Trace (Trace 1) (18 page)

“No,” Trace said.

“You’re a big help. What are you in town for anyway?”

“I told you the other day, I’m checking on that Plesser insurance thing.”

“The Careys have anything to do with that?”

“Mr. Carey’s a friend of my boss. He asked me to check in with the family.” Trace hesitated and Wilcox said, “And nothing but the truth.”

“And my boss wanted me to make sure that nothing happened to Mr. Carey like it happened to Plesser.”

“Why should your boss be worried about a thing like that?”

“Because that girl who’s living with the Careys filled his head with shit.”

“Oh. What’s Miss Callahan’s connection with all this?”

“I ran into her because she’s the Careys’ lawyer. And she’s Dr. Matteson’s lawyer. The Plessers are suing him.”

“That wouldn’t give Matteson any reason to come here and hit her, I guess. Are they going out together?”

“Matteson told me no,” Trace said.

Wilcox sighed. “Okay. I don’t have anything to book you on. You know that. We can go, I guess. My photographer’s already been here.”

“Will he get prints?”

“It’s always a guess. He pulled up some with tape, but the way he works, the asshole, they’ll probably be his own.”

Trace waited in the hallway for Wilcox to close up the office. At the head of the stairs was a large ashtray, and Trace saw in it an apple with only one bite taken from it.

He thought for a moment, then picked up the apple, shook the sand from it, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Wilcox was fumbling with the office lock.

“Just a minute, Lieutenant,” Trace said, “I left my cigarettes inside.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, hurry up.”

Trace went into the office, pretended to take his cigarettes off the desk, and before leaving, glanced inside the small refrigerator near the office door.

“What are you doing in there?” Wilcox said.

“I was thirsty. I thought Jeannie might have a bottle of beer around.”

“Does she?”

“No.”

“Some days nothing goes right. I should have booked you.”

“It wouldn’t have held up,” Trace said.

“Why not?”

“You forgot to read me my rights.”

“In Harmon Hills, you don’t have any rights.”

Wilcox dropped Trace off at the country club and the insurance investigator went into the cocktail lounge, where he found Hughie getting ready to close the empty bar.

“You have a small plastic bag or a piece of Saran wrap?” Trace asked.

“Let me look.” Hughie came back out of the storeroom with a piece of wrap that looked as if it had held a tuna-fish sandwich. Meanwhile, Trace looked at the apple in his pocket. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he had read somewhere that toothmarks were as almost as individual as fingerprints, and where the bite had been taken from the apple was a clear set of toothmarks. Trace wondered why he hadn’t just given the apple to Lt. Wilcox and decided it was because Wilcox would probably have eaten it. He wrapped the apple in the piece of plastic wrap and handed it back to the bartender.

“Hughie, I want you to put this in the freezer.”

“What for?”

“I want to save it.”

“If you want, you can throw this one away and I’ll bring you a new apple tomorrow. No charge. It’s apple season.”

“I need this apple, Hughie. It’s evidence.”

“George Washington’s dead.”

“That was a cherry tree, not an apple tree. Please, just put this in the back of the freezer. It’s important. And don’t let anybody throw it out.”

“I’ll put a sign on it that says it’s a disguised Nazi hand grenade. That should do it,” Hughie said.

“Wonderful.”

“How long do you think I’ll have to keep it?”

“Just till tomorrow,” Trace said.

“Good. Just don’t tell anybody I’m doing this. It might start a fad and I’ve only got a small freezer.”

There was a young nurse on duty in the emergency room in the East Building at Meadow Vista and Trace said, “I’m Dr. Wasserman. Is Miss Callahan ready to go yet? I’ve come to pick her up.”

The woman looked at a sheet in front of her. “Miss Callahan’s been admitted to Room Two-twenty-two. She won’t be leaving right away. Dr. Matteson’s taking care of her.”

“She just called. Is Doctor still with her?”

“I think so.”

“Thank you. I’ll confer with him. It’s okay, I know my way.”

When Trace walked into the room, Jeannie was sitting up in bed and Matteson was leaning against the small nightstand next to her bed. He was wearing a raincoat over his pajamas.

“If I were the jealous type,” Trace said, “this’d bust it.”

