Private Eye Four-Pack, page 44
“Who has the voltage to get Baxter named interim sheriff in the middle of a murder investigation when the murder victim was the man he was going to run against for sheriff? Especially when Baxter is so unlikable?”
“Seemed odd to me, too,” she agreed. “Baxter is slime. Makes perverse suggestions when he’s around me. His idea of flirting. He’s gross. There’re a few people who could get him the position. Evan Sullivan, the county commissioner, for one. Mark Bannister is another. He’s president of the Chemical Bank. Sullivan can’t stand Baxter, and Bannister was a close friend of Kennedy’s. That leaves Alan Winston, a local attorney with a big family name. And Willie Boy Roberts.” I sat up when I heard Roberts’s name again. She continued. “Winston didn’t like Kennedy. And the feeling was mutual. Kennedy thought Winston fixed cases. He also thought Alan was trying to hit on his daughter. Kennedy once threatened to whip Winston if he spoke to his daughter again. In front of some of Winston’s friends. Something Alan wouldn’t forget. As for Roberts, he has the most power behind the scenes in the county. He can do about what he wants around Paradise, and does, but he’s slick about it. Subtle.”
“Tell me about Roberts.”
She took a drag on her cigarette. “He’s a contemptible snake.” She shuddered as if something crawly and multilegged had landed on her shoulder. “He came here a few years back from somewhere down south. Louisiana or Alabama. Somewhere. Has that drawl and plays with a Cajun accent now and then like he thinks it’s clever. He owns Starr Industries. They make aluminum casters, conveyor belts, and other materials for assembly-line work. He also owns a trucking line and the Truck Hangar, which is this monster truck stop out on the interstate. There are people around here who think his money is dirty.”
“Those businesses sound legitimate.”
“Six months after he took over Starr Industries, the workers went on strike. Things got ugly. Somebody burned down a shed on Starr property. Shot through the window of the personnel office after hours. Tires were slashed. That kind of thing. Then a couple of the most vocal workers got the shit kicked out of them. They were big guys, too. Broken bones, lacerations. Then some of the strike organizers were fired, but they didn’t complain. Two union stewards just up and moved away one weekend. Nobody knew why. Suddenly, the strike was over and things went on like before.” She jammed her cigarette out in the crowded ashtray.
“People are afraid of Willie Boy Roberts. Oh, he’ll give you the big smile, clap you on the back, buy you lunch, but there is something…I don’t know, this all sounds trite, but there is something insidious about that man. Something evil.”
“Is he involved in drug traffic?”
“Haven’t heard that,” she said. “But he’s careful to stay above things. There are people who think he has out-of-town money behind him. Illegal money. I’ve heard people say, whispering when they say it, that he’s involved in some custom prostitution. High-dollar girls for important people like senators, contractors. Gets the whores out of the city. They help him make the deal he wants. They say he recruits local women—some of them wives of local businessmen. But it may just be talk. You men are good at keeping things like that secret.”
“We’re tight-lipped about our concubines,” said Chick.
“They run some girls out at the Truck Hangar. Some of them young. Work the truckers. Knock on their sleeper compartments. Quite a wake-up call, huh? There’s a small motel next to the truck stop. Truck Hangar is in this county, but the motel is conveniently just over the line or Kennedy would’ve shut it down.”
“Roberts slips a couple bucks into the Ford County sheriff’s campaign fund and he gets left alone. That the way it works?” She nodded. “So you think Willie Boy would be a good place to start?”
“If you want broken bones. No, stay away from him. You won’t get anywhere. If Roberts is involved in this, it’ll be a waste of time. Nobody will say anything about or against him. Baxter is a complete moron. Unless the major case squad can bring an indictment, nobody will ever be caught. If Baxter arrests someone it’ll be a scapegoat—some local crud he’s had trouble with in the past. If Roberts had anything to do with it, he’ll never take the fall.”
“You think Baxter’s in the bag?”
