The Dream Ender (25 page)

“Hi, Dick. What’s up?”

“I need a favor,” I asked.

“On the Hysong case?”

“Yeah.’

“I heard the grand jury’s convening today. The D.A. is really pushing it.”

“Unfortunately, yes, and they’ll almost surely vote to indict. That’s why I called.”

“What do you need?”

“Well, I should have thought of this a long time ago, but Jake thinks whoever stole the gun got in through his kitchen window. Since Jake’s were the only prints on the gun, whoever stole it probably wore gloves, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. I got a fingerprint kit right after I got my P.I. license, but I’ve never had occasion to use it. I could dust the window myself, but to head off any possible charges of impeding an investigation—and I sincerely hope there will be an investigation—I was wondering if you could find the time to do it? It’s pretty much a no-brainer that whoever stole the gun killed Hysong.”

There was a slight pause, then, “Well, we’re not officially on the case,” he said, “and a fingerprint is a fingerprint, but what I can do is stop over there on my own time—maybe on my way to work in the morning—and do it. I’ll bring a camera, too, to make sure there’s no doubt as to where the prints came from. It might be a long shot, but I agree it’s worth taking.”

“How about getting fingerprints of all the guys who were at that meeting at Jake’s?” I asked. “I still think chances are pretty good one of them did it.”

“Well, like I said,” Marty repeated, “a fingerprint’s a fingerprint. They can be taken from anywhere. I don’t think I can justify trying to get them without an okay from higher up, but if you want to put your fingerprint kit to use, by all means feel free. But why don’t you give me the guys’ names, and I’ll run a check to see if we have any already on record. If so, if they might match.”

I gave him all six names, slowly.

‘Thanks, Marty,” I said when I’d finished. “I owe you. Jake’s coming over tonight so I’ll let him know you’ll be by.”

“He doesn’t even have to be there,” Marty said. “I can come up the back steps. Just ask him to leave the window open so I can dust the whole lower frame and the sill.”

“Will do. Thanks again! Let me know when you’re available for lunch.”

“I will. Ah, another call’s coming in. Talk to you later.”

“Okay. So long,” I said.

*

Since Wednesday was Jonathan’s class night, I fixed dinner. Well, I thawed out a meatloaf and put it in the oven with some baking potatoes. Domesticity has never been my strong suit.

When Jonathan left for class, Joshua and I did the dishes and I called Jake to let him know about Marty’s coming over in the morning.

“Great!” he said. “I never would have thought about fingerprints.”

“I should have earlier,” I admitted. “Let’s just hope that if Marty finds any, we’re able to match them to someone. I gave him the guys’ names and he’s going to check the files, but it’s kind of unlikely any of them would have their prints on record. If not, I’ll have to try to get them myself.”

We talked a few minutes more, confirmed their coming over on Friday night—Jake asked again if they could bring something for Joshua, and I heartily discouraged the idea with thanks—and hung up.

It occurred to me, as I sat there watching TV—or rather, staring in the direction of the screen—that in addition to the guys at the meeting, I really should pay a little more attention to Carl Brewer as a potential suspect. Despite his claim it was his idea to sell the Male Call, I didn’t believe him. Hysong had, in effect, robbed him of a business in which he had invested twenty years of hard work. While he may not have had as intense a direct emotional motive as some of the others, it could not be overlooked. Perhaps Don Gleason’s having come into the bar to kill Hysong had given Carl the idea.

It occurred to me now that he had been pretty elusive in the brief conversation I’d had with him about guns.

Well, I’d find out.

Joshua had crawled up on the couch beside me with a copy of
Life
that had come in that day’s mail.

“Let’s read,” he said. I grinned at him, flipped off the TV and turned the first page.

