Fadeout (14 page)

"Maybe—to a mind like Kohlmeyer's. I know what's the matter with him. What's the matter with you?" Chalmers reached for the door. "You want to watch who you call a blackmailer." He jerked the door open, pushed Kohlmeyer outside and shot Dave a glare. "I'm not a man to smear, friend. I'm a man to respect and leave alone. Understand me?" 

"I was in Pima for two days talking to people," Dave said. "I left you alone. I didn't figure you in this. That was Kohlmeyer's doing. Settle it with him." 

"Oh, please . . ." Kohlmeyer fluttered like a tissue-paper kite in the rain. "I'm not a well man. . . ." 

Chalmers grunted and slammed the door. 

Dave was cold to the bone. A hot shower was what he needed. But there wasn't time. He dressed, wool slacks, flannel shirt, heavy pullover sweater. He lit a cigarette, set the remains of last night's coffee on a burner and dialed Pima's police station. Herrera was going to like being rousted from bed even less than he'd liked missinghis Western last night. But it couldn't be helped. Only Herrera wasn't in bed. It was 3:25 A.M. but Herrera was on the job. 

"I was going to call you," he said, "soon as I could." 

"Look," Dave said, "get to a judge. On the double. Get warrants. Search Lloyd Chalmers's offices—city hall, construction company, home, safe-deposit boxes. He's got those photos. Someplace." 

Herrera tried to interrupt. 

"He won't interfere. He's out of town. Just left my house. With the guy who sold him the pictures. They claim it was all just a bad joke. There are no pictures. Never were. So why bother to tell me? I wasn't bracing anybody about any pictures. Not yet. Chalmers jumped too soon. He's guilty as hell. Of something." 

"It don't matter," Herrera said. 

"Maybe not to you," Dave said. "It sure as hell matters to me. Look, it's early. You can do it before anybody in town's awake. Nobody will see you. The mayor will never know. Not if you get a move on—" 

Herrera yelled, "Will you shut up a minute?" 

"All right," Dave said. 

"Thanks. It don't matter about the snapshots. It don't matter about Chalmers. See ... Olson is dead." 

It was like a kick in the stomach. "You mean . . . his body's been found. In the river." 

"Not in the river. In a place called Bell Beach, San Diego County. On a broken-down amusement pier. With a bloody hole where his heart used to be. Sheriff's substation there gave us the word. Hour, hour and a half ago. I'd have been in touch with you sooner only I've been on the jump. Carrying the bad news. Up to his wife's, out to his fatherin- law's, over to his daughter's. It's the part of this job I hate." 

"Let me be sure I understand you," Dave said. "Olson's been murdered? You mean like lately?" 

"Last night. Between eight and ten, according to the preliminary medical exam. They'll be more exact about it after an autopsy. Anyway, they didn't find him till midnight. No identification on him, so it took a while to tag him. We heard from them at two." 

"Pretty fast work at that," Dave said mechanically. "Who did it—do they know?" 

"The guy Olson was sharing a room with there for the past week. He's missing. They've issued an all-points bulletin for him." Herrera's laugh was short. "With ours, that makes two." 

"Doug Sawyer," Dave said. "Right?" 

"Only not in the Ferrari. Now it's a '54 Chevrolet. About two hundred dollars' worth. You're sharp, Brandstetter. Any time you want a job, you know where to come." 

"Thanks." Dave laughed grimly. "I may just have to do that. Soon."

Bell Beach was lost miles from the freeway. Sand lay in the empty, sun-baked streets. Wiry brown grass thrust through the sand. In the grass, gulls and pelicans stood like moth-eaten museum pieces. The buildings were cheap stucco with mad carnival turrets. Gaudy paint had faded and scabbed off. Shingleshad curled and turned black. Windows were broken. Where not broken they were boarded up, had been for years: the rust from nailheads had written long, sad farewells down the salt-silvered planks. The corrugated iron roof of a hot-dog stand had slumped in. A metal filling station turned to black lace in the sun. Beyond padlocked grillwork in a crimsonand- gilt bam shadowy carrousel horses kicked through gray curtains of cobweb. 

Dave squinted into the sun. Was everyone dead here? 

Then out of the sun a fat, leather-skinned old man in ragged shorts and a greasy tam-o'-shan- ter rode a bicycle. A young Negro in cracked sunglasses lounged against a power pole. Bare torso, Levi's, bare feet. A withered woman in a torn straw hat hobbled out of a grubby grocery store, clutching a sack. Across the street, sitar music droned from a tinny loudspeaker above a shop door. Garish drunken lettering on the windows. A glimpse of beads, books, phosphorescent posters. A squat, swarthy girl with uncombed black hair and a clean new pink-andorange shift held something shiny to her mouth, blew a stream of bubbles into the air, then disappeared into the dark shop. 

