Private Eye Four-Pack, page 63
Chick walked over and put his arm around Simmons’s shoulders. “Louie,” he said, his upper lip stretched tight over his upper teeth. “This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Browne stood there shaking his head at us. “You two are a couple of jug-butts. Come on, Baxter, you know how it works.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They finally let us go at noon. Morrison was a man of his word. He did take care of everything. We were released into our own custody and told by McKinley to drive under fifty-five for the remainder of our lives. We would probably have to return at a later date to testify.
We hadn’t eaten since the night before. I was starved. “I know a place where they serve you a whole fricasseed Clydesdale on a platter,” said Chick.
“Good. But I don’t think I could eat more than two.”
We settled, however, for Burger King. Junk food. It tasted marvelous.
We drove through the pickup window and ordered two of everything, hold the anchovies, then drove to the emergency room at Citizens Memorial to see how Morrison and Jill were. He was in a private room and not allowed visitors, but was all right. We checked on Jill, who was being released when we caught up with her. She had been treated for minor bruises. We sat in the coffee shop and drank coffee that tasted medicinal. Chick and Jill smoked cigarettes.
Jill looked down at her coffee. “You saved my life.”
“Wait’ll you get the bill,” I said.
She laughed. “All I did for you was cause trouble. Bothered you for interviews when you wanted privacy. Stuck my nose in this terrible business and almost got us all killed.”
“It’s a pretty nose, though. Didn’t whine when they had you. Got a good lick in on Cugat. You also uncovered the mystery man, Simmons, and kept digging when another reporter would have quit. You’re tough and smart.”
“I found out about your visit to Winston’s office through his secretary. She must’ve told Winston I was nosing around, though I’m sure she isn’t involved. I also found out that Winston and Candless had old school ties. Apparently, they found out I knew, too. That big goon, Cugat, he grabbed me last night when I was getting into my car in front of the paper. It was late. Nobody around. If I’d stayed put, you could’ve taken them without any risk.”
“There was risk either way,” Chick said.
“What’s going to happen to Winston?” she said. I wondered myself. There wasn’t enough evidence to issue a warrant for his arrest. He had not been at the scene. He’d made sure he kept himself clear. Unless Candless dumped on him he was untouchable.
“He’ll walk,” I said.
“That stinks,” Jill said. She reached out and put her hand on top of Chick’s. She left it there. “What about Horton? He’s got a thing for Winston. Maybe he knows something. Worth a try. I hate to think about that oily rat getting away with this.”
“It’s not a perfect world,” I said, quoting Sandra Collingsworth. Chick turned his hand over and took Jill’s hand in his. It’s not a perfect world, I thought, but sometimes we get close.
“What do you think Horton would say if he thought Winston and Candless had something going?” said Chick.
“He’d go nuts,” said Jill. “He’s got a bad temper.”
“You think Horton knows anything about Winston’s involvement with Roberts?”
“I doubt Horton’s part of that.”
“Not my meaning. I’m not asking if he’s involved. I’m asking if we could get Horton to tell us anything about Winston?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” she said. “Horton likes to think he’s in the know. But he wouldn’t snitch-off Alan.”
“Not even if he thought Alan had another boyfriend?”
“Oh. I see.” She shook her head and pursed her lips. “That’s an interesting thought. A very interesting thought.”
“Speaking of interesting thoughts,” said Chick. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
We caught up with Horton at the newspaper office. He was wearing a tapered oxford shirt and a chocolate-and-tan-striped tie. Brown pinstriped slacks with a knifelike crease and tan tasseled loafers. “He looks absolutely scrumptious,” lisped Chick.
“Don’t start that stuff. I don’t want to spook him.”
“You’re saving him for yourself, you bitch, you,” he said, still with the lisp.
“I don’t want to talk to you guys,” Horton said when asked if there was anyplace private we could talk.
“You’d be surprised how many people feel that way,” I said.
“Besides, you look like you’ve been in a fight and lost. Thought you were rough, tough guys.”
“We have been in a fight,” said Chick. “And we won.”
