The Fourth Durango (20 page)

“There a warrant out for them?” Fork said.

“No, the Feds just want to dialogue a little.” He turned to Huckins. “Of course, I can’t say if anybody else is after ’em or not. But on the other hand, everybody’s got enemies, right, B. D.?”

“So they say.”

Coates thanked her for the beer, said good night and left, trailed by his six-foot-three deputy. After the sheriff’s black Lincoln Town Car with the twin whip antennae pulled away, B. D. Huckins turned from the window to Sid Fork.

“He knows it’s Teddy,” she said.

Fork nodded.

“But that’s not why he wants to bring his task force in.”

“No.”

“What he really wants is to prove we’ve somehow been fiddling the books, send us to jail and ride that right into the county supervisor’s office.”

Fork thought about it, nodded and said, “It might work. But not if I find Teddy.”

“Well. Can you?”

Fork moved over to Huckins, tilted her chin up and kissed her. “I don’t have to find Teddy,” he said. “All I have to do is make him want to find me.”

The thirty-nine-year-old frame and stucco house was on the southeast edge of
Durango in the Explorer subdivision that consisted of three short streets named Lewis, Clark and Fremont. There would have been more houses on streets named after other explorers if the novice developer, a former high school history teacher with a modest inheritance, hadn’t run out of both money and buyers during the recession of 1949.

At 12:20
A.M.
Sid Fork was parked on Fremont under a fragrant thirty-nine-year-old magnolia, waiting for the light to go off in the third house from the corner. It was a TV set’s bluish light and, since the house boasted no dish antenna, Fork was almost certain that those inside were watching a rented videocassette on their VCR. With luck, he thought, it might even be a short one—maybe a forty-five-minute X-rated feature.

After the bluish light went off at 12:32
A.M.
, Fork gave the occupants another twenty-nine minutes to go to bed and perhaps even to sleep. By 1:01
A.M.
he was pounding on the front door. It was opened less than a minute later by a sleepy-looking Henry Quirt, the deputy sheriff, who wore a white T-shirt, pale blue boxer shorts and aimed a short-barreled .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver at the chief of police.

“Christ, Sid, it’s one in the fucking morning.”

“Mind pointing the piece someplace else?”

After Quirt lowered the pistol to his side, Fork said, “I was already in bed myself, Henry, when it just hit me all of a sudden.”

“What?”

“Be better if I told you about it inside.”

Before Quirt could respond, a woman’s voice called from the rear of the house. “Who is it, honey?”

Quirt turned his head to call his answer. “Sid Fork.”

“What’s
he
want?”

Quirt hesitated before calling his second answer, “Business.” He looked back at Fork, all sleepiness gone, and said in a voice that only the chief of police could hear, “It is business, isn’t it, Sid?”

Fork waited in the living room for the deputy sheriff, who had said he wanted to put some clothes on. Out of habit, Fork inventoried the room, pricing its contents that included a matching couch and easy chair that were protected by clear-plastic slipcovers. Of more interest was the triangular maple whatnot stand in one corner whose five shelves held nine chrome-framed photographs, at least two dozen miniature china cats and kittens and five conch-like seashells that Fork guessed were from Florida.

There were four nicely framed prints on the walls, all of them pastoral scenes, which Fork placed in nineteenth-century Europe, probably France, and decided he didn’t much like. He scuffed the edge of his right shoe along the beige nylon carpet, put its price at $4.95 a square yard wholesale and moved over to the built-in bookcase that contained a Bible, a fairly new set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and nine paperback novels that turned out to be Harlequin romances.

The room’s focus, however, was on its home entertainment center—a large oak stand with staggered shelves that held a 21-inch Sony TV set with an attached VCR and a complicated-looking audio system that could play LP records, tapes and compact discs. Two La-Z-Boy recliners were aimed at the center. On top of the TV set was a boxed videocassette. Fork went over, read the label, which said it was
Debbie Does the Devil,
and tried to remember whether he had ever rented it.

