Man On A Leash Part 6

"No." He shook his head. "You're missing the key to the whole thing. They wouldn't have had to be there to force him to sell the stock either. You ever hear of kidnappers coming in to discuss the thing in person? The threat comes by note or telephone. We couldn't care less how you raise the money, Jack; just raise it."

"But you don't know they were there. Opinion again."

"Yes, they were there. He wasn't alone when he was talking to Winegaard; that's implicit in the whole conversation. There are two phones in that house, one in the master bedroom and a wall-mounted extension in the kitchen, and one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds was listening in while the others applied the pressure.

"Look-in kidnap or or blackmail, a specific sum is demanded, and you raise it to suit yourself within the time limit. That being the case, he would have sold selectively, or at least he'd have let Winegaard express an opinion. But he wasn't trying to raise a specific sum; he was selling a list of stocks with a gun against his head, knowing Winegaard was going to protest in a minute and he had to shut him up before he could mention some stocks that weren't on the list." blackmail, a specific sum is demanded, and you raise it to suit yourself within the time limit. That being the case, he would have sold selectively, or at least he'd have let Winegaard express an opinion. But he wasn't trying to raise a specific sum; he was selling a list of stocks with a gun against his head, knowing Winegaard was going to protest in a minute and he had to shut him up before he could mention some stocks that weren't on the list."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I guess that's right."

"Sure. And utterly pointless, so far. After they'd done all that, there was no way in Christ's world they could get the money. Except that they did."

"Well, what are you going to do now?"

He considered. At the moment he could see two possible leads, both very tenuous and both calling for a h.e.l.l of a lot of legwork. One was Jeri Bonner, and the other the Mercedes. He couldn't explore both avenues at once, so the best thing would be to get some help doing the bloodhounding and backtracking here while he went back to Nevada. He had an idea about the car, something Brubaker had overlooked or dismissed as unimportant, and he had a hunch he could find the place. It would just take a lot of driving. He'd had enough of that highway up through Sacramento and across the Sierra, so he'd fly up and rent a car in Reno. He told her.

"When will you be back?" she asked.

"Tomorrow night, probably."

"Can I go too?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"That desert's hotter than the floor plates of h.e.l.l. And you'd just be bored, and choked with dust-"

"Spare me the bulls.h.i.+t, Romstead. I can't go because it might be dangerous, right?"

"Dangerous? Of course not."

"You're looking for a place, but you don't have the faintest idea what the place consists of or who's going to be there. If it's the people who killed your father, they'll invite you in for a drink-"

"I don't intend to carry a sign."

"So of course they'll think you're the Avon lady. Or you could disguise yourself as a jockey. You and your G.o.dd.a.m.ned CIA ... I might as well get dressed and go home." She got up and flounced out of the room but reappeared in the doorway a moment later, looking contrite and worried. "You will be careful, won't you?"

"Sure," Romstead said. He brought out his address book and looked up Jeff Loring's number. Loring was a college cla.s.smate who'd been with the FBI for a while and now was practicing law in San Francisco. They'd had lunch together a couple of times in the months Romstead had been in town. Loring was in, and if the question surprised him, he concealed it.

"Private investigator? Sure, I know several, personally or by reputation, but they specialize a lot: divorce, skip tracing, background investigation, security-"

"Skip tracing, in that area. General police experience."

"Murdock sounds like your man. Larry Murdock. He runs a small agency on Post Street. I haven't got his number handy, but you can get it from the book."

"Thanks a lot, Jeff. I'll tell you about it later."

"No sweat. Give me a call, and we'll have lunch."

He looked up the number and dialed. He introduced himself and said he was calling on Loring's recommendation. "I'd come there, but I've got some more phone calls to make." He gave the address. "Could you send one of your men over?"

"I'll come myself," Murdock replied. "Half hour be all right?"

"That'll be fine."

Mayo came out dressed for the street while he was looking up the Nevada area code. "You want me to call about flight times?" she asked.

"Yeah, if you would, honey. I'll be tied up here for the next couple of hours."

She leaned down to kiss him and went out. Her apartment was in another building of the same complex.

He called directory a.s.sistance in area code 702 for Mrs. Carmody's number and dialed, praying she'd be in. The information he could give Murdock would be sketchy until he could get hold of her. Carmelita answered. Mrs. Carmody was out by the pool. One moment, please.

"Eric? Where in the world are you? I thought you went back to San Francisco."