“Trace,” she cried out happily. “Tell this idiot to let me out of here.”

“Not a chance,” Matteson said.

Trace looked at the young lawyer. She had a bruise on one cheek and the flesh was turning an ugly eggplant color. Trace knew, from his own experience, that in another twelve hours or so she would have a rip-roaring shiner.

He stood at the side of the bed, looking at her, before he leaned over, kissed her, and said to Matteson, “She is one ugly-looking thing, isn’t she, Doc?”

“That’s why I won’t let her out. She might frighten people on the street.”

“Will I be able to play piano, Doctor? That’s all that’s important,” Jeannie said.

“Sure,” Matteson said.

“That’s funny. I couldn’t play before.”

“Jokes. Jokes she makes already. I’ve brought her back from death’s door and she makes jokes,” Matteson said.

“Who did it, Jeannie? Any ideas?”

Matteson said, “I’ll leave you two alone. As long as I’m here, I’ll look at some patients. They don’t wake me up and make jokes.”

“Just a minute, Jeannie,” Trace said, and walked into the hall with the doctor. “What’s the story?”

“She’s just got a bad bruise. Nothing fractured and no danger that I can see. But I’m keeping her overnight just to be sure. Sometimes head injuries are sneaky.”

“Okay. I won’t let her leave. Thanks, Doc.”

“I’ll have the nurse give her a sedative,” Matteson said, then shuffled away.

Trace said, “If you hear from the girl downstairs about a Dr. Wasserman?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s me.”

Matteson looked puzzled, then shrugged. “Okay, if you say so.”

Trace went back to Jeannie’s bed.

“How do you feel, kid?”

“Like I got run over by a freight train.”

“Matteson says you’ll be all right. He just wants you to stay around for one night.”

“I know, and I guess he’s right. It’s just, well, being in a hospital’s depressing.”

“If I tap-dance on your face, will that cheer you up?” Trace asked.

“Sorry. Somebody already tried that tonight. It left me cold.”

“Very funny. Tell me what happened.”

“I had a late meeting out of the office and I was driving—”

“A meeting with who?” Trace interrupted. “Don’t leave anything out.”

“With Wilber Winfield. I left the plant and I was driving home and I decided to stop at my office to pick up some files. When I went in, I got this sense that somebody was in my office.”

“Did you turn on the light when you went in?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Force of habit. The hall light shines right in my office when the door’s open and I was just going to walk across the office and open the cabinet and take out what I wanted. It’s what I guess I always do when I come in at night to pick up a file.”

“And what happened?”

“I told you, I got the feeling there was somebody there. Then I noticed my file cabinet was already open. I turned and started back for the door. Then I saw somebody jump in front of it and slam the door closed. I told this all to the cops.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. He was big, was all. I could only see his outline against the light.”

“What happened then?”

“I was going to scream, but before I did, he slugged me and put my lights out.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Like excuse me? No, nothing like that. He just grunted when he hit me.”

“Grunted?”

“Yeah. Grunted. You know, like pigs do. Big exhale and grunt.”

“What then?”

“What else, then? I went out like a light. Was I supposed to take notes?”

“I’m asking the questions, Counselor. You just answer.”

“I was out. What do you want from me?”

“What’d you do when you woke up?”

“I called the cops.”

“Not so fast. Were the lights still out?”

“Uhhh, no. The lights were on.”

“How about the file cabinet? Open or closed?”

“Closed, I think. Wait. The one drawer was open.”

“What, then?” Trace asked.

“I told you, I called the cops.”

“Did you check the files?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t see anything missing.”

“Did you eat an apple?” Trace asked.

She looked at him in bewilderment. “No, actually I sent out for some avocado pizza. I thought it would look good with my bruises. What are you talking about?”

“Yesterday, you had an apple in your refrigerator. It’s not there now. Did you eat it?”

“I don’t know. No. I always keep bringing in apples ’cause they’ll make me healthy or something, and then I forget to eat them. I hate apples. I didn’t eat that one either. It’s gone?”

“Yeah. I think the burglar ate it.”

“That makes it easy,” she said. “Let’s just pump the stomach of everybody in New Jersey and arrest anybody who upchucks apple. I think it was a McIntosh. You want me to write down a description? That should narrow it down a lot.”