She looked into her coffee cup as if the answer were in there. Shook her head. “No. I really don’t think so. I think Baxter’s just dumb—and mean. Kennedy was making inroads into the drug traffic. Put some guys away over the years, burned some fields. Then came the upscale drugs—cocaine, crack, speed—easier to carry, harder to detect. Most of the grass around here is sold by small-timers working the fast-food places out of their cars. Hustling the teenagers.”
I told her the size of the marijuana field I’d found, then the rest of it. I kept back a few things—the little rocks for one. If they were publicized Baxter could demand them as evidence. She thought he was dumb, but I wasn’t ready to dismiss him so easily. He was cunning enough to find out my name though the sheriff wouldn’t give it to him. Sly enough to get himself appointed interim sheriff. He didn’t appear to be afraid of anyone or anything—including the highway patrol. Besides, I knew it was bad practice to underestimate people. That’s when you got hurt—ran your patterns a little sloppier, didn’t finish out your blocks. That’s when you got a helmet in the ribs, a forearm under your chinstrap, or a potential big gain got stuffed for three yards. It was the difference between being a thoroughbred and an also-ran.
Near the end of my narrative, we were interrupted by a slender man, five seven, 135 pounds, slender wrists, delicate hands. Stylish tie and styled hair.
“You know you’re not supposed to smoke here, Maxwell,” he said. He was irritated. The backs of his wrists were against his hips like an angry baby-sitter’s.
“Go away, Horton.” She waved the back of her hand at him as if shooing a fly. “I’m busy.”
“You know the rules,” he said. “No smoking in the city room.” His voice rose half an octave. “And that goes for visitors, too.” He looked at Chick, who looked back, smiled his disarming smile, then blew a lazy cloud of blue smoke at the ceiling.
“Go shit in your hat, Horton,” she said. “At least I don’t shove things up my nose and other orifices.”
His face reddened and his eyes flamed up. “You bitch.”
“Don’t be vulgar, sweet-pants,” she said.
“Journalistic camaraderie,” said Chick.
“Warms the heart,” I said.
“I don’t know why Marvin allows a little slut like you to—”
“That’s enough,” I said.
Horton pursed his lips and looked at me. “And who are you? And what makes you think I have to listen to you?”
“I’m Miss Manners’s nephew,” I said. “And I’m here to tell you that it is bad manners to speak to women like that.”
“Not to mention a health risk,” Chick said. “Did you realize most accidents occur within twenty-five miles of home?”
Horton’s face became blotchy. He glared at us, then stomped off, stiff-legged.
“I think we angered him,” Chick said.
“Ignore Horton,” Jill said. “I’m twice the woman he is. And I can handle him without your help.”
“They just don’t make damsels in distress like they used to,” said Chick.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“Horton’s jealous, that’s all.”
“What’s his job here?”
“Besides being a loathsome slug, he’s the lifestyle editor. What you might think of as the society pages. Garden club. Country club dances. Features about which wine to drink with what cheese. He’s not too bad at it, really. He’s the publisher’s nephew besides being an asshole and a coke freak. Sometimes I smoke just to piss him off.”
“Can he get you in trouble?”
She shrugged. “He’ll tattle like a third-grader, but they’ll just bitch at me. I work sixty hours a week and I’m reliable. They know that. Besides, his uncle doesn’t like him, either. Who could?” She flicked ash off her cigarette.
“How does he afford cocaine on a journalist’s salary?”
“Deals a little. But because of his uncle and Alan Winston, the little turd doesn’t get hassled, except by Kennedy. But now he’s gone.”
“What about Winston? What does he have to do with Horton?”
“Horton’s got a crush on Alan.”
“Winston’s gay?”
“Nobody believes it,” she said. “He lifts every skirt he can. One of the reasons Kennedy threatened him. At most, he’s bisexual. But I don’t know how anyone can be friends with Horton without being a little twisted.”
“Winston ever try to hit on you?”
“That’s one of the reasons Horton hates me. Yeah, Alan’s come on to me. He’s a good-looking guy, but I’ve got no interest in him. I think he’s a phony.” She sipped her coffee. “I’d steer clear of Alan Winston if I were you. His family are the blue bloods of Paradise County. They’ve got streets named after their children and pets. Run the Chamber of Commerce and the Presbyterian church. Alan’s done a lot for Paradise. Donates a lot of money to civic causes. Member of everything. Kind of a hero around here. He’s also vindictive. Even petty. Bad things happen when people cross Alan Winston.”