*

I realized Thursday morning that while I wanted to talk to Carl Brewer as soon as possible I couldn’t really do it until at least Saturday. Tim and Phil were coming over Thursday night, and Jake and Jared were coming Friday. Bob and Mario had called Wednesday to ask if we’d like to come over for brunch on Sunday, if Joshua was up to it. So, Saturday was the first chance I’d have to really do much on the case.

Marty called around eleven, saying he’d been over to Jake’s to do the dusting for fingerprints on the kitchen window.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Well, there were no prints on the outside of the window frame, or on the sill. I assumed at first that meant either there hadn’t been any or you were right when you suggested whoever it was might have worn gloves.

“But then I checked the inside lower frame and found four perfect prints—whoever had opened the window might have put on gloves once he got into the apartment, but he thought he’d wiped everything off when he left. He didn’t realize he’d hooked his hands around the frame to lift it, leaving prints on the inside edge. I took a couple of photos, too.

“I’ve already compared the prints to Jacobson and Martinson’s we took the day the gun was discovered missing. No match, so I ran the names you gave me to see if any of them might have an arrest record. Found a couple speeding tickets, one or two disturbing-the-peace charges, but nothing that would have necessitated their being fingerprinted. We can tap into the military’s files if we have to, but that would start to involve other people, and I’d just as soon avoid making waves if we can avoid it. So, let’s see what you can come up with first.”

“Okay. Thanks for everything, Marty.”

“No problem.”

Glen called at one thirty to say the grand jury had issued an indictment against Jake and that he was awaiting news on a date for trial, which turned up the heat considerably. I told him of my plans to try to see Carl Brewer over the weekend and of the discovery of the fingerprints and my intention to get more, and he seemed encouraged.

“If we can get a match on the prints,” he said, “I’ll press the police for a full investigation, and we might be able to blow St. John out of the water before he gets around to wasting any more of the taxpayers’ money on a trial he’s bound to lose anyway.”

*

Jonathan stopped on the way home from work to pick up a loaf of garlic bread and a banana creme pie for dessert, and I had already defrosted a couple large containers of chili so that all we had to do was heat it up when Tim and Phil arrived, which they did at seven o’clock sharp, carrying a large gift-wrapped box.

Spotting them and the box, Joshua ran over, arms flung wide like the Norman Rockwell painting of a mother running to meet her boys, home from the war. Phil set the package down to kneel and give him a hug. Normally, he’d have picked him up and tossed him in the air, but probably figured—rightly—that it might not be a good idea so close after an operation. Joshua, of course, never took his eyes off the box.

“Is that for me?” he asked, obviously exerting all his five-year-old willpower to resist ripping the wrapping off.

Tim’s, “Yep,” had hardly left his mouth than Joshua was on his knees, scraps of wrapping paper flying every which way.

Unwrapped, the package proved to contain a large set of Lincoln Logs. Since the cardboard of the box proved more difficult to remove than the wrapping paper had, Phil helped, and Joshua began removing all the pieces, repeating “Wow!” every couple of seconds.

“What do you say, Joshua?” Jonathan prompted.

“Wow!” Joshua said.

“No, not ‘wow.’ Aren’t you going to say ‘thank you’?”

As though he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Joshua scrambled to his feet and went to hug first Phil, then Tim.

“Thank you, Uncle Phil! Thank you, Uncle Tim.” He then immediately returned to the box.

While I very much appreciated their thoughtfulness, I rather wished they hadn’t done it—not only because we’d be tripping over Lincoln Logs for weeks, but because Jonathan and I had had more than one conversation in which we determined we would really try not to spoil Joshua any more rotten than we already had.

While I went into the kitchen to fix drinks, Phil and Joshua sat in the middle of the floor building a log cabin.

*

While my first week—well, partial week—of full-time babysitting had, overall, not been too bad, the prospect of another full week of it, and the realization that I wasn’t doing a damned thing on the case, started to get to me, though I tried not to show it, especially to Jonathan. He had sensed it, though, and announced his boss would let him take three of his vacation days starting Monday so I could get back to work.

