided. That was it. Maybe later he would agree to a beer with a few of the people he had worked with, but right now all he wanted was to be gone and maybe someone to take a little more frustration out on.

Cawelti got Phil’s things and brought them to us in the hall without a word. We left quietly.

“What now?” I asked when we were standing next to the rear of his car with the trunk open.

He put the box in and closed the trunk lid gently.

“You tell me,” he asked.

“We find Shelly,” I said.

“If he’s still alive.”

“If he’s still alive,” I echoed.

“Call me when you know, Tobias,” Phil said. “I’m going home.”

I waved as he got in his car and drove away.

I turned on the radio. The Chicago Bears and quarterback Sid Luckman had beaten the Washington Redskins and quarterback Sammy Baugh 41–21 for the world championship. Luckman had thrown five touchdown passes. Baugh had left the game early after tackling Luckman. A guy in a commercial told me that there was a good five-cent cigar, a Wedgewood panatela. He warned me that, because of the war, there was a limited output. If I found Shelly alive, I’d consider buying him a handful of panatelas.