“Are you always so nasty?”

“Only when I get dopey questions. Apples.”

“Remember you said that. I just hope that when you find out how brilliant I am, you’ll be big enough to apologize.”

“Let’s wait and see.”

“There was only one guy?” Trace asked.

“I already said there was. You’re worse than the cops. One guy. A big guy.”

“No sign of any little guy hanging around? Maybe when you parked and came in, did you see anybody sitting in a car? A green Pontiac or something with a slope back, maybe?”

“No. Why?”

“When I left your house last night, I had my bell rung by two guys. A big one and a little one in a green car.”

“Why? Why you, for God’s sake?”

“I don’t know. I think somebody’s trying to keep us apart, Jeannie.”

“Whatever happened to anonymous letters? Threatening to tell your wife about the whole sordid affair? I could deal with heavy breathers on the phone even. Not getting beat up.”

“The phone,” Trace said. “Did you listen to your messages?”

“Yes. I got yours, you chowder head.”

“Don’t knock it. It made me the prime suspect in your whupping. Were there any others?”

“Just one.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. He hung up without leaving a message.”

“It was probably the burglar checking to make sure you were out,” Trace said.

“Maybe. I liked getting your message. I’m glad you’re off the snot.”

A nurse bustled into the room, nodded at Trace impersonally, and said, “Time for a pill, Miss Callahan.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Doctor’s orders,” the nurse said.

“Take it,” Trace said. “It’s to make you sleep. Once you fall off, I’ll sneak back in and work my wicked will on your body.”

“I’ll take two,” Jeannie said. She washed down the pill with water, and the nurse left.

Trace said, “Your meeting with Winfield tonight. What went on? Was there anything that made him upset?”

Jeannie shrugged. “I don’t think so. He wasn’t there. He had some other appointment or something. I met with the controller and the accountant. There wasn’t anything wrong. All routine work.”

“You didn’t see Winfield at all?”

“No.”

“Okay. Go to sleep now. When you wake up in the morning, you won’t recognize yourself.”

“Oh, God, I’m going to be ugly. Who’d want to be seen with me?”

“I’ll keep you hidden under the sheets until you heal,” Trace said gallantly.

“Good.”

Trace turned off his tape recorder and waited fifteen minutes until she was asleep. As he closed the door, he heard her breathing heavily behind him.

He walked down the hallway toward Mitchell Carey’s room and saw Matteson coming out of Room 213.

“How is he?”

“Everything looks all right,” Matteson said. “I just talked to the nurse and she said that he’s been resting quietly.”

Trace nodded and Matteson said, “I think I’ll probably find a bed and sleep up here tonight.”

“Okay. If you need me for anything, I’ll be at Sylvan Glade,” Trace said.

Back at the hotel, Trace went behind the desk to take a message from his mailbox.

It read simply “Chico” and gave a New Jersey phone number.

Trace called her from his room, and when she answered, he got the rush he always got when he heard her voice. It seemed to have a smile built into it and it warmed him. Until he remembered where she had been and why.

“This is Trace.”

“Hi, Trace. Listen, I’m in this motel and it’s real scuzzy. You looking for a roommate?”

“Did you have any trouble finding a place?”

“No. I got a car at the airport and this was the first place around, but it’s the pits. No wonder you moved out of New Jersey if the motels are all like this. What do you say?”

“Well, I’m kind of busy right now,” Trace said, still avoiding her question and invitation.

“This late?” she asked.

“Yeah. Things are complicated.”

“You want to talk about it?” Chico asked.

He paused a moment as he realized he wanted to. He wanted to discuss it with her and let her fine brain chew it over, and yet he didn’t want to see her.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

Her answer was chilly. “All right. If that’s the way you want it.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Trace said.

Trace’s Log:

Another long day’s journey into night and I’m tired. Tape Recording Number Five, one A.M., Friday, in the matter of Mitchell Carey. This has been our usual sweet, let’s-stick-it-to-the-cranky-bastard kind of day, hasn’t it? First I thought I was cuckolded by another woman, but I wasn’t. Then I was at the bedside of a dying man who lived. I got arrested for assault, but the cop changed his mind. I went to a séance. It’s all been wonderful.