Joshua spent the day playing with his new Lincoln Logs set, and as I’d predicted, they soon were scattered all over the apartment, including one found beside the cereal box in the kitchen cupboard and another, inexplicably, floating in the fish tank.

I devoted my time to typing up my notes for Glen. I couldn’t complete them until I went by the Male Call again Saturday afternoon to talk to Carl Brewer. I planned to drop the full set of notes off at Glen’s office first thing Monday morning, and I called to leave a message with Donna telling him so.

Around eleven, Marty Gresham called to say he’d run the prints from the window through the complete police files and had not come up with a match. I hadn’t really expected he would, but I’d hoped. So, now I had to figure out a way to get prints from everyone who’d been to the meeting.

The simplest and most logical way was just to ask. That would pretty well rule out those who agreed to it, though I expected some wouldn’t just on general principles, and in a way, I couldn’t blame them. I wasn’t sure I’d be too happy about volunteering my prints. Still, if they had nothing to hide…

Chapter 20

Jake and Jared arrived about seven thirty.
Joshua and I had just finished a heated battle over the necessity of picking up his toys that were scattered all over the living room and put them away. Jonathan wisely stayed out of it for the most part, simply saying, “Listen to Uncle Dick,” when Joshua went tearily running to him for moral support. As a result, I was temporarily removed from Joshua’s “favorite people” list.

The guys, of course, made a big fuss over him and were, as Tim and Phil had been, dutifully impressed by his scar, which he insisted on showing them. The showing was accompanied by a lengthy and dramatic recounting of his trip to and adventures at the hospital.

We had cake and coffee—milk for Joshua—and talked for a bit, by mutual unspoken agreement avoiding mention of the case, the grand jury indictment, or Cal Hysong until Jonathan excused himself to get Joshua ready for bed.

There wasn’t really much more I could tell them I’d not already mentioned to Jake when we’d talked, but I did ask them if they might have a chance to think of anything more about the meeting, the guys there or who might have taken the rifle. They hadn’t.

When Jonathan and Joshua emerged from the bathroom, Joshua, obviously still holding a grudge for my making him put his things away, announced that he wanted Uncle Jake to read him his bedtime story.

*

Saturday being chore day, I volunteered to do most of them while Jonathan stayed home with Joshua. I love the kid dearly, but after nearly twenty-four hours a day for more than a week, it was nice just to be on my own for a bit.

I headed out for the Male Call at about three forty-five. I found a parking spot two doors down and noticed, as I headed for the bar, that every telephone pole seemed to have a flier on it. They were for a bike run for AIDS the following Sunday, sponsored by the Spike. Interesting, and undoubtedly plastering them all over the area around the Male Call was another of Reardon’s little jabs at Brewer. Sort of like one tiger marking another’s territory.

When I walked in, I saw there were two customers—better than the last time I’d been in—but still no bartender; Brewer was behind the bar. He gave me a heads-up nod of recognition when I walked in and took a seat at the far end.

The two guys got up and carried their beers over to the pool table as Brewer came over to take my order. When he brought it, he took the bill I’d set on the bar.

“Social call or business?” he asked.

“Mostly business, I’m afraid.”

“Figured,” he said.

“Did you know Cal was killed with Jake’s gun?” I asked, getting right to the point.

He didn’t bat an eye. “No. I know he’s got several, but I thought they were all antiques.”

“Not his new hunting rifle. That’s the one that was used to kill Hysong.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that one. I do remember him bragging about it in here when he first got it. It’s a nice gun.”

“You know much about guns?” I asked.

Oh, subtle, Hardesty!
a mind-voice said.

He looked at me and gave me a slow smile. “Yeah, I know about guns,” he said. “I know they kill people and that I don’t want anything to do with them.”

Well, since I was batting a thousand in the subtlety department, I thought I might as well go for broke.

“You ever been over to Jake’s place?” I asked.