“I suppose I should see what the other guys look like.”
“Some of ’em are dead,” said Chick.
He looked at us from thirty-year-old eyes in a fifteen-year-old face. Looked much younger than he was.
“Still not interested,” he said.
“It concerns Alan Winston.”
His face flushed, like a junior high kid caught with his fly open. “And what is that to me?”
“Come on, Horton,” said Chick. “We know Alan’s your squeeze. So cut the shit.”
A funny look appeared on his face; it was pride mixed with a little heat. “If that were true, and it’s not, what would you have to tell me?”
“Not here,” I said. “Somewhere private.”
“Okay.” He led us into the publisher’s office. “Uncle Marvin’s not here. We can use this.” The office was simple and comfortable. Dark paneling. Heavy odor of cigar smoke, couple of chrome-and-leather chairs for visitors, a high-backed fabric swivel chair, large walnut desk. Pictures of fish and game birds on the wall. Several newspaper awards, word processor on a side table. Chick and I sat in the leather chairs. Horton sat in Uncle Marvin’s executive swivel. The privileges of nepotism.
Horton assumed a superior air, as if the chair had transformed him into a man of power. “Now, what is it you wish to tell me, and quickly, because I have things to do. Another thing, if you say anything I find distasteful, I will terminate this conversation, and you will have to leave.”
Chick looked at me, raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on his lips. “Bet old Horton’s real popular around here.”
“Hey, Horton,” I said. “Time for a wake-up call. Take a look at us, then think about what you just said.”
He fidgeted in his chair. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning,” Chick said, “we’re between you and the door, hoss.”
He swallowed noticeably, his cheeks turned blotchy, and he began straightening things on the desk. “I won’t be intimidated.”
“We’re not here to do that, either,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Chick. “ ’Fraid you might like it.”
“Maybe you could beat me up,” said Horton. “Slap me and kick me around.” He licked his lips, warming to it, his voice becoming husky. “Two big guys like you.”
“Holy-gee-gosh,” said Chick. “You believe this?”
Horton sat back, laughed, and took a deep breath. “If you’re going to tell me about Alan and that Bennett slut, I already knew about it.” Suddenly, no denials. “Just a fling. She’s anybody’s. He got over her.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I’m talking about a man. Guy named Dan Candless.” I didn’t like lying to him, but I needed what he knew. “He’s a DEA agent. There’s a teenaged girl, too.”
It was as if I had stuck a cattle prod under his seat. He sat bolt upright, and his boyish face twisted into an ugly thing. “That bitch!” he screamed. “That cocksucker. He’s a liar. He lied to me.”
“Be fair,” Chick said. “Lawyers get paid for that stuff.”
“Do you know anything about a drug called dreamsicle?”
“What?” He stood up and was looking wildly about the room, as if gargoyles were floating in the air. A spooky exhibition. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“This won’t take long. Just settle down some.”
He picked up a coffee cup and smashed it against the wall. Tiny bubbles of saliva formed at the corners of his mouth. He slammed both hands down on the desk.
“Get the fuck out! NOW!” he screamed, his voice high-pitched.
We stood up. “Geez,” said Chick. “You’re going to have to lay off the sugar, Horton.”
“Assholes! Get out!”
We complied. He was kicking furniture and throwing things about the office when we left.
Getting into the Bronco, Chick said, “Not one of your better ideas, pard.”
I now doubted that Winston trusted Horton with information about his operation. He’d surely seen Horton’s jealous rages before. Probably when Horton found out about his affair with the Bennett woman, whoever she was. I was also beginning to doubt the rumors of Winston’s gay side. Horton was Winston’s toy. Right up Winston’s alley. He used everybody and everything. Horton was a kept woman, or man, or whatever. There was a tinge of unrequited passion and frustration in Horton’s behavior. Winston probably kept him on a string. There’s no thirst like that for the water you can’t have. But Chick was right, talking to Horton was a waste of time, a mistake of judgment.
“You’re gonna like my next idea, though.”
“We’re gonna talk to Winston’s secretary? Ellen Fontaine?”
