Dead Seed (18 page)

“No. I’d explain, but it’s kind of complicated.”

“So are you, at times. I’ll listen.”

“Well, the way I read you, you’re about sixty percent citizen and forty percent cop. I’d like to keep you that way.”

“You mean you are your brother’s keeper? I’m not your brother. I’m not even Irish.”

“All good cops are my brothers. And you’re a good cop, Bernie. But every once in a while you turn into all cop.”

“All right, already! Do you want the name of that bad cop now?

“No. Did anything happen since I stormed out of your office?”

“Nothing exciting. The DA thinks we might be able to talk Chitty into some kind of deal, but I doubt it. You know what we’ve got? We’ve got everything but a motive.”

“He can subpoena Miss Medford and Grange, can’t he? They know the motive.”

“He can subpoena them if we go into court. But first we have to build a case strong enough to take into court.”

“You could put out a bulletin for Carl Lacrosse.”

“The Chief doesn’t think we have enough grounds for that. So, between us, we nailed another crooked cop. That gave me a nice warm feeling inside. I have you to thank for that. Thanks, brother.”

“You’re welcome. It’s not enough for me. The Chief never met Sydney Morgenstern. And I would have to search my memory a long time to remember anything Chief Harris and I ever agreed on.”

He laughed. “He’s your brother, man, an honest cop.”

“But too much of him is cop. I’ll keep plodding and you keep thinking. Unless the chief doesn’t agree.”

“Keep plodding and stay in touch.”

Brock Callahan, the no-pay Corey Raleigh. Where would I plod? Looking back on the weeks behind, I had done more plodding than Bernie and better thinking. And Jan thinks he’s so smart!

“He doesn’t have my instincts,” I told her at dinner.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Bernie. You think he’s so smart!”

“Oh, dear! What did you two fight about this time?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“All right. I think he is better read than you are. I think you are more handsome, much more charming, and twice as devious. Now tell me what the fight was all about.”

I told her what it was all about and why I had blown up.

“I see,” she said. “You want to change him. I thought you didn’t like people who tried that.”

I didn’t deign to answer, having none.

The revelations in Skeleton Gulch had turned into frustration in San Valdesto. We had come so close so often—and then walked into a wall. The night was cold, my sleep troubled.

I was halfway through my second cup of morning coffee when Corey phoned. Joel, he told me, had left The New Awareness sometime last night.

“Did Sarkissian let him go?”

“No way. Joel went under the fence.”

“Maybe he went back to his mother.”

“Never! But he told me once he had seventy bucks stashed. That could buy him a bus ticket to Arizona.”

“Or get him a room in town until he can find a job. You’ll be quitting now, I suppose? Unless you enjoy washing dishes.”

“Are you saying I’m of f the case?”

“The dishwashing end of it. We can—”

“I have to go,” he interrupted. “Somebody’s coming. I’ll see you after work.”

He had from now until then to figure out a new way to get into my wallet. Mrs. Lacrosse was no longer paying him. I would be his last best hope.

I had promised Bernie that I would continue to plod. This morning I realized I had no place to go. The wind from the ocean was stiff and cold, an uncomfortable day for golf. It would be more pleasant to check the employment agencies by phone. But doing it in person would at least get me out of the house, to quote my Jan.

I used the same story at each office; I was trying to find a boy named Joel Lacrosse who had done some yard work for me earlier in the year. But I had lost his address and his name was not in the phone book. Could they help me?

The first six agencies could not. The seventh was the lucky one, the Junior Achievement office on upper Main Street, staffed by volunteers.

A gray-haired elderly lady there who could have posed for a Norman Rockwell cover told me that Joel had come in at ten o’clock this morning. He had signed for any job that was available, salary no object.

“But he told me he didn’t have an address yet because he had just come to town. Could it be the same boy?”

“It has to be, with that name. He probably meant he just came
back
to town. I hope he isn’t a—”

“Vagrant?” she supplied. “Does it matter? He was polite and clean and willing to work. Of course, if you have some absurd hang up about today’s youth, I am afraid you have come to the wrong place.”

“I have-none,” I told her humbly. “Please don’t hit me. Is he coming back to give you an address?”