He turned from the entertainment center just as Quirt entered the living room. The deputy now wore jeans, the same T-shirt and a pair of thick white ribbed athletic socks. Although Fork scarcely glanced at the socks, Quirt seemed to think he should explain them. “I don’t wear shoes in the house when the kid’s asleep.”

“Wayne must be what now—two?”

“Two and a half.”

“How’s Mary Helen?”

“Okay if we keep our voices down and don’t wake up the kid.”

They sat on the plastic-covered furniture, Fork taking the chair, Quirt the couch. “Some meeting we had, huh?” Fork said.

Quirt shook his head, as if in appreciation. “That B. D.”

“After you and the sheriff left I went home and went to bed. But it’s been one hell of a long lousy day and I just couldn’t get to sleep. Mostly, I was thinking about Ivy Settles, who was one fine cop even if he didn’t look like much.”

“Ivy was okay.”

“So I was lying there, tossing and turning and thinking about Ivy and Carlotta—you know Carlotta?”

Quirt said he knew Carlotta Settles.

“At least she’ll get a decent pension. Anyway, I was lying there, worrying about her and wondering who in the world I could get to replace Ivy when all of a sudden it just hit me.”

“What?”

“You.”

Quirt leaned back on the couch and studied Fork. The chief of police was pleased that the tall deputy hadn’t said, “Me?” He was further encouraged by the flicker of cunning in Quirt’s dark brown eyes.

“Go on,” Quirt said.

Fork obviously was in no hurry. “If Charlie Coates runs for county supervisor two years from now like he said, who d’you think’ll be our new sheriff?”

“That dickhead Jim Grieg.”

“Don’t get along with Lieutenant Grieg so good, huh?”

“I get along with anybody I have to get along with, Sid.”

“Think Charlie Coates’ll make a halfway decent county supervisor?”

“Supervisor’s just a stop.”

“On the way to where?”

“Coates is forty-two,” Quirt said. “If he gets elected supervisor in ’ninety, he’ll be forty-four. Two years as supervisor and he’ll make a free-ride run at Congress. If he wins, fine. If not, he’s got two years left as supervisor and he’ll be only forty-six. He’ll use those next two years to build up his name recognition and war chest and then make another run at Congress when he’s forty-eight. But if he doesn’t make it to Washington either time, he’ll just give up and get rich instead.”

“He tell you all this?”

“He takes me along to be his rememberer. That’s why I was at B. D.’s tonight. I got an awful good memory, Sid.”

“Charlie ever say anything about taking you along if he gets to be supervisor or goes to Washington? Maybe to carry his bags, meet his plane, do his remembering?”

“He might’ve.”

“How d’you like Durango, Henry?”

“I like the weather.”

“Think you might like it back in Washington?”

“I was born in Washington. My old man was with the Department of Commerce. It was a hundred and three there today. The humidity was ninety-something.”

“Never been to Washington,” Fork said, paused and frowned, as if trying to make some difficult decision. He kept the frown in place, letting the suspense build until Quirt grew restless. It was then that Fork asked, “You said you could get along with anybody you had to get along with, right?”

Quirt nodded.

“Wonder if you could get along with B. D. and me if I offered you thirty-five a year, detective rank, a take-home car, free dental and medical and four weeks annual leave a year?”

“I could get along with you and B. D. fine, Sid, but I’d have to go along to do it, wouldn’t I?”

Fork made himself look puzzled. “Don’t quite follow that.”

“I mean, you want something from me. Right now. Tonight.”

Fork changed his expression from puzzled to hurt. “I don’t play that way, Henry, and neither does B. D. The job’s yours. You can start Monday, like I said, if you can quit the sheriff that soon. But I’d better be absolutely honest with you. If anybody ever dumps B. D., I expect to be the first one fired and the new mayor’ll probably get rid of all my people and bring in his own. But that’s just the way things work, isn’t it?”

Henry Quirt leaned forward on the couch, managing to look both skeptical and wise. “What d’you want from me that’ll help B. D. stay mayor forever?”

“Nothing. Like I keep saying, the job’s yours.”