“Like what?”
“I know he had a neighbor whose dog killed Alan’s Siamese cat. The guy apologized. Offered to pay for another cat. Alan wouldn’t talk to him. Slammed the door in the guy’s face. A week later the dog was found hung with barbed wire from a tree in his owner’s backyard.”
“Nice town,” I said.
“Yeah,” Chick said. “Nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit here.”
NINE
We were back in the Silver Spur Lounge. Chick said he needed his engine revved. He was revving it with Canadian Club and Moosehead. The talk with Jill Maxwell left a faint lassitude thrumming against the back of my brain. The more I learned of the politics of Paradise and the county named for it, the less I liked the place and the more I wished to return to Colorado and to Sandy. The sooner we left, the sooner I could leave all this behind me.
Except the sheriff was dead. Back to that. It would always be there and would keep bubbling back to the surface of that little chamber of awareness where I kept all the near misses and failed opportunities stored to be released in the early morning dreams that troubled me. Dreams that would not stop. Dreams that I could not control. Dreams that kept me here and other places I wished to leave. One more thing to separate me from Sandy. Always something.
“Gotta pick up Prescott sometime,” said Chick, talking about the bail jumper he had to return to Colorado. Prescott had stolen chemicals from a lab at Colorado University, he told me.
“Not much of a crime,” I said.
“Chemicals were rare. High-dollar. Guy’s some kind of chemist. Couple drug busts. Cooking crack. China white. Some ice. All the little pretties that go pop in your head. No convictions, except the chemical theft. But he sapped the night security man when he took the chemicals, put the guy in the hospital. The state of Colorado thinks the guy’s a bad actor, so they set bail at fifty large. I get five grand to bring him back.”
“How long will it take to find him?”
“Already know where he is.” He sipped the beer.
“Why haven’t you picked him up, then?”
“Waiting on you,” he said. “See how long you want to stay around and play detective. Besides, what’m I gonna do with the guy? Can’t drag him around on a leash. I’ll pick him up just before we leave. You don’t like what happened to the sheriff. Wanna do something about it, like you were the Lone Ranger or something.” He finished off the shot of Canadian Club and swallowed some Moosehead to follow it down. “What’s one more lost cause, anyway?”
“You like that stuff?” I said, pointing at the beer.
“It’s all right.”
“Just all right? Why drink it, then?”
“I’m Canadian.”
“You’re not Canadian.”
He looked at the green bottle, took another sip. “Hmmm,” he said, pondering it. “Must be some other reason.”
“We keep poking around, things could get nasty.”
He nodded.
“No use getting involved in this,” I said.
“None.”
“The police can handle it.”
“Of course they can,” he agreed. Smiled. We sat for a moment. Quiet. The jukebox changed tunes. Chick lighted another cigarette and drained the bottle of beer.
“So,” he said. “Which one do you want? Roberts or the lawyer?”
I called Alan Winston’s office. He was in court and unavailable. Then I called the motel where Trooper Sam Browne was staying. He wasn’t in. I wanted to tell him about the shooting and the harvested marijuana. The courthouse was two blocks away, so Chick went over to watch Alan Winston in action while I checked out Willie Boy Roberts. Information gave me the office number of Starr Industries. I punched the numbers and a receptionist transferred me to his secretary.
“Starr Industries,” said the female voice. “Mr. Roberts’s office.”
“My name’s Wyatt Dark,” I said. “Is Mr. Roberts in? Friend of mine, Alan Winston, said I should get hold of Mr. Roberts. I’m looking for work and Alan said Mr. Roberts was hiring.”
“Could you hold, please?” I did. There was a brief wait. If he tried to call Winston while I was waiting, I knew he would be unable to get hold of him as Winston was in court. If he had me come in, then I had a connection, however slight, between Roberts and Winston. Although that might have no meaning, it was a start. She came back on the line.