Dave braked the car. Down three side streets so far he had seen only blue ocean. This side street sloped to a pier. And on the pier, above the rubble of sideshow booths, rose a massive scaffold, patches of yellowing white paint still clinging to it. At the foot of its steep, rusty tracks, the bulbs had been smashed out of a horseshoe-shaped sign. The sockets spelled
THE CHUTE
. But they needn't have. Dave would have recognized it from Fox Olson's painting over the fireplace in the canyon house at Pima. He would have recognized it from the sad snapshot of two laughing boys on the seedy counter of Sawyer's pet shop in L.A. 

Halfway down the street to the pier, a bright new American flag hung above the doorway of a sprawling stucco monstrosity. Through later coats of paint the old sign high on its side still showed—
BELL BEACH BATHHOUSE
. But a white enamel sign standing on the sidewalk bore a brown six-pointed star that indicated the sheriff's substation was lost somewhere inside. A dusty estate wagon stood at the curb. Familiar. Dave parked behind it. As he stepped out into the blaze of sun, the door under the flag opened. 

Thorne Olson came out. Of course. Herrera had sent her to identify the body. She wore black. Smart. Her face was tight and she moved fast. She was at the estate wagon and trying to get into it before Hale McNeil had shut the building door. The car door was locked—KPIM on it in green and blue. She turned sharply to McNeil. He unlocked the door. Her gloved hand snatched it open, she started to get in, and saw Dave. Her eyes widened. She poked McNeil, who swung around. Dave walked to them, sand gritting on the cracked cement under his shoes. Closer, he saw what she needed. A drink. She was trembling. But not her voice. 

She said flatly, "You were right. You're very clever, aren't you?" 

"But not quick," he said. "Not quick enough. I'm sorry. He ... never mentioned this place to you?" 

"No." Bitterly. "It appears there was quite a lot he never mentioned to me." 

McNeil put a hand on her arm. He told Dave, "He's dead. Doesn't that close the case as far as you're concerned? What are you doing here?" 

Dave didn't know, so he made up a lie. "My company requires its own agent to identify the deceased," he said. 

He told the same lie to the deputy in charge of the Bell Beach substation, who was young and trusting. He led Dave along a dingy hall. The building still smelled like a bathhouse—sweat, urine, sodden wood. The door the deputy opened was like a refrigerator door. The room beyond was cold. Zinc counters and set tubs, a drain in the center of the cement floor. The body that had belonged to Fox Olson lay under a sheet on a high white enamel table. The deputy folded back the sheet from the face. Olson looked young. Death could do that. Erase years. A gull swung between the sun and the windows. Its shadow flickered across Olson's face like a remembered pain. 

"Thanks." Dave turned away. "That's him." 

"I don't get it." The boy's voice was hurt, disappointed. "Didn't anybody like him?" 

"Everybody," Dave said. "Almost. Why?" 

"His wife. The big guy—his manager. They didn't bat an eye. They acted like you. Looked at him and said it was him and went away." He hauled open the heavy door. 

Dave went through. "They thought he was dead a week ago." He told about the smashed bridge, the smashed Thunderbird. "They've already done their crying." 

Though broken up by head-high partitions, the substation was one enormous room. Roman bath style. Flat fluted columns against the walls. High ceiling a pattern of plaster acanthus leaves. Niches for statues. The pool had been floored over. It echoed hollow underfoot. Dave sat in a hard wooden armchair. The deputy sat at a brown steel desk and looked new. 

"He couldn't have picked a better place to disappear to. Nobody comes here anymore." His smile was wry. He touched his badge. "That's why we're in charge. Rookies. It's a ghost town. Even the hippies leave. They hear about the cheap rent and how nobody bothers you, and they come. But they don't stay long. It's too dead." 

"Yes. What killed it?" 

"A coast road used to run through here. State highway, two-lane. They let it fall to pieces when the freeway got built. Nineteen fifty-five.Town went broke. Yup ... guy wants to disappear, Bell Beach is the place. Nobody'd look for anybody here." 

"You included?" Dave nodded at the missing persons dodger with Fox Olson's picture on the desk. "You've had that for days. He must have been around." 