But what do you expect from a day that starts with the ex-wife calling? God, I’d almost forgotten about that. I’ve got to get out of this town. Bruno, What’s-his-name and the girl could be galloping here right now. And they know where I’m staying.

And I’ve got to find a faster way to make these tapes. First I have to live them and then I have to replay them before I can figure them out. That’s not bad if I make a tape when I’m getting laid or something, because I don’t mind reliving that. But if it’s dull or depressing or dangerous, then I have to live it first, which is lousy, and then hear all about it again when I play the tape. This is no fun.

I’ve heard there’s a new recorder on the market that plays things back at double speed without turning everybody into a chipmunk. Maybe I’ll get Groucho to spring for one of those.

Chico…scratch Chico, I’ve got work to do.

There are three more tapes in the Master File. I’ve got to buy more tapes. Maybe I can tell the office that they don’t sell tapes in New Jersey and I had to go back to Las Vegas for them. Think about that for a while, Trace.

All right, so I told you that Cora called, trying to palm off Spazz and Tard on me. Not a chance. She birthed them; she keeps them.

That was one sweet call. And then we had Nick Yule call. My stomach is hurting from getting beaten up and he is snooping around, seeing if we’re going to settle. I told him no. I like to tell lawyers no. He turned Jeannie down and he wants to deal with me, which means he’s trying to whipsaw us. Let him sweat awhile.

So I’ve got Wilber Winfield on tape. He’s got everything. The motive, the opportunity, everything I need to pin a murder plot on him. Except nobody’s trying to murder Mitchell Carey. Least of all Wilber Winfield. Sorry, but you’ve got to like a man who wears lace-up shoes and knows all about how peanut butter falls and at age 212 still has an eye for titty little blondes. But natural charm aside, he had, make that
has
, a reason for being ticked off at Mitchell Carey. Winfield now owns less than half the company so Carey can do anything he wants. And what he wanted before he got sick was to sell, and so Winfield’s going to be put out to pasture whether he likes it or not. Of course, he’s going to take twenty or thirty million out to pasture and that makes pasture pretty nice. But if he doesn’t want to go? And if Carey dies, he gets back a big piece of Carey’s share and control of the company. He’s got all the motive in the world, dammit, but he’s not the type. I think he’d challenge Carey to a hand of showdown poker for the whole business. I don’t think he’d try to kill him.

And he wasn’t much help while I was trying to get other suspects. Matteson, he says, would look pretty suspicious collecting on another insurance policy. Muffy’s not an heir and Amanda’s not the sort. If it was Jeannie, Carey’d be dead by now. Okay, so it’s nobody. Good, Trace, go home before the Mongols descend on you.

So much for Winfield, and then there was my noontime running into Matteson and Jeannie, playing squeezie fingers at the golf club, and I acted like an imbecile, so let’s forget about that. Especially since it all worked out later.

Then on to the Careys’ for my first burglary of the day. Muffy’s skin-diving and Mrs. Carey’s watching and I’m going through the upstairs bedrooms, and what do I find out? That Muffy’s changed her hairstyle. That she’s got a big green tank of air up there to fill her little scuba tanks, I guess. And that she’s got a photo album and all the pictures of Petey are gone. So who’s Petey?

I’ve got to ask her that.

She wasn’t very happy when I joined them at the sanatorium, but then neither was Nurse Simons and who cares?

I don’t like that hospital. I don’t like thinking about that old woman standing there, holding those sad pajamas, and talking to that man, who can’t do anything except lie there.

So out I go, into the hall, and Matteson patches up everything about Jeannie, so that was okay, and I believe him. Maybe I’m just getting gullible, it occurs to me. I seem to be believing everybody. And Matteson anyway doesn’t understand why Mr. Carey’s not getting any better.

It was on my mind, somehow, all day. I guess that’s why I busted back into the Careys’ again tonight. When Mrs. Carey was talking to her husband, she said that she was going to talk to Buffy tonight about what to do. That’s when her husband woke up and shouted “no” and died.

She said Buffy, not Muffy. And Buffy’s dead. It had been on my mind all day, and I didn’t know it.

