Cat and Mouse (4 page)

Ten o’clock came and Corey had not arrived. Corey and I share this old-fashioned belief that a ten- or five- or two-o’clock promise means
exactly
that. One minute after any promised time is a broken promise.

It was possible that his ancient Camaro had failed him. But that was hard to believe; he kept it in top mechanical shape. At a quarter after ten I phoned his house.

His father told me he had left early, over an hour ago. “Call me when he gets there, won’t you, Mr. Callahan?”

“I will. Maybe he ran out of gas or had a flat tire.”

“Maybe. Call me.”

The phone rang two minutes later. It was Corey. He said, “I’m being held at the sheriff’s station. I know you can’t leave the house, but could you send somebody?”

“Yes. What are you being held for?”

“Murder,” he said.

“W
HAT HAPPENED?”

“Brock,” he said wearily. “I’m too groggy to talk. I was knocked out. Just send somebody!”

I knew a lot of high-priced lawyers in town, most of whom played golf. But murder was no case for golfing lawyers. I phoned Stan Nowicki.

“I know it’s late,” I apologized. “But Corey Raleigh is being held at the sheriff’s station and, for reasons I’ll explain later, I can’t go up there now. Would you?”

“Of course. What’s the charge?”

“Murder.”

“Corey Raleigh—?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“Are you going to stay up? The station isn’t far from your house and I could drop in on my way home.”

“I’ll be up.”

I phoned Mr. Raleigh and told him what I had told Stan. I added, “I’ve sent my attorney up there. It has to be some kind of mistake. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll go up there and find out for myself.”

Jan had overheard both conversations. She said, “I think you should go there, Brock.”

I shook my head. “It could be a ploy to get me out of the house. Stan Nowicki is going to stop here on his way home. He’ll have the story. Let’s not tell Mrs. Casey about it, not yet.”

She nodded in agreement. “Corey—? Murder? That’s crazy!”

“It could be a frame,” I said. “He told me he’d been knocked out.”

“Do you think it was that man who—who—”

“Threw the cat on our lawn?” I finished for her. “It could be. Let’s wait for Stan.”

We were sitting in the living room, staring out the front window, when Mrs. Casey came in to ask, “Where’s Corey?”

Jan looked at me. I said, “He’s in some trouble at the sheriff’s station. We’re not sure what it is. I sent Nowicki up there to find out.”

Mrs. Casey sighed. “I’ll make some coffee.”

We sat and sipped and stared. At eleven-thirty, Jan said, “Maybe you’d better call the station.”

I shook my head. “Stan will be here.”

He was with us fifteen minutes later. He sat on the couch next to Jan and said, “I’ll give you the department’s version first.”

A sheriff’s patrol car had been cruising the road we live on. About a mile and a half up the slope from our house the deputy saw an old gray Plymouth parked below a deserted cabin some distance from the road. He had called for backup. When it arrived they used the bullhorn for warning, got no response, and charged the house. Inside, they found Corey just gaining consciousness, his gun still in his hand. And they found the dead man, a large rock in his hand stained with blood and a bullet in his neck.

“He was jobbed,” I said. “That would take some timing to get conked the same instant you pulled the trigger.”

Stan nodded. “An absurdity I pointed out to them. Here’s Corey’s version.”

He had been driving up the road to our house when he spotted the gray Plymouth about two hundred feet ahead. He turned off his lights and followed it, staying well behind. When he came around the last big bend near the top of the slope he saw the car parked near the cabin. He took out his gun and walked in from the road, keeping covered, he thought, by the high chaparral. He had never reached the cabin. He had been slugged from behind.

“I believe him,” I said. “Did you get a description of the dead man?”

He shook his head. “Is it important? I got his name. The car is his. His name is Jasper Belton.”

It didn’t ring any bell in me. I asked, “Is Hurst commanding the night watch?”

Stan nodded.

I knew the man; we were semi-friends. I phoned the station, identified myself, and asked, “Is this man Corey is supposed to have killed a big man?”

“Hell, no! Around a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Why do you want to know?”

“Because I think the man who framed Corey is a big man.”

“Framed? Come on, Brock!”

“Framed,” I repeated. “What about bail for Corey?”

