Snowjob (23 page)

“Don’t be too hard on him. Gambling is an addiction, as bad as drink or drugs. He couldn’t help himself.”

“And he sure didn’t help us,” Grant said bitterly. He crumpled the slips and shoved them aside on the covers. Then he took out the book.

“I warn you, that’s not going to make you feel any better,” I said carefully.

“Right now there’s nothing going to make me feel better, Mr. Bennett,” he said. “It’s no use holding back.”

I watched him open the book and glance at the pages, almost blindly. Then he snapped it shut and threw it aside. “Where in God’s name did he get his morals? His mother and I raised him the best way we knew. He was in the church choir as a boy, did well in school. And now this.” He looked close to tears.

“Did he go away to college?”

“Yes.” Answering the question gave Grant some strength back. “Got a business degree. We figured he’d be set to take over the store, expand into another town maybe. But he never amounted to a goddamn thing. Came back and worked at the store, but half-assed, not interested in making improvements, giving us anything back for the money we’d spent on him. He just put in time like a hired hand, spent his nights with his buddies and his women.”

There was no way to cancel anything he had said or even to console him so I said only, “Detective Cassidy might find all of this stuff useful. It might give him some new people to question.”

“It makes Jack look like shit,” Grant said flatly. “A dirty little hard-on, running around town chasing other men’s wives and girlfriends just so he could run up a score.”

“That won’t come out. You can insist on that. You don’t even have to hand over the book if you don’t want to. You can just make a list of the names and the dates and give it to him.”

He picked the book up and his hands tensed around it. I thought he was going to rip it in half but instead he shoved it at me. “Give it to him,” he said. “Give it all to him. But tell him I want it kept secret. It’s just to be used to help the investigation, that’s all.”

“You’re a good man, Mr. Grant,” I said. “I’ll do what you say.”

“Don’t tell Jean,” he said. “I’ll tell her you found his betting slips. She’ll think the cops found the book among his other things.”

“Right. I’ll get on to it.” I slipped the book and the papers into my pocket and we went downstairs. Mrs. Grant was in the kitchen and I was able to get my coat and leave without speaking to her. I was excited by the find, but wary. I wasn’t anxious to hand over the book to Cassidy. His attitude bothered me. He had personally charged Doug with Cindy Laver’s killing and I figured that even if new evidence came out that changed the case against Doug he would be reluctant to acknowledge it.

In the end I drove to Doug’s house. He was in the kitchen, opening cans for supper. “Find anything?” he asked.

“Yeah. The plot thickens,” I said. “I found his black book. Looks like he’s laid half the women in town.”

“That’s not exactly news,” Doug said. “He was the local stick man. Everybody knew that about him.”

“There’s one thing that will surprise you.”

“You’re not going to say that Melody’s name is in there, are you?” he asked, carefully tipping beans into a pot.

“Of course not. But he’s got Cindy Laver on his life list, a day or so before she was murdered.”

Doug’s voice didn’t change. “The detectives need to know that.”

“I’ve got his father’s permission to give it to them, but I didn’t want to turn it over to Cassidy, or Schmidt for that matter. I figured it should go to the chief.”

“He’s an honest man,” Doug said. “He’ll ask why you didn’t give it to the detectives. I think they’ll take care of it. You can safely hand it over to them.”

“Then I’d better call right away.”

“Okay.” He held out his hand. “While you’re calling, can I see the book?”

I gave it to him and went to the phone. The man on the desk put me through, after asking my name. Cassidy sounded annoyed. “What’s so important?”

“Mr. Grant asked me to go through his son’s room. I found a secret drawer under one of the windows. It had some papers and a black book in it with the names of all the women he’d laid, including Cindy Laver, a night or so before she was killed.”

“Who gave you permission to go through that room?” As I’d expected, anger first.

“I told you, Lieutenant. Mr. Grant asked me to. Your guys didn’t find the drawer, I did. And I think the book would be useful to you. For one thing it says that he slept with Cindy Laver on the seventh. That was the night before she was killed.”