“No more bullshit, Sid.”

“Well, now that you brought it up, there are those prints Charlie Coates told me and B. D. about—the ones they lifted off of that pink Ford van. Charlie’s already got a make on ’em, right? Despite what he said.”

“Right.”

“You get a look at the make?”

Quirt nodded.

“And with that memory of yours…”

“I remember it, Sid. All of it.”

“Now I’m not asking you to tell me who belongs to those prints. And I want you to understand that it’s got nothing to do with the job and the take-home car and the thirty-five a year because that’s all set. And anyway, I can’t ask you to do something you can’t do in good conscience.”

Looking more skeptical and wise than ever, Quirt said, “I don’t hear my conscience saying much of anything, Sid.”

“Well, now, that’s fine. So when d’you want to come to work—Monday?”

“Better make it the fifteenth of next month—just in case Sheriff Charlie turns up something else B. D. can use.”

At 2:04
A.M.
on that last Sunday in June, Kelly Vines and Chief Sid Fork once again
sat side by side on the couch with the woven-cane back in Virginia Trice’s Victorian parlor.

Mayor B. D. Huckins sat opposite them, her legs tucked beneath a straight-back chair and crossed at the ankles. Jack Adair sat on the low chair with the worn plush seat—hair mussed, shirttails half-out and bare feet in the cordovan oxfords he still hadn’t bothered to tie because it was Adair who had raced down the stairs at 1:52
A.M.
to answer the insistent doorbell. Vines, then only half-awake, had dressed while Adair was in the kitchen, making coffee.

Huckins put her cup and saucer down and said, “Virginia not home from work yet?”

“Not yet,” Adair said.

“We need to talk about something.”

“Something that can’t wait, I take it,” Adair said.

She nodded. “But first I want answers to some questions.”

“First thing I wish you’d do, B. D.,” Sid Fork said, “is quit acting so goddamn mysterious.”

The mayor’s gray eyes were still on Adair when she said, “Shut up, Sid.”

The chief of police opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, slumped back on the couch, stuck his feet out and jammed his hands down into his pants pockets, looking, Kelly Vines thought, extremely pissed off.

Still gazing at Adair and obviously indifferent to how Fork felt, Huckins cleared her throat and said, “You never told us what happened to the boy and girl—Jack and Jill Jimson—after your supreme court overturned their guilty verdicts and ordered a new trial.”

“They were retried in another county.”

“A change of venue then?”

“Combine Wilson argued for it and got it. The Jimson kids were tried a second time a hundred and thirteen miles from home and acquitted.”

“But didn’t that bribe the old justice took, what’s his name, Fuller—”

“Mark Tyson Fuller.”

“Didn’t that taint the supreme court’s decision?”

“The state decided there was no bribe.”

“What did it call that five hundred thousand dollars in shoeboxes on the dining room table?”

“Four hundred and ninety-seven thousand,” Adair corrected her, “not to mention the five hundred thousand in my closet that they didn’t find.”

“Let’s stick to the Fuller case,” she said. “If it wasn’t a bribe, what did they call it?”

“A double murder,” Adair said. “And also a very expensive and elaborate scheme to make it look like a bribe.”

“This is official—and not just your theory?” Huckins said.

“It’s what was decided after an extensive investigation by city and state police. Actually the state police were the attorney general’s investigators who were brought in because, after all, old Mark was a state supreme court justice.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Huckins said.

Adair’s blue eyes were kitten-innocent as he looked at Kelly Vines and asked, “Didn’t we go over all this during lunch at the roadhouse?”

“No,” Vines said.

“Why not, Mr. Vines?” she said.

Vines shrugged. “It’s a matter of public record.”

“The public record in a distant state.”

“Maybe I should’ve said common knowledge.”

“Sounds to me like some folks for some reason don’t trust other folks,” Fork said.

The silence that followed was growing uncomfortable when Jack Adair, using what he regarded as his voice of sweet reason, broke it with: “We’re about to reach an impasse that maybe I can prevent, Mayor, if you’ll indulge me for a minute or so.”

