All That I Have (7 page)

The one we had now was new, Errol Toobin. Errol was middleaged, didn’t have much to say. Kind of a low-gear fellow who had worked in a hardware store for years until his bad back made him quit because he couldn’t stand up all day anymore. He had some disability pension, and he’d been looking for a job where he could sit down. I’d just let go the fellow we’d had for dispatching under the influence of alcohol. (Night dispatch is also a good job for a drinker.) So Errol had started at the department. He’d figured out how to turn the radio on and off, and we were working on the rest.

Wednesday-Thursday night hadn’t stretched Errol too far, it didn’t look like. Somebody had rolled his car on Route 10, and there was a noise complaint from Mount Pleasant. That was the sum of it. Errol was getting ready to go home. I started for my office in the rear.

“Oh,” said Errol. “Forgot: somebody in there to see you.”

“In here?”

“She’s been waiting for a couple of hours,” said Errol.

“She?”

“Didn’t say her name. She wanted to see you. I told her to wait in there.”

“Next time,” I said, “somebody comes in, you’re by yourself, put them out front, here, where you can see them.”

“Why?” Errol asked.

“So we don’t have people wandering all over the office,” I said.

“Roger that,” said Errol.

“Just ask them to have a seat out here,” I said. “Maybe get them a cup of coffee.”

“Roger that,” said Errol

“It’s a matter of security, you might say,” I told him.

“Roger that,” said Errol. He was coming along, no question.

I opened the door to my office and looked in. A woman stood up from the chair I kept in front of the desk and turned to face me.

“Sheriff Wing?” she asked.

She was nobody I knew from the county, nobody I had ever seen before. Tall, tall as I am, slim, somewhere in her middle thirties, dark brown hair worn long. She didn’t look like she spent a lot of time in police stations, but she also didn’t look like she couldn’t handle herself in one. She didn’t look like there were many places where she couldn’t handle herself.

“I’m Wing,” I said. I went around to my desk, and we both sat, the desk between us.

The woman bent and picked a paper shopping bag off the floor beside her chair. She set it on the desk. “From Sean,” she said.

“Sean?”

“Sean Duke,” said the woman. “He said you knew him.”

“I know him,” I said. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Morgan Endor,” the woman said.

“Morgan?”

“Morgan Endor.”

“Morgan’s your first name?”

“That’s right, Sheriff. It’s a family name. Sean asked me to bring you these.”

She didn’t empty the bag out onto the desk. Instead, she stood up and, reaching into the bag, began pulling things out of it and laying them neatly in a pile in front of me. I watched her.

A sport jacket, a pair of jeans, a white shirt, a man’s undershirt, underpants, two socks, a wristwatch, a billfold. I took the billfold. In it was a card from a Super 8 Motel in Montreal and a California driver’s license issued to Oswaldo de Gomez, Los Angeles. No money. I set the billfold to one side.

I looked up at Morgan Endor. Morgan. What kind of a name is that for a woman? She had stopped taking things from the bag. She was watching me.

“Where did Sean get this?” I asked her.

“Wait,” she said.

She reached back into the bag and carefully, holding it by the butt, she took out a small pistol and laid it on top of the pile of clothes. It was one of those imported semiautomatics, clever little things that look like you’re meant to take them with you to the opera.

“Is it loaded?” she asked me.

I picked up the pistol, dropped the magazine out of the butt, and drew back the slide. The round in the chamber popped out and landed on the desk, where it rolled toward the woman. She put out her finger and stopped it. I laid the gun back down on top of the pile of clothes.

“Not now,” I said.

Morgan Endor pushed the cartridge across the desk to me. I took it and put it in a drawer.

“Is that all?” I asked.

She went into the bag for the last time and came up with a piece of paper, folded, which she handed to me. Then she sat down again in the chair.

“That’s for you from Sean,” she said.

I didn’t open the paper or handle the other things. I picked up the billfold again and took out the driver’s license. It was a photo license. I had another look at the picture.

“Where did you say Sean came by these?” I asked.

“He took them away from the person who had them. Read the note.”

I unfolded the paper. It read like this:

                 SHERF LUCAN
I BUSTED UP THAT FUKING SPIC + LEFT HIM WERE EVEN YOU CUD FIND. HA. ALSO TOOK HIS CLOSE + WALET HER THEY ARE. ALSO HIS PECE YOU CAN AD IT TO YOUR COLECTON. HA. DON’T SEND NO MORE FUKING SPICS FORINERS
RESPETFULY
S. DUKE
P.S. HIS WALLETT HAD $500. YOU CAN PUT IT ON MY TAB.
HA.

 

I put the note down on the desk and leaned back in my chair. “You’re a friend of Sean’s?” I asked.

“An acquaintance.”

“How?”

“How what, Sheriff?”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s been working at my house.”

“Where’s your house?”

“Mount Zion. It’s my parents’ house, actually. I’ve been staying there this spring and summer.”

“What was Sean doing there?”

“He was fixing the roof,” said Morgan Endor. “The roof started to leak. I told my father. He called somebody. They sent Sean.”

“You live there with your parents?”