“Okay, so bring it in,” he said. “May’s well look at it.”

I resisted the temptation to tell him not to get too excited. He had more to prove than I did. I just said, “Sure,” and hung up.

Doug was still leafing through the book. “If the little asshole was telling the truth, he really ran up a score,” he said, frowning. “Some of these women are married. A few of them are land of long in the tooth as well.”

“Like how old?” From his interest I could see he had found something significant.

“Like in their fifties, that’s twenty years older’n he was. Look, Ella Frazer. He’s written, ‘Many a sweet tune played on an old fiddle.’”

“Ella Frazer? From the office at Cat’s Cradle? When was that?”

“Last fall. He gave her a B.”

“That’s both of the women who worked in the accounts office at Cat’s Cradle. I wonder if that means anything?”

Doug shut the book. “I don’t think so. Long’s they were warm and willing he was happy.” He handed the book to me. “You taking this in to Cassidy?”

“Yeah. Oh, and there’s something else.” I took out the slips and the IOUs. “These look like they might be betting debts.”

Doug leafed through them. “I’ve never seen any bookie’s slip as neat as this. These were all typed, on an electric machine by the look of it. I think this must have been some kind of record he kept for himself.”

“Why’d he want to do that?”

Doug shrugged. “Masochist, I guess. Hell, half these were basketball games and that’s my sport. I can tell you, he lost these bets.” He frowned at them. “Half the time he’s bet on the underdog.”

“A lot of gamblers do, going for the odds, trying to get out of the hole they’re already in.” I handed over the last two slips. “These are IOUs. Maybe for gambling, maybe not. Recognize the signature by any chance?”

Doug looked at them both, then went back to the bigger one. “Seventeen hundred bucks, just marked discharged, not paid. And the date is last Thursday. Was this what he got for killing Cindy?”

“Could’ve been. But unless we can recognize the signature it doesn’t give us anywhere to go.”

Doug looked at the squiggle. “Could be anything. It looks like the way a guy would sign his name if he was giving autographs.”

“That’s a thought. Is there anybody in town who might have done that at some time? Any actors, celebrities?”

Doug looked up, thoughtfully. “The only celeb we’ve got around here is Huckmeyer. He was on the national ski team. Maybe those guys get asked for autographs.”

“He’s mixed up in this eight ways to breakfast already,” I said. “I think I’ll go talk to him. Hang on to supper for me till I get back.”

“Sure. You may find him at Cat’s Cradle or Brewskis. That guy never takes a day off.”

“Okay then. First the station, then the other places. See you in a couple of hours.”

“Good luck,” Doug said. He looked at me awkwardly. “And thanks, huh.”

I waved at him and left, whistling Sam.

He followed at my heel out to the car and I put him in the passenger seat and then opened the trunk. It was dark now and I knew I couldn’t be seen as I took Doug’s gun out of its hiding place and slipped it into my pocket. Now that the chief had cleared me to continue investigating Doug’s charge, I didn’t think I would be searched by the police. And I was liable to run foul of the guy from New York again. This time he wouldn’t leave it to locals. He would try to do the job himself.

First I drove to the station. Cassidy and Schmidt were up in the detective office. They must have discussed my call because they both made an effort to be polite. Schmidt tried the harder. “Hell, we should’ve found this when we searched,” he said. “Thanks for doing our job. How come Grant let you in there?”

“He wants me to look into what’s been happening. I told him you guys would be the best ones to do it, but you know what it’s like when you’ve lost a family member. He wants the whole world looking.” Close enough to the truth that it didn’t ruffle feathers.

Schmidt opened the book, glancing at the back page first. “Shit. You’re right. He laid that woman the night before somebody offed her.”

“His father gave me permission to hand this to you, so it’s clean, if it’s useful,” I told him. “He said he’d like it kept confidential because it makes his son look bad.”

“That’s for goddamn sure,” Schmidt said. “Look at this.” He flourished the book at Cassidy. “He rated all o’ these broads like they were competing in the Olympics.”