Good thing Matteson was there, or Mr. Carey, I know, would have died. Somehow Matteson worked too hard to save him for me to credit him with wanting the old man dead. And Muffy, that little bitch, getting ready to smoke with oxygen in the room, and talking about the old man like he’s some kind of house plant. Well, at least she had the sense to call the night nurse in.

I’ll tell you, maybe Matteson is and maybe he isn’t running around with Jeannie Callahan, but if I got sick, I wouldn’t mind having him around. He could just have gone through the motions today if he wanted, and none of us would have known any better.

It’s confusing and getting confusinger. I don’t know what I’m doing here.

So Chico wants to come back. The sweet little hooker who swallows a hook about a job. Well, whatever she wants to do. Lying to me just kind of busted it all.

Back to the sanatorium and see Dr. Darling and Nurse Simons leaving together. Great. I hope they’re lesbians. And they poison each other.

What’s the night nurse’s name? Jack Ketch. Yes indeed, he is one big plug-ugly. Weight lifter’s muscles and probably dumbbell brains.

So what is the scam being pulled on Mrs. Carey by Muffy the Magnificent? Oh, Nana, I’m so cold and scared. Oh, Nana, don’t let them hurt Pop-pop. Bring him home, bring him home.

Yes, world, I don’t think it’s a scam; I know it’s a scam because I don’t believe in ghosts and séances and spiritualists and any such bullshit, and if the truth be known, I don’t much believe in hypnosis either, even though I’ve seen firsthand that sometimes it works.

Ghosts don’t leave neat clean little three-inch circles on the outside of window glass. I’ve been sitting here, with my eyes closed, listening to that tape, trying to remember just how it all happened and I know how it worked. Everytime the ghost was supposed to give an answer, Muffy nodded her head. That was her signal for the accomplice to give the next answer. I don’t know if he—Hell, maybe she was imitating the voice or using a recorder or what, but that’s the way it worked, and Mrs. Carey couldn’t see anything because her back was to the window.

No, wait. They were using a recorder, ’cause sometimes Muffy’d ask a question and the voice would answer Nana. Good thinking, Trace.

So it’s Muffy’s scam, but why does she want Mr. Carey home? She want him dead? He’s dying just fine in the hospital, it seems. He came close today and I could tell her rooting was all for the grim reaper, for all the help she was to me and Matteson.

Chico’d figure that out.

To hell with Chico. Let her go run an educational testing center. She can trick with every other applicant. They won’t pass the tests, but most of them won’t care.

Remind me never to leave taped telephone messages. From now on, I just hang up in the middle of the “I’m out but I’ll get back to you” routine, just like everybody else does. I made the mistake of leaving a message for Jeannie Callahan and it nearly got my ass in jail.

I don’t mind getting kicked around once in a while. Hell, I’ve been married, I’m used to abuse and assault, but for somebody to clock Jeannie Callahan is a no-no and I want to find that guy. I think he’s the guy whose teeth fit in that apple downstairs in Hughie’s freezer, and I want to know who he is. His teeth won’t fit in any more apples. Unless he’s real big and then I’ll hit him from behind with a stick.

He’s probably old. He grunted when he hit her. A real sweetheart.

And what was he doing in Jeannie’s files? Does this somehow have something to do with whatever she’s working on? The Plesser problem? Dissolving Carey’s company?

I don’t know. She doesn’t either. A long interview with her on tape and she doesn’t know anything about who hit her or why.

I just don’t understand what’s going on.

Anyway, Mr. Carey’s all right. I feel better for the time being knowing that Matteson’s staying there tonight. I don’t like that goon nurse talking about Carey as if he’s already dead, him with his gym bag and his
Hustler
and his karate magazines, screw him. I don’t know anything about it, but I just think that maybe Mr. Carey is lying there in bed, able to hear everything that’s going on and just not able to say a word. I don’t know and it’s kind of a rotten thought, but maybe it’s so.

Oh, world, I’m tired. I like Jeannie Callahan. I like her very much. Do I like her enough to hang around New Jersey for? I don’t know.

I don’t want to talk to Chico anymore. Even if she is my roommate. Even if she is a lot of help on things like this.

Never mind it. I’m fed up with her.

My expenses for the day are the usual, whatever you decide on, Groucho.

I’m tired.

I don’t want to talk to Chico anymore.

Good night.