“At this time of night? Do you want to wake up some judge and ask him?”

I hung up without saying good-bye.

“That’s a flimsy case they have,” I told Stan.

“Maybe not to a jury. Mallory was up there. If they decide to prosecute he will probably be their man.” He smiled sadly. “Tom has a very sour view of private detectives. One of them helped his wife get an enormous cash settlement when they were divorced.” He rose. “Well, I have to get to bed. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Brock.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Stan. If we go to court, you’ll be our man. And not at your public defender fee.”

“My wife will be happy to hear that,” he said.

Stan could have done very well in private practice but he worked for the ACLU. Unlike his private-practice peers, he believed that lawyers should be concerned with justice, not with getting rich. A survey last year showed that lawyers had the highest median income of any profession in the country. Even doctors ranked only fifth.

I had supported the ACLU for a decade, though I was quite often annoyed with the people they defended. Like Bernie, I believe the bad guys should be below the sod or behind bars.

“I hope we can sleep tonight,” Jan said.

“I can. I’m bushed. I’m sure the patrols will be going by more often after what happened tonight.”

“I’ve hung a chime on my door knob,” Mrs. Casey said, “and I sharpened my knife this morning.”

Jan started to chuckle as we were getting undressed.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Mrs. Casey. God help the poor bastard who tries to open her door. I wish I had her guts.”

“She has more room for them. I like your contours better.”

I was bushed, but it took a while for me to fall asleep. The way I read the events since the opening incident, I had been the original target for the shadow man. But after he realized the security was too tight at the house, he could have discovered my relationship with Corey and sent me, through him, a warning.
Who is second…

And the dead Jasper Belton? A stooge? A stooge who realized he was in water too deep for him and planned to get out of town or possibly make a deal with the local police by informing on his partner?

All of this was supposition, none of it facts in evidence. I finally fell asleep. At nine-thirty Jan shook me awake to tell me Bernie was on the phone. I put on a robe and went down.

“I just got a call from McClune,” he said. “He told me about Corey being picked up. What’s the scoop?”

“It’s a long story,” I told him. “The gist of it is that Corey was framed.”

“McClune tends to agree with that.”

“But he doesn’t make the decisions. I guess Tom Mallory doesn’t agree with McClune, and Mallory is the D.A.’s fair-haired boy.”

“Jesus, that’s a pair you can draw to! Headline hunters.”

“Oh, yes! Do you have a record down there on a man named Jasper Belton?”

“Not here. But McClune and I have sent inquiries to all the jurisdictions in this end of the state.”

“Corey will be pleased to hear that. When did you two join his fan club?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Brock. You know damned well that neither of us would railroad an innocent man.”

“I know, Bernie. I apologize. Is there any security guard outfit in town you would recommend?”

“Coastal Guardian. Ask for Joe Hunter. Tell him you know me.”

I phoned Coastal Guardian, asked for Joe Hunter, told him my name and address and that I wanted protection from eleven o’clock this morning until I came home for dinner.

“We’ll have a man there, Mr. Callahan,” he promised. “Now, about our rates—”

“I don’t believe there is any need to discuss that,” I told him. “My good friend, Lieutenant Vogel, has assured me you are the most competent and inexpensive agency in town.”

A silence. “I understand. Thank you.”

That should keep their bills within reason, being a friend of eagle-eye, poor-mouth Bernie Vogel.

I told Jan at breakfast about the guard I had ordered and that I would be gone until dinner time.

“Back on the hunt,” she said wearily. “Why didn’t I marry a banker or a lawyer?”

I said nothing.

The guard was already there when I went out at eleven o’clock, parked in front of the house.

“After you pull out,” he explained, “I’ll park on your driveway. I can watch both sides of the house and check the other sides from time to time.”

The man was a pro. “Sound thinking,” I agreed.

McClune was in his outer office when I got there, talking with his secretary. I asked him if bail had been set.

He shook his head. “Not yet. A couple of judges seemed to be inclined to set it, but that pukey Mallory talked them out of it. That man has more clout than he deserves.”

“Anything on Belton?”