Cassidy gave a knowing chuckle. “Lemme see that. May find some useful names. Know what I mean?”

He and Schmidt looked like a couple of teenagers with their first dirty magazine. I said, “Except for Cindy Laver, the names don’t mean anything to me. But there’s a chance that he got into bed with the wrong guy’s wife. Maybe that’s how come he was killed.”

“Could be.” Cassidy laughed shortly. “We’re runnin’ around lookin’ for some fancy motive and here, a whole bunch of locals had a reason for killing him.”

They nodded at one another knowingly, but it was an act, I felt. They had something else. “There’s a pile of betting slips as well, and a couple of IOUs. One of them marked discharged the day after the killing.”

“Lemme see.” Cassidy held out his hand. I gave him the slips and he flipped through them, then stopped at the IOUs. “Who in hell’s name’s this?” he asked in disgust. “Looks like it’s Arabic or some goddamn thing.”

Schmidt accepted the paper and frowned. “Beats the hell outa me. But we’ll keep it, may come up with a match somewhere.”

They looked at one another and said no more, waiting for me to leave. I stood up. “Can I ask what’s new on the Tate killing? Did you find the weapon?”

“Yesss.” Schmidt almost purred. “Found Grant’s gun under the car. His prints all over it. Ballistics are checking it out now but the slugs in her were .22s. We can tie that one up tonight.”

“Nice work.” I slapped my hands together. “Don’t you love happy endings?”

They both laughed but neither of them said anything for a moment, then Schmidt said, “So, thanks for the help. Steve and me will follow up on alla this, see what we can come up with.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy said. “’Preciate the help.”

“You’re welcome. I’d like to hear how you make out on this. Would that be okay?”

“Sure. Where you staying? At Doug Ford’s?”

I nodded and he made a little shooting motion. “So head on home, have a little taste and we’ll be in touch.”

I could hear them laughing behind me as I went downstairs, but it didn’t bother me. They had cracked the Wendy Tate case. They had reason to feel good.

I drove out to Cat’s Cradle. There were three cars in the parking lot, none of them looking as if it belonged to anyone wealthy. The night cleaners were in, I guessed. The place was otherwise deserted. Apparently the lifts closed at dusk on Sundays. I took Sam with me anyway and walked up to the gondola lift, noticing a lone man in the cafeteria swabbing the floor as I passed.

The door of the lift house was locked but it opened to my Visa card, as the chief had predicted, and I clicked on my little penlight and checked the controls. Again as he had said, simplicity itself. There was a big on-off button, nothing more. I didn’t touch it but backed out and closed up the shack.

There was nobody around as I went back to the car and I drove out between the high banks of cleared snow and back toward town. Brewskis was on my route and I pulled into the lot which was full. So was the bar, although the noise level was lower tonight, perhaps because it was still early, only six o’clock. All the customers looked relaxed and happy. I noticed that many of them had pale, winter faces, obviously new arrivals, just beginning their week or so outdoors.

Neither of the women I had met was working and I got a beer and looked around, on the off chance that Huckmeyer was present. He wasn’t, but I noticed some photographs on the walls. On impulse I picked up my beer and sauntered over to examine them. They were photographs of celebrities, I guessed, skiers that I didn’t recognize and in one case a well-known singer, on skis, in front of Cat’s Cradle. Most of them were autographed, the usual florid squiggle that professionals use to save time. And then there was a photo of a skier in action, caught making a dashing turn, snow flying from the edge of his skis. I looked at the caption below it. It read “Cat’s Cradle manager, Walter Huckmeyer, member of the U.S. national team, 1981, 1982.” That made me reexamine the photograph and what I saw made me cold. It was signed with the same signature I had found on the IOUs in young Grant’s room.

I studied it carefully, remembering the loops and swirls of the squiggle on Grant’s IOUs. Yes, there was no doubt. The man who had discharged Grant’s debt for seventeen hundred dollars was Walter Huckmeyer.