"That's where I'm calling from. How are you?"

"Fine. But still a little shook about Jeri."

"I know. But she's why I called. Do you by any chance know what her address was here? Or where she worked?"

"No-o. I don't think I ever did. The only person who would know would be Lew, but for G.o.d's sake, don't tackle him. I know what you're trying to do-"

"Right. It's almost a cinch there was something between her and the old man. And Bonner suspected it. Remember, he was bitter as h.e.l.l even before he knew she was dead, there in the house."

"Well," she said hesitantly, "that's right. But it wasn't entirely over Jeri."

"I understand." He'd suspected that already; Bonner had a thing for Paulette Carmody himself and was jealous. Sister and girlfriend both, he thought; it was no wonder he hated the name Romstead. "It seems to me he'd have been one of Brubaker's prime suspects."

"Oh, he might have been except he was in his store until two o'clock that morning and then in a poker game with five or six other men until after daylight. No, it wasn't Lew. He's violent and pugnacious as h.e.l.l, but straightforward about it. If he'd done it, it would have been on the steps of city hall in front of two hundred witnesses. Which is why I said don't even think of calling him about Jeri. He's out on bail now for beating a man almost to death in a bar last night. Some ranch hand he overheard say something about Jeri and Captain Romstead."

"Don't worry," Romstead said. "I intend to give him all the room he needs ... Well, could you give me a description of her?"

"She was about five feet five, around a hundred and ten pounds. Blue eyes, dark-red hair, nose just a little on the baby side, but cute. Leggy for a girl who wasn't very tall."

"Good. You don't know what type of work she did?"

"Clerical. She'd had some business courses-typing and so on-at San Diego State. Wait-I just remembered something. Last winter she bought Lew a tape deck at employee discount; she was working for some electronics supply outfit."

"You can't recall the name?"

"No, I'm sorry. But it seems to me he said it was on Mission Street."

"Fine. That's enough for a start. Thanks a million."

After he'd hung up, he remembered something else he'd intended to ask her. It was about the crewman the old man had turned over to the narcs for having heroin aboard his s.h.i.+p. Until you had a solid lead to follow, you had to consider everything a possibility. Well, he'd call her tomorrow from up there.

He brought out a bag and began to pack. The phone rang. It was Mayo. There was a flight at three o'clock, with s.p.a.ce available. He asked her to make the reservation for him.

"Okay. I'll drive you to the airport."

"You're an angel."

"With an angel's s.e.x life. I might as well be having an affair with a whaler."

Just as he hung up, the doorbell chimed.

Larry Murdock was a lean-faced man in his middle forties with coolly watchful gray eyes and an air of quietness about him. He introduced himself and produced a wallet-sized photostat of his license. Romstead closed the door and they sat down.

"You've had police experience, no doubt?" he asked.

"Yes. Fifteen years, here in San Francisco. What is it you want done, Mr. Romstead?"

"Just more of the same. Ringing doorbells and asking questions. I'm trying to backtrack two people to see if they knew each other, and how well, and what other people they knew. It'll probably go faster with two men on it, if you've got somebody available. Okay?"

"Yes. I think we can handle it." Murdock took a notebook from a pocket of his jacket and undipped a pen.

"Fine. There's a lot of background you'll need." Romstead told him the whole thing, from the discovery of his father's body to and including his interviews with Winegaard and Richter. He wound up with descriptions of his father and Jeri Bonner and the address of his father's apartment on Stockton Street. Murdock listened without interruption, now and then taking notes.

"I don't think he was ever in the apartment in that period from the sixth to the fourteenth, but I haven't seen the building and don't know what the setup is in regard to privacy of access," he concluded. "But you can see what I'm after."

"Sure. Whether anybody at all saw him around the place, whether he was alone if they did, and if the girl had ever been seen in the area or with him. Since it's all right with you, I'll start another man checking out the girl, beginning with the electronics supply places."

"Good. Personally, I think she was on the lam from something or somebody, or she wouldn't have gone home. She was a junkie, and her chances of making a connection in that town would be close to zero."

"Yes. Unless her, sources had dried up here and she remembered that deck stashed in your father's place."

"That's a possibility, of course," Romstead conceded. "But there's another thing about that I can't quite buy."

"I think I know what you mean," Murdock said. "If she knew about it at all, why didn't she know it was uncut? So why the OD?"