“No. They live in Provence.”

“Provence?”

“It’s part of France, Sheriff.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I’m living at their house here temporarily so I can get some work done.”

“You got to know Sean when he was working on your roof?”

“Yes. I watched him. We talked. I saw I could use Sean.”

“Use him?”

“In my work.”

“What kind of work is that?”

“Photography.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“And Sean helped you take pictures?”

“Not exactly. I wanted to photograph him.”

“Photograph Sean?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Sean is beautiful.”

That brought me up some, I have to say. I probably could have thought of a better way of asking the next few questions.

“What do you take pictures of, Ms. Endor?”

“Men.”

“Men?” I asked her. “You mean, like me?”

“Not like you. Young men.”

“Young men. What kind of pictures are we talking about, here?”

She lifted her chin an inch and gave me a look.

“How extraordinary,” she said. “You think I’m a pornographer, don’t you, Sheriff?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I don’t know any pornographers.”

“I do,” said Morgan Endor. “But I’m not one of them. I’m an artist. I’m preparing for a show in the fall, actually. That’s why I’m here.”

“A photography show?”

“Yes. They’re not uncommon, believe it or not.”

“Where’s the show?”

“Paris.”

“I’ll bet that’s Paris, France, ain’t it?”

“That’s right, Sheriff.”

“That anywhere near Provence?”

“Not near, not far.”

“What kind of show?”

“The show is about style,” said Morgan Endor. “Or say it’s about personality. Personal style.”

“You’re saying Sean has style?”

“No. Sean is without style. That’s his power. What Sean has is an interior.”

“An interior?”

“An inner life. Sean has a great vulnerability, a great delicacy.”

“You can tell that from his note,” I said.

Morgan Endor didn’t say anything, but she kept that look steady, leveled right between my eyes.

“Okay, Ms. Endor,” I said after a minute. “Maybe you’re right about Sean. But I ain’t concerned about his inner life. I think he might be in trouble. I need to talk to him. Where is he?”

“He was at my house from about midnight,” she said. “He had these things with him. He’d been in some kind of fight with whoever had them, I gather. He asked me to take them to you, with the note. I did.”

“You left him there?” I asked. “He’s still at your place?”

“No. He left, too.”

“To go where?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You said he’d been in a fight. Was he hurt?”

“Not that I saw. He was keyed up. This other man had actually come after Sean, I gather, and Sean had, I gather, beaten him in self-defense and taken his clothes. Sean’s very physical.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was interested in that about him, as well,” said Morgan Endor.

“I bet,” I said.

No answer, but she cocked the hammer on the look she’d been giving me.

“Did Sean say anything about the fellow he’d had the fight with?” I asked. “The fellow whose things we’ve got?”

“He was after him,” she said. “That’s all. Sean said the man had followed him, was after him.”

“He say why?”

“No.”

I handed her the license. “You know him?” I asked.

“No.”

“Never seen him anyplace?”

“No.” She looked closer at the photo. “Gomez?” she said. “He doesn’t look like a Latin type, does he?”

“He sure don’t,” I said.

She left a little after that. I gave her one of my sheriff cards and asked her to get Sean to come see me. She said she would. I wasn’t holding my breath for it, though. Morgan Endor made two women Sean had put up between me and him (three if you counted his mom). I wondered if this last one knew about the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi, with her blue toenails and her snake tattoo and her
SHIT HAPPENS
T-shirt, back there in her trailer — her and Sean’s trailer. I would have guessed no, but you can’t ever tell with a fellow like Sean, who’s got a inner life.

Morgan Endor had just gone when Deputy Keen came into my office. He looked at the pile of clothes with the little pistol on top.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“From Sean,” I said. I showed him the license.

“Seen him around?” I asked Lyle.

“Nope,” he said. “Gomez? California? What is he, a Mexican? He don’t look like a Mexican, does he?”

“He ain’t,” I said. “He’s a Russian. He’s the fellow Timberlake had up on Diamond the other night.”

“The nude?”

“Same fellow,” I said.

“What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so? I was there. I saw him. We had to wrestle the fellow to get him into the ambulance. It’s him. He was talking Russian.”

“How come he’s got a California license?” Lyle asked.

“Paid for it, I would guess,” I said. “Get one for you, too, you want one. Get you a couple. How many you need?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Well,” I said. “Call the barracks, to start with. Timberlake and them took the fellow down there the other night. Maybe they’ve still got him.”

“I doubt it,” said Lyle.

“Me, too,” I said.

I picked up the phone to call the state police barracks in Brattleboro. Then I put it down again.

“Tell you what,” I said to Deputy Keen. “You’re so hot to work on this case? Why don’t you take a ride out to Monterey, see Sean’s girlfriend out there. Crystal. You know Crystal?”

“Don’t know the lady,” said Lyle. “I thought you’d talked to her.”

“We didn’t hit it off too good,” I said. “See her. See if you can get anywhere with her, get any kind of line on where Sean has got to.”

“I can do that,” said Lyle. “What if he’s there, Superboy? What if he’s with her? Bust him?”

“No. Walk away. Call in.”

“Walk away? The hell I will.”