“He’s coming back this afternoon to see if we have anything for him and to give us an address. May I have your name?”

I gave her my name and address and phone number.

She frowned. “Didn’t you used to play for the Rams?”

“Some time ago. Do you remember me?”

“Dimly,” she said. “The one I remember is Merlin Olsen.
There
was a lineman!”

I went out even more humbled. I was in my car before I realized I was also dumb. Joel knew who I was; he had briefed Sarkissian on me. By now he might have learned about my trip to Skeleton Gulch. All I had done, probably, was to scare him into hiding.

What could I do but sit and wait? What could I do but hope? I had seen him only once, but I was sure I would recognize him.

It was now two o’clock. At three o’clock, a meter maid came by and put a chalk mark on my left rear tire. When she was out of sight, I wiped it off. At four-fifteen, she came by again, gave me a searching look, and put another chalk mark on my left rear tire.

I didn’t wipe it off. Joel Lacrosse came around the corner in front of me and walked down my way.

I stepped out of the car. He stopped walking and stared at me.

“I’m a friend of Corey Raleigh’s,” I said.

“Don’t lie. I know who you are.”

“Brock Callahan,” I admitted. “I’m the man who lives next door to Miss Medford. If you don’t believe I’m a friend of Corey’s, let’s go into the office here and phone him. He works until five.”

He studied me suspiciously.

“Or you can come home with me and wait until Corey gets there,” I went on. “He always stops at my house on his way home from work.”

“Why should I? What do you want from me?”

“Any information you might have that will help me to find the murderer of Sydney Morgenstern. You want to help me with that, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Trust me, Joel,” I said. “Corey does.”

He stood there, irresolute.

“It was Mr. Morgenstern,” I told him, “who bought that camera for you, not your father.”

“I guessed that,” he said. “Okay. But I don’t say anything until I see Corey.”

He was quiet on the trip home. There, I asked him, “Are you hungry?”

“I could use a sandwich,” he said.

Mrs. Casey did better than that for him. She gave him a big bowl of clam chowder, a small salad, and a hamburger on sourdough toast.

He was finishing the hamburger when Corey arrived. I went to get our beer, taking my time with it, giving them a chance to talk.

I brought three bottles back with me.

Corey said, “You know what Joel’s mother told him? She told him Fortney Grange was his grandfather!”

“She could be telling the truth,” I said. I handed Corey his bottle and looked at Joel. He nodded. I handed him a bottle.

I sat down and said, “I’m sure that Fortney Grange has fathered some children he has never acknowledged. Your father could be one of them.”

Joel shook his head stubbornly. “You didn’t know my grandmother. She was a real old-fashioned lady. She wouldn’t mess around.”

“Joel,” I said gently, “the only difference between the old-fashioned ladies and the new-fashioned women is that the old-fashioned ladies messed around in private.”

He shook his head again. “No! Not her.” He looked at the house next door and back at me. “Is that true—did my grandfather really tell you my mother tried to kill my father?”

“He did.”

“Why didn’t he tell me? He was always straight with me.

“Think of it this way. Your father had left. Your mother stayed with you. Would you have told your grandson his mother had done that?”

“Maybe not. Buy why didn’t my father stay and tell me?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find out. And maybe your grandmother didn’t mess around. But that lady next door has an international history of messing around.”

Both of them stared at me. “Miss Medford?” Corey asked “That’s crazy! She’s so—so—Hey, wait, do you mean she could be Joel’s grandmother?”

“It’s possible. They were all here in San Valdesto forty-seven years ago. Joel’s grandmother and grandfather were working on a picture for the Gramercy Studios here. Grange was the star. That was when he met Miss Medford.”

Corey looked at Joel. Joel was looking at the house next door.

I said, “One of the pictures was called
Showdown at Tryden.”

“Tryden?” Joel said. “That’s my father’s middle name.”

“I know.”

Silence. Then, from next door, came the strains of a golden oldie: “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

Corey said, “I can’t believe it. Do you really think it could be?”

“I do.”

Joel said, “You mean my father’s real father deserted him, too. And his mother? What kind of mother would do that?”