He shook his head again. “According to his driver’s license, he lived in Tritown. He was a young man. He could still have parents living there. The way it usually works with these drifters, the address on their license is a couple of years old and they never stay in one place long enough to change it.”

“May I talk with Corey?”

“Of course. Tell the sergeant I gave you permission.”

Corey was sitting on the bed in his cell, staring down at the floor. He looked up and managed a smile. “Have you ever been in jail?”

“Not in San Valdesto. I suppose your father is pissed off at me.”

He shook his head. “At you, never! At me, yes. He said I should have been more careful. He said you would have been.”

“You can tell him I’ve been bonged on the head a few times.”

“But never when you were carrying a gun, I bet.”

“No. Mostly on the football field. Is there anything you can tell me that I don’t already know?”

He shrugged. “Only what I’m guessing. I think that Belton is just a stooge for that guy asking about you in Los Angeles. I think they were out to get you, but decided you had too much security to take the risk. I think they trapped me into following that car up to the shack so they could frame me and send a message to you.”

I stared at him in amazement. He had not only studied under me, he had inherited my instincts. “That is exactly the way I read it,” I told him.

“And the way I figure it,” he went on, “that Los Angeles creep wants you to think framing me was the end of it, to put you off guard.”

“I agree.”

“But,” he pointed out, “I’m the one who’s sitting here. And I’m the one who could wind up in prison—or maybe executed.”

I had no immediate answer to that. I asked, “And Belton? Why do you think he was shot?”

“Probably because he decided he was in over his head and figured he could make a deal with the law if he informed on his pal.”

“That’s the way I see it. Corey, you are not going to wind up in the slammer and you are not going to be executed.”

He stared at me. “I’m already in the slammer!”

I had no answer to that one, immediate or otherwise. What could I say? “Keep the faith,” I said.

“I’ll try. Brock, get that bastard!”

“I will,” I promised.

I stopped on the way out to ask McClune if he knew the name of the private investigator who had made Mallory’s ex-wife rich.

He nodded. “Barry Fielding. He’s a real mean tiger. He works almost as deviously as you do. He calls his office Fielding Investigations. It’s on the second floor of the Hollister Building.”

The Hollister Building was one of the town’s oldest office buildings, but well kept up. Barry’s office was at the end of the hall.

The lettering on the opaque glass of his door read
Walk In.
So Ī walked in.

McClune’s description of him as a tiger had led me to imagine he would be one of those old-time pulp-style mugs, big and mean and wearing a cheap suit.

A short, slim man in a Brooks Brothers type of suit and button-down collar on his oxford shirt was standing near the window, checking his file cabinet. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a quiet tie.

“Mr. Fielding?” I asked.

He nodded.

“My name is Brock Callahan,” I said, “and—”

“The
Brock Callahan?” he asked.

“The only one I know. Have you heard of me?”

“Have I ever! Those guys in L.A. are still talking about you. They made you sound like Superman. I just moved up here a year ago. How can I serve you?”

“Well,” I said, “it might be a violation of your client relationship. It’s about Tom Mallory.”

“That son of a bitch? He tried to get the state to take away my license. Why do you want to know about him?”

I told him about Corey being incarcerated and why and my belief that he was being jobbed and that I felt Mallory was scalp-hunting.

“I know Corey,” he said. “Good kid. What do you want from me?”

“Something I can use to help him, at least get him some extra time on a continuance. I suppose that’s unethical.”

“How else would we survive?” he asked. “Could I take you to lunch?”

“Nope. Lunch is on me. Your choice of restaurants.”

“Plotkin’s Pantry?”

“Perfect.”

Over corned-beef sandwiches on dark rye bread with kosher pickles and draft Einlicher at Plotkin’s he told me about his leverage in the Mallory divorce trial.

“I suppose you know,” he said, “what a Moral Majority addict the D.A. is.”

“Well, licentious Tom would be in deep trouble if his boss ever learned his history. That was my leverage in the case. Tom has some really kinky sexual appetites. The only place in town that caters to those customers is the Arden Massage Parlor on lower Main Street. I interviewed several of the girls, including one of them who was quitting and agreed to testify if we needed her. We didn’t need her. I gave the names of the girls to Mrs. Mallory and let her tell Tom what she had learned. It was a breeze after that.”