“The hell you won’t. Unless you want to lose your badge.”

The deputy turned and started out of the office.

“Deputy?”

He stopped. “Sheriff?” he said, not turning, keeping his back to me.

“If she does, if she gives you any line on Sean, I don’t want you galloping off after him. You call in. That clear?”

“That’s clear, Sheriff.”

Deputy Keen left the office on a head of steam so hot you could hear him whistle. Another contented employee.

When the deputy had gone, I called Brattleboro. I asked to talk to Lieutenant Farabaugh, the chief investigator down there. Dwight Farabaugh had started with the state police the same time I had, but he’d stuck with it. In his time, to put it the way Wingate did, Dwight had carried as big a sword as any, but he was getting ready to retire now. He’d been in the barracks a long time, he knew me, and sometimes he’d talk to me in English.

“Well, Lucian,” Dwight came on the line. “How are things up in the woods? Pretty quiet?”

“Pretty,” I said. “Had some excitement, though. You must have heard about it. Foreign fellow in a profound state of undress, became unruly, kind of, with your Trooper Timberlake. He ended up down there, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh,” said Dwight, “you’re talking about Ivan the Terrible.”

“I probably am,” I said. “Where’s he?”

“Oh, he’s long gone,” said Dwight. “Ivan was the star of the show around here for a little while. But, you know how it is, Lucian. Somebody held up a Seven-Eleven on Route 10, and now Ivan’s old news. How quick we forget.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” I said. “Did you ever figure out who he was, though?”

“Oh, sure, we did,” said Dwight. “Hang on.”

I heard him rattle some papers. Then he came back on the line.

“Let’s see,” said Dwight. “Yevgeny Karagin. Yevgeny. That’s the same name as Eugene. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Born Moscow, USSR, 1975. Current citizenship, Czech. First arrested, Moscow, 1993. Arrested Vienna, Austria, 1996; again 1998. Grand theft. Arrested Rome, Italy, 2000. Arrested Mexico City, 2002. Fellow’s practically the whole damn UN, ain’t he? Decided to try his luck in the land of opportunity, it looks like. Arrested Dallas, 2002. Narcotics trafficking. Made bail. Took off. Can you believe it? The man jumped his bail. He absconded. Who’d have predicted that, Lucian? I’ll bet that surprised the hell out of them down in Dallas. Be that as it may, Ivan’s now a federal fugitive. Came in here last winter from Montreal on a US passport issued to Oswaldo de Gomez of Los Angeles.”

“You ran his prints for all that?”

“We did,” said Dwight. “Didn’t have much else to run, did we, seeing the condition of total, extreme buck nakedness in which the subject was received from your jurisdiction. Ran his prints. Got a hit via FBI. From Interpol. Get that, Lucian? Interpol. Pretty fancy stuff.”

“What happened to him?”

“Ivan? Oh, we kicked him right up to Immigration on the border. Fired him right up there, I can tell you. We want nothing to do with fellows like Ivan. You know that. By now he’s on his way back to Moscow.”

“Okay. I’m much obliged to you, Lieutenant.”

“What have you got going up there that brings in this kind of critter, Lucian?”

“I ain’t got nothing going,” I said. “I got to wondering about him, is all. Like you said, it’s quiet up here.”

“Sure, it is. Sure, you did,” said Dwight. “Is there anything else you need me to tell you, Lucian?”

“I don’t guess so, Lieutenant,” I said.

“Is there anything I need you to tell me?”

“I don’t guess so, Lieutenant.”

“Alright, then.”

Clemmie looked at me over the top of the magazine she was reading. “Sean?” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“This photographer lady thinks he’s beautiful,” I told her. “ ‘Sean’s beautiful,’ she said. You think Sean’s beautiful?”

“Sean?” said Clemmie. “No. I don’t know. No. He’s . . . I don’t know. He’s kind of cute, I guess. He’s got a nice mouth.”

“A nice mouth?”

“Well, yes,” said Clemmie. “Or, no. I don’t know. Why ask me? What’s Sean done now?”

“I think he broke into a vacation place up in Grenada,” I said. “I don’t know that, but I think he did. Lyle Keen sure thinks he did. Then he — Sean — had a run-in with some fellow who nobody can figure out but who might be connected to the house Sean broke into.”

“A run-in?” asked Clemmie. “You mean a fight?”

“Call it that, I guess,” I said. “Kind of one-sided, maybe. Call it half a fight.”

“Was he hurt?”

“Not too bad. A little knocked around. Might have had his shoulder dislocated, it looked like. Hard to say; he couldn’t speak English.”

“Who couldn’t?”

“The fellow. Russian fellow, he was.”

“No,” said Clemmie. “Not him. Sean. I meant Sean. Was Sean hurt?”

“Oh. No. Not Sean. Sean knows how to fight.”

“He does?”

“If he don’t, he should. He’s done enough of it, here and there.”

“I always think of him at the funeral,” said Clemmie. “That sad, sad little boy.”

“He ain’t a little boy any more.”

“No,” said Clemmie. “He isn’t. You said a photographic lady. What photographic lady?”