“A scared young mother, a single woman from a famous family. And movie stars in those days couldn’t get away with what they do today. Grange would never have been able to appear in another picture. The public wouldn’t stand for it. He was young then. His career would have been finished before it had started.”

Joel’s voice was shaky. “Do you think my mother killed Mr. Morgenstern? Why would she?”

“I don’t know if she would or why she would. Maybe it was Alvin who killed him. He had Morgenstern’s wallet.”

“No,” Joel said. “He’s dumb and he’s rough, but no, not Alvin.”

“Did you find a place to stay?” I asked him. “Do you plan to stay in town?”

“I didn’t find a place, but I’m going to stay here. I like this town.”

“You could stay here until you got a job and found your own place,” I said. “You’d be welcome.”

Corey said, “He’s going to stay at my house. We’ve got room.”

“But I’m paying board, remember,” Joel said.

“We’ll work that out,” Corey said. “You may have to stay, to be a witness.” He looked at me.

“Okay,” I said wearily. “I’ll pop for it. I still have a few dollars left. I’ll have to clear it with your parents, of course.”

“What do you mean—
of course
! What do you think I am, a crook?”

I didn’t answer, my new high in tact for the month.

W
HAT I HAD NOW
was a confirmation of what I had suspected. Hollywood stud Fortney Grange was Carl Lacrosse’s father. Carol might or might not be his mother. The script girl on a handsome star’s picture could easily qualify for that role.

But the message Morgenstern had brought from Lacrosse had been meant for
both
Grange and Carol. Which made her the most logical choice for the role of mother.

I phoned Bernie after dinner and reported my findings of the day and my suspicions.

He asked, “Would Joel go into court and testify that his mother had told him Grange was his grandfather?”

“I don’t know. We could ask him. It would still be his word against hers. But if Carl Lacrosse was born in San Valdesto, his birth record must still be on file.”

“I doubt if she would have had the child here. It wouldn’t have stayed a secret long in this town, not when a Medford is involved. I’ll have it checked out. Damn it, we have everything but a case!”

“I know. Nobody saw Morgenstern killed, nobody who is talking. Did internal affairs learn anything about Kelly’s friend?”

“They don’t confide in me. I think I’ll work on Chitty. That wallet is the only solid evidence we have. Mrs. Lacrosse is still my number one suspect. If we make Chitty believe we have a case on him, he might turn on her.”

We had walked and talked and learned. It had given us everything but a case. I was developing a gut feeling that we might never have a case.

The safeguards our Constitution demands to protect the innocent also protect the guilty. There was no other way it could have been framed if we hoped to maintain a free society.

It frustrates cops and infuriates citizens. But those who believe in swift and certain punishment for the guilty (and the occasional innocent alike) would be better served by moving to those countries where that attitude prevails. It would be dangerous folly to import it or to imitate it.

Noble thoughts—that I had to remind myself of too often. I had grown up in the code of vindictive retribution.

“You’re gloomy,” Jan said at dinner.

“A little. I hate to lose.”

“All jocks do, and most nonjocks. Are you going to lose?”

“We might. But even if we win, it won’t bring Morgenstern back or young Juan Garcia, will it?”

“Don’t think like that until you have to,” she warned me. “That’s the way quitters think.”

I had a loser’s dream that night, a replay of my Stanford senior-year game against Cal. There were only three seconds left in the game, and once again I saw the ball soaring fifty-one yards and between the uprights from the magic toe of Cal’s Tony Espana. Cal 22, Stanford 21. Tony had kicked five field goals against us that gloomy autumn afternoon.

Jan was at work and Mrs. Casey was having a spot of tea and a spell of gossip with the housekeeper across the street when the missing character in our local drama rang our bell next morning.

He was as tall as Grange, but bulkier. He had Grange’s high cheekbones and the piercing dark blue, almost black eyes, the look of the hawk. He was wearing faded jeans, a gray turtleneck sweater, and a light-blue corduroy jacket.

“Mr. Callahan?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“I’m Carl Lacrosse,” he told me. “I’ve just come from Phoenix. My father told me that you are investigating Sydney Morgenstern’s murder.”