“Mr. Roberts said if you could come in within the next hour he will be glad to talk with you.”
Forty-five minutes later I drove to Starr Industries and walked in through a door marked Personnel. I was wearing a Harris tweed jacket, oxblood loafers, eggshell-blue oxford cloth shirt, a pair of blue-gray Haggar slacks, and an actual paisley tie—detective work requires many sacrifices. The salesman at Thomas’s Men’s Wear was a little surprised when I told him I’d wear all the items out of the store and put my jeans and other clothes in the boxes. The shirt was still creased from being folded in the plastic packaging.
Roberts’s secretary was an auburn-haired beauty with light gold streaks that looked like the real item. Her gold highlights shone in the sunlight slanting through a large picture window. The office was warm—soft brown carpet and exotic plants.
The nameplate on her desk said TEMPESTT FINESTRA. “May I help you?” she asked. Up close I saw emerald-green eyes and smooth cheekbones. She looked more like a John Wayne heroine than a secretary. I was becoming more impressed with Willie Boy Roberts by the minute.
“I’m here to see Mr. Roberts,” I said. “I’m the guy who telephoned earlier.”
“Mr. Dark,” she said, searching with her eyes, like a high school principal. “Of course. He’s expecting you.” She punched numbers into the black AT&T business phone. She spoke straight, without deference, nor was she overly formal. She cradled the phone and folded her arms under her breast and leaned forward on the cherry-wood desk. “If you can wait a few minutes, Mr. Dark, Mr. Roberts will see you.”
“That’s fine.” Patience is my middle name. I looked through the magazines on the coffee table in the waiting area. It was the same selection as at the sheriff’s office with the exception they were current issues—fresh and uncreased. I watched Tempestt walk over to a file cabinet. She walked in the leggy way tall women have. She was tightly muscled and firm like a dancer or a swimmer. She might require further investigation. She was suspiciously beautiful. Maybe I could set up a second appointment, come an hour early. Keep an eye on her. Surveillance was important. I saw a button light up on her phone. Roberts was calling someone. Winston?
“Tempestt,” I said to her, as she sat down. “That’s an unusual name.”
“Tem-pestt,” she said, gently correcting me. Friendly. “The accent is on the second syllable.”
“Nice name. Sounds good when you say it.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. I took the brunt of it. Withstood it. “You’re not trying to put the move on me now, are you, Mr. Dark?”
“No,” I said. “Just like the name.”
“Didn’t say I’d mind. Just wanted to know if you were going to.” Straight out, just like that. No posturing. No word games. Bang.
“If I were looking, you’d be someone I’d want to get to know.”
“Thank you,” she said. Her green eyes sparkled. “That’s the nicest letdown I’ve ever received.”
“Bet you don’t get many.”
“You have a lady?”
I nodded. Nothing dazzles women like a tight-lipped guy.
“You don’t find many men who aren’t on the prowl. Looking for strays.” Her face was open. Bright. We could have been discussing the weather. Always nice to meet one of the real ones. The comfortable ones. The phone on her desk buzzed. She picked it up, listened, then put it down.
“You can go in now. Good luck.” I thanked her. Offered to buy her a cup of coffee sometime.
“I’d like that,” she said. “She won’t mind?”
“She knows me. There’s nothing says we can’t be friends.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sandy.”
“Is she pretty?”
I nodded. “And gentle and intelligent.”
“You have any brothers?” she asked.
Willie Boy Roberts was a big man, with a big smile. Tailored suit, western cut, beige with a yellow-and-brown tie. Huge diamond on his right hand. His eyes were crinkly and friendly. He looked like somebody’s favorite uncle, the one with the funny stories of life as a roughneck or ranch hand. The biggest thing was the smile. A radiant, come-along grin that put you at ease and made you want him to like you. I thought about what Jill Maxwell had said, then I thought about Chick Easton’s smile, also disarming and warm, hiding a side I knew little of. I remembered something else Jill had said, just before we left her office. “It’s Willie Boy’s town now. He just lets us live in it.”