"Right," Romstead replied. "Maybe she didn't run far enough." He was beginning to have a solid respect for the other man. He went over to the desk by the window and wrote out a check for three hundred dollars. "I'll be in Coleville tonight, and I'll give you a call."

Murdock thanked him for the retainer and left. Romstead finished packing the bag, put in his binoculars, and called Mayo. She was ready. He carried the bag down to her car. They swung up onto the freeway and headed out Baysh.o.r.e. The car was a new Mustang, and she handled it with cool competence. He relaxed, which he seldom did when someone else was driving.

"Very flattering," she said, pa.s.sing Candlestick Park.

"What?"

"When a man keeps his eyes on your legs instead of traffic. Sort of overall endors.e.m.e.nt."

"Well, you are a good driver," he agreed. "That's why they wouldn't let you in medical school."

"And the legs?"

"They're why you didn't need to get into medical school."

"Chauvinist pig."

It was overcast at the airport with a chill wind whipping the bay and fog pus.h.i.+ng in over the hills above South City like rolls of cotton batting. She had to double park at the unloading zone. "Call me," she said.

"Tonight."

"And tomorrow." They kissed, and she clung to him tightly for a moment until the inevitable horn sounded behind them. He lifted out the bag and watched her drive off. He went inside, checked in, and paid for his ticket with a credit card. The flight was only a little late in taking off, and they were down in Reno's heat shortly after 4 P.M. He rented an air-conditioned Chevrolet, asked for a Nevada highway map, and drove into town.

Finding a place to park, he unfolded the map. Coleville was in Steadman County, but only fifteen miles from the boundary of Garnet County, adjoining it on the south. He'd need both to give him a radius of twenty-five miles all the way around. He looked up a sporting goods store and bought the two large-scale county maps of the type put out for hunters and fishermen. "Better give me a gallon water cooler, too," he told the clerk.

Traffic was heavy now, and it was slow going until he was past the outskirts of town. He took time out for some dinner at a highway truck stop, and it was a little before eight when he pulled into Coleville. He parked under the porte cochere at the Conestoga Motel and went inside.

A rather sour-faced man of middle age was at the desk this time and checked him in without a smile of any kind, commercial or otherwise. He drove back with the key and let himself into room 16. Unfolding the two maps on the bed, side by side in their proper orientation, he pulled up a chair and bent over them with a frown of concentration.

No doubt Brubaker was right in that there were countless miles of tracks and old ruts out through the sagebrush flats and that checking them all out would have been a hopeless task from the start, but the car hadn't been on any of these. The significant fact wasn't merely that it was covered with dust, but that the dust was unmarred by streaks along the sides as it inevitably would have been in running through brush. It had been on a graded road, which narrowed the possible routes immensely.

The roads were coded on the maps: paved highways, gravel, and graded dirt roads. Gravel, of course, could be almost as dusty as plain dirt, so he'd have to cover those too. The main highway, which he'd just come in on, ran roughly north and south. This was crossed in town, at Third Street, by an east-west blacktop, the road his father's place was on. Beyond the old man's house it continued on westward for another twenty or thirty miles to a small community on a lake, but there were no unpaved roads leading off it. So it had to be north, south, or east of town. From that fifty-four miles unaccounted for on the odometer you had to subtract four for the old man's return home after having the car serviced. That left fifty miles round trip from the house, or forty-two miles round trip from the center of town.

South on the highway there were two possibilities. About thirteen miles out the pavement was crossed by a gravel road running east and west. North there were also two, twelve miles out and sixteen, both dirt roads taking off in a generally westerly direction. East there were three. Nine miles from town a graded dirt road left the blacktop running north, and after about four miles it forked, one branch veering off to the northeast. Also, at about seventeen miles from town another gravel road left the pavement in a southerly direction. Out and back each time, if he had to cover all of them, added up to 108 miles of chuckholed and dusty off-the-pavement driving. It was going to be a long day. He rang the office and left a call for five thirty in the morning.

Dialing the long distance operator, he put in the call to Mayo. She apparently grabbed the phone up on the first ring, and it was obvious from her voice that something was wrong.

"Eric! I've been poised over this phone for hours!"

"What is it?"

"Your apartment's been burglarized. I didn't know what motel you were in, so all I could do was wait-"

"All right, honey, just simmer down; he probably didn't get much. But how do you know?"