“Might as well.”
“Wyatt, you are all right. She’s extra deadly. However, if she asks us to gag her or spank her, or anything weird, I may have to go along with it—that is, in the interest of investigatory tactics.”
“Sure are fickle. Thought you had a date with Jill.”
“I do. Just trying to be democratic.”
“Uh-huh.”
THIRTY-NINE
I should have left it alone, packed it in and gone home, but I wanted Winston. There was too much blood on the ground for him to walk away to clink his glass at cocktail parties, secure in the knowledge that he had ridden the tsunami and left everyone else to crash against the rocks—Sheriff Kennedy, Deputy Simmons and his sister—and Tempestt. Mostly, for Tempestt.
We drove to Winston’s office, parking the Bronco in Bedford’s slot. As we got out of the Bronco, Alan Winston pulled into the slot next to ours. He was driving a silver Mercedes. He avoided looking at us, but it was a studied avoidance. He knew it was us. He got out of the German car. He wore a dark gray power suit, gray tie with narrow crimson stripes, dazzling white shirt, the oxblood tasseled loafers. Very fetching. I felt unclean.
“Hey, Al,” said Chick. “How’s tricks, man? Defending the scum of Paradise County must be highly lucrative. What do you think of his wheels, Wyatt?”
“Pretentious.”
“What do you want?” said Winston.
“We just came by to see if you wanted to turn yourself in and throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Maybe you can get a good lawyer. Maybe even an honest one.”
“Bet he don’t know any,” said Chick.
Winston laughed. “You have active imaginations. Somewhat immature perhaps, but creative.” No smile now. “You’re too full of yourselves. Don’t equate your macho displays with real power.”
“We’ve been talking to Horton,” I said. “He’s under the impression you’re his guy. No accounting for taste, I guess.”
“Horton deceives himself. He’s a pathetic troll.”
“I was talking about his taste, not yours,” I said. “He told us some interesting things.”
Winston appeared smug. “Horton doesn’t know anything. I use him for information. He’s helpful that way. There’s nothing he could have told you that would interest me.”
I believed him. Winston had the earmarks of a classic sociopath. He had Baxter for information of police dealings. He leveraged Simmons with the drug charge against his sister. He had tried to seduce Jill Maxwell, but when she rebuffed him he turned to Horton instead. He had someone everywhere. He always knew what was going down everywhere. Interesting that he wasn’t at Roberts’s house this morning. Had intuition saved him, or something else?
“People are dead, counselor,” I said, then stepped inside his comfort zone, my chin level with his nose. He moved away. Something about him bugged me. I instinctively didn’t like him—didn’t like Roberts, either, but it was on a different level. I didn’t like Roberts because he was a cheap hood with a face-lift. I didn’t like Winston because he was a spoiled brat, a small-town bully with a pedigree. Didn’t like the way he used people—even Horton. “A lot of people. And you’re part of that, no way around it.”
“If you’re referring to that Marine assault you two overgrown adolescents pulled this morning, I thank you for that. You rid the county of some undesirable imports. I’m very pleased.” He smiled and patted the back of his hair. “I almost feel compelled to reimburse you for your efforts, but I’m sure two do-gooders like you would refuse any reward. I don’t wish to spoil it for you.”
“Adolescents?” said Chick.
“Alan knows all about adolescents,” I said. “He prefers them two-to-one over grown women.”
“Jealousy is an ugly thing, Storme,” said Winston.
“They’ve got the sheriff in custody,” I said. “Maybe he gets nervous and starts talking.”
“Baxter?” he said. “That’s humorous. I’ll defend him and he’ll get off. And don’t count on Roberts; he won’t talk. He has the hoodlum mentality when it comes to that sort of thing. Even if he were to squeal, with his background, I’ll get it tossed out first thing. Of course he wishes to implicate the sheriff, I’ll say. The sheriff who dogged him and whose unceasing efforts for law and order have made him enemies in crime circles. I’ll make a hero out of Baxter and a liar out of both of you.”