"I saw him." Disgusted, the deputy lifted and dropped the paper. "This is what I didn't see. It went in a file. Johnson or Miles put it away. Neither one of them will admit it though. They work the other shifts. I never saw it, I'll tell you that. Not till last night, looking to identify him." 

He yawned, blinked, shook his head. "'Scuse me. This is the time I usually sleep. Got to wait for the coroner and stuff. . . . Yeah, I saw him. Them. Like on the beach. Umbrella, big towels. They had this ball they'd toss. Swim. Read books. Olson had a guitar. Couple guys on vacation. I even knew where they lived. Old lady Kincaid's. 

"But the room didn't tell me anything. Sawyer's stuff was all gone. Olson's was all new. National brands. Nothing distinctive. Nothing you could trace anywhere. Except maybe the typewriter. But I doubt it. Probably paid cash for it someplace, gave a phony name. Mrs. Kincaid had made the rent receipt to Doug Douglas. She says deceased used the name Edward Fox." 

"Edward?" 

"That's Olson's first name. His wife told me. Says he never used it. Not even on his voter registration or his automobile operator's license. Noplace but here." The boy yawned again. A groggy smile apologized. "So . . . we had a John Doe. And when you've got a John Doe, you check the files. Take fingerprints, of course. But for news on them you wait—sometimes forever. Meanwhile, you check the files." He fluttered the dodger. His child's mouth went grim. "Hell, if I'd found this earlier, it would have saved his life." 

"Maybe," Dave said. "Only maybe. His life had some pretty big rips in it. . . . You're sure about Sawyer?" 

The boy shrugged. "Who else knew Olson was here?" 

"Hippies? Don't some of them have a little problem about what belongs to whom?" 

"He wasn't robbed," the deputy said. "Close to four hundred bucks in his pockets when we found him. Cash." 

"Have you found the gun?" 

"Scuba crew got it out of the water this morning. Fifty feet from the pier." 

"Sawyer's?" 

"Olson's." He swiveled the chair, opened a file drawer, laid the gun on the desk. A red identification tag dangled from the trigger guard. It was a tidy Colt's .32. "His wife identified it. Also he'd registered it with the L.A. police. Nineteen forty-three. She said he was working in a bookstore on Hollywood Boulevard then. Some GIs held it up. The owner wouldn't buy a gun. Olson bought this. Had it ever since." 

"Fingerprints?" 

"One. A thumbprint on one of the shells. Olson's. That's all. Gun was oily. Just cleaned before it was fired. Whoever used it wiped it before he threw it off the pier." The deputy held the gun in his clean kid's hand for a moment, tossed it lightly once, then turned and dropped it back into the file drawer. "Look"—he blinked, turning—"have you got some reason to doubt Sawyer killed him?" 

"None. It's logical. Maybe inevitable. I'm sorry, that's all. I think Olson had counted on Sawyer to save him. They were old friends." 

"They had a fight," the boy said. "A brawl. Mrs. Kincaid heard it. Yelled and swore. Threw stuff. Sawyer took off. This was two, three nights ago." 

"He wasn't killed two, three nights ago," Dave said. "He was killed last night." 

"Sawyer must have come back. The room was a wreck. And Mrs. Kincaid wasn't home last night." 

"Hasn't she any other tenants?" 

"Hippies," the deputy snorted. "They were having a party. They had their door shut. Didn't see anybody, didn't hear anything. Making too much noise themselves. Even if they hadn't been, they wouldn't tell me. I'm the fuzz. The man. They won't talk to you unless you've got a beard and your clothes are glued to you with your own dirt and stink." 

"The room was a wreck," Dave said, "but Olson wasn't found dead there. He was found dead on the pier." 

The deputy nodded. "Under the Chute. But he could have been dragged there." 

"At eight, nine, ten o'clock? I know it's a dead town, but that dead? How far is the Kincaid house from the pier? How strong a man is Sawyer? I thought he was slight. If the shooting happened in the room there should have been bloodstains. Were there?" 

The boy's face reddened. "No. And Sawyer wasn't any muscle man. And Kincaid's is a good three blocks from the pier. . . ." The boy yawned wide, shut his eyes and let his head hang for a minute. When he looked up his eyes were bloodshot. "I don't know. When we find Sawyer, maybe he'll tell us. . . ." 

The door opened. Hot air came in. Also a fat, pastyfaced man carrying a heavy wooden kit by its leather handle. 

The deputy stood up. "You the coroner?" 

"I'm the autopsy surgeon," the fat man said in a bored voice. "Where is it?" 

Dave lifted a hand to the deputy and left.