"Know? How do I know? Eric, I'm trying to tell you. I talked to him-I walked right in on him-" How do I know? Eric, I'm trying to tell you. I talked to him-I walked right in on him-"

He broke in swiftly. "Are you hurt?"

"No. He didn't do anything at all. I pretended to believe him."

He sighed softly. Thank G.o.d for a smart girl. "Okay, Crafty, just start from the beginning."

"All right." She took a deep breath. "On the way back from the airport I decided while I had the car out I might as well do some grocery shopping, and I bought some things for you too-a steak and a bottle of rose and some tonic water, oh, a bagful of stuff. After I'd put mine away, I thought I'd take yours over and tidy up the apartment a little. So I went over and took the elevator up, and when I opened the door, I almost dropped the bag and my purse and everything. There was a man standing right there in the living room, with a kind of tool bag open on the rug. But it was funny-I mean, I was scared blue, but he didn't seem to be startled at all. With my arms full like that I must have fumbled around for maybe fifteen seconds getting the door open-I had the wrong key at first-so he had some warning. He just smiled and said, 'Good afternoon, are you Mrs. Romstead?' and leaned down to get something out of the tool kit.

"By then I'd got my heart down out of my throat and could speak, so I asked him what he was doing there. He took a slip of paper out of a breast pocket-he had on a white coverall-and said, 'Mr. Romstead called us to check out the simalizer and put a new frammistat in his KLH.' That wasn't what he actually said, of course, but some technical jargon that didn't mean a thing to me, and he had the console of the KLH pulled out from the wall as if he were going to work on it. He said the manager let him in, which I knew was a d.a.m.n lie-the office wouldn't let anybody anybody in an apartment when the tenant's not there-but I didn't know what to do. If I started to run, he might grab me and drag me inside to keep me from calling the police. in an apartment when the tenant's not there-but I didn't know what to do. If I started to run, he might grab me and drag me inside to keep me from calling the police.

"And, believe me, I didn't want to go on into the kitchen with those groceries, either, because then he'd be between me and the door, but there didn't seem to be anything else I could do without making him suspicious. He'd know I'd opened the door for something. Anyway, he was so cool and professional that by then I'd about decided he really was an honest, card-carrying burglar and not a creep of some kind, so I told him I was just a friend that had stopped by with this stuff for you. So I went into the kitchen and shoved the things in the refrigerator-I mean, all of it, and fast, in case you ever wonder why there's a package of paper napkins and two bars of toilet soap in your freezer. I came back out. He was humming under his breath and fiddling with the back of the KLH. I said something about being sure the door was locked when he left and eased out. I didn't think my knees would ever hold up till I made it to the elevator.

"When I got to the office, of course, I had to explain what the h.e.l.l I I was doing in your apartment. We got that straightened out, and they called the police. A squad car pulled up in two or three minutes, and the manager went up with the two officers. He was gone by then, of course, but they found enough evidence he'd been there so they didn't write me off as some kind of nut. It seemed to be your desk he was interested in-or that's as far as he'd got-because everything in it had been pretty well shuffled. Of course, they don't know if anything's missing, but they said the chances were he got the h.e.l.l out of there the minute I was out of the corridor." was doing in your apartment. We got that straightened out, and they called the police. A squad car pulled up in two or three minutes, and the manager went up with the two officers. He was gone by then, of course, but they found enough evidence he'd been there so they didn't write me off as some kind of nut. It seemed to be your desk he was interested in-or that's as far as he'd got-because everything in it had been pretty well shuffled. Of course, they don't know if anything's missing, but they said the chances were he got the h.e.l.l out of there the minute I was out of the corridor."

Alarm circuits were tripping all over the place, but he was merely soothing-and admiring. "Honey, you handled it beautifully; you really used your head. Anyway, there was nothing in the desk but correspondence, old tax returns, bank statements, and so on. Could you describe the guy?"

"He wasn't real big, a little less than six feet, anyway, around a hundred and sixty pounds. About thirty years old. Very slender and dark, Indian-looking, with black hair and brown eyes. And cool, real cool."

"Well, you're pretty cool yourself, Hotshot," Romstead said. While he didn't like any of it, he still didn't want to scare her over what so far was just a feeling. "But don't let it go to your head. If there are prowlers working those apartments, keep the chain on your door the way I told you, and don't let anybody in until you've finished the first two volumes of his biography. I'll call you tomorrow, and I'll be back early tomorrow night."