I stepped closer again. It made him nervous. It was a cheap schoolyard trick, but how much longer could he keep stepping away? “You offend me, Winston,” I said. “I don’t like you. I’m going to burn you down. Watch me.”
He stepped back, adjusted his tie. His face was tight, teeth clenched. “Don’t you fuck with me,” he said. “This is my town. Mine. I do what I want, and I go where I please. You don’t belong here. You think you’re players, but you’re just a pair of funny little moralists with no voltage. You’re nobody.”
“Darn,” said Chick. “Now I’m going to get a complex. Sorry about Candless, your frat buddy with the microwave tan. But where you’re going there are plenty to choose from. Maybe a chainsaw killer, or a Colombian drug lord with bad teeth. Maybe even a child-molester just like you.”
A vein twitched under the starched white collar. “Go away, heroes. This is my playpen. My rules. There’s not a shred of evidence connecting me with any of this. I’ll never spend one minute in jail.” He walked away, laughing. I looked at the hole in my fatigue sweater. I was tired and dirty and my head hurt.
Chick whistled, lowly. “Man, you could ice-skate on that guy,” he said.
“He’s probably right, you know,” I said.
“Yeah. Probably.”
“He’s going to get away with it.”
“The way I got it figured, too.”
“Oughta be something we can do.”
Chick walked over to the Mercedes. It gleamed like a new bracelet. He kicked a saucer-sized dent in the door.
“How about that?”
“It’ll have to do,” I said. “For now.”
Back in the Bronco I entered the flow of traffic, which was heavy for midafternoon. We headed west on the four-lane road. Three blocks up, on the eastbound side, was a red Nissan weaving erratically through traffic, dodging and passing cars as if its driver were late for dialysis. It careened into the westbound lane, passing two cars running abreast, nearly scraping one of them. When it met us I saw the driver’s face.
It was Horton.
I slowed the Bronco and looked for a place to turn around, but the traffic was too thick. I knew where he was headed.
“Shit,” said Chick, looking back. “He just pulled into the executive park on two wheels. Almost hit a van.”
I waited for an opening, my hands tapping on the steering wheel. “Come on,” I muttered to myself. I had a sick sensation in my gut. I didn’t like Horton, but I didn’t want anything to happen to him, especially since I was the one who set him off. And had lied to do so. Finally, an opening appeared, and I rammed the Bronco through it and into a gas station. The pump aisles were full, so I couldn’t drive through to turn around. I shoved the gearshift lever into reverse and backed up, tires hopping. I hit first and headed for the highway, just pulling in ahead of a ’vette. The driver made an obscene gesture at me.
I wound the engine tight, shifted into second, then third. The needle touched sixty a block from Winston’s office. I leaned on the brakes and came to a full stop, once again having to wait for traffic to thin before turning in. There was no way to go fast through the twisting, landscaped parking lot. After weaving through the maze of evergreens, planters, and late bloomers, I skidded the truck to a halt beside the red Nissan, the nose of which was buried in the side of the silver Mercedes. So much for Chick’s dent. We jumped out of the Bronco, leaving the doors open. Winston’s secretary, Ellen Fontaine, came running out of the office, waving her arms and crying. She ran up to me, and I grabbed her and held her.
“It’s…it’s horrible. I…I’ve never seen anything so…so…” Her chest heaved with her sobbing, and I felt her body trembling.
“Are you all right?”
“Please,” she wailed. “Help him. Hurry.”
I let her go, and Chick and I ran to the office. The door to Winston’s inner sanctum was open. Chick pulled the .380 Colt, which the police hadn’t found. There was a strange, animal sound coming from the office, like the low moan of a wounded rabbit.
When we entered the office I witnessed a scene that rivaled anything I’d seen in Vietnam. Lying on the luxurious, deep-pile carpet, facedown in a widening pool of blood, was the late Alan Winston. He’d been shot in both shoulders and through the head. Chick rolled the body over, said, “Shit,” in a low voice, then rolled it back on its belly. I started to walk over for a look, but Chick held up a hand, stopping me.