After considering the request, she nodded.

“According to both state and city police,” Adair said, “the killer who rigged the deaths of old Justice Fuller and his wife to look like suicide and murder, respectively, was either careless, stupid or hadn’t watched enough TV. As every nine-year-old now knows, thanks to television, when you fire a semiautomatic pistol it leaves a residue on your hand. There wasn’t any on Justice Fuller’s hand. Therefore, he couldn’t have shot either his wife or himself.” Adair looked at Vines. “The murder weapon, as I recall, was a thirty-two-caliber Llama, right?”

“The XA model,” Vines said.

“The police traced it to a Tampa gun shop,” Adair continued, “where it’d been bought by a Mr. T. S. Jones, whose name, address and driver’s license proved false.”

“What about that letter Fuller wrote—his confession?” Huckins asked.

“The police decided it was dictated to him. They’re convinced the shooter threatened to kill old Mrs. Fuller unless her husband wrote exactly what he was told. After he wrote the dictated confession and signed it, the cops think he was forced to remove his lower plate and use it as a paperweight—a bizarre touch—and shove his chair back from the table. The killer then shot Fuller, went into the living room and shot Mrs. Fuller, who was so far gone she probably didn’t even realize what was happening. The killer then returned to the dining room, wrapped Fuller’s hand around the pistol to leave some prints and let the gun fall to the floor. It was, the cops said, a very amateurish piece of work—except for the false teeth on the suicide note, which they thought was kind of cute, and the three thousand dollars missing from the five hundred thousand that made it look as if Fuller had already spent it. The cops also liked that a lot.”

“What if the cops had found that half million in your closet?” Huckins said.

“If that’d happened, I suspect they wouldn’t have been nearly so diligent in their investigation of the Fullers’ deaths and might well have accepted the written confession at face value. And as for me, well, I’d’ve still been doing time.”

“So you’re saying that no one was bribed,” Huckins said.

“I’m still living off that half million Kelly found in my closet and shipped down to the Bahamas.”

“But that wasn’t a bribe in the legal sense, was it?”

“What would you call it—a gift?”

“I’d call it found money,” Sid Fork said. “But I’m kind of flexible.”

There was another silence, briefer this time, that Huckins ended when she asked Adair, “Where are they now?”

“Jack and Jill?” He looked at Vines. “I’m not sure. New York?”

“London,” Vines said.

“When we were out at Cousin Mary’s today—yesterday now—except for Sid, of course, and you avoided telling me—”

“Neglected, not avoided,” Adair said.

“When you didn’t tell me what you’ve just now told us, I remember your saying that if the two Jimson kids died, their share of the gas revenues or royalties would go to their stepmother. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Adair said. “And if the stepmother died, her share would go to Jack and Jill.”

“Once I’d found out that bribe was a fake,” Sid Fork said, “you could bet the rent I’d’ve had me a talk with that stepmother.”

“Kelly’s the authority on her,” Adair said.

All three looked at Vines, but it was the mayor who said, “This time, Mr. Vines, please don’t leave anything out.”

Vines ignored her and looked to his right at the chief of police. “How hard is it to fake a suicide when a gun’s the death weapon?”

“Damned near impossible what with all the forensic expertise there is nowadays,” Fork said. “Best way to fake a suicide is shove the victim out of a high window around three in the morning and don’t leave a note or anything else behind.”

Vines turned to the mayor. “After the cops told our somewhat dim attorney general that the Fullers’ deaths were probably a double murder, he did nothing until he figured out what would give him the most political mileage. Finally, he decided that having a bribe-proof supreme court was the way to go—even though its chief justice by then was having a little trouble with the IRS.”

“Not so little,” Adair said.

“So the A.G. ordered a full-scale investigation that would, in his words, leave no stone unturned. One of the stones most in need of turning was, of course, the stepmother. So a two-man team of experienced investigators was sent down to question her. Soon after the team came back and made its report, the attorney general called a press conference to announce that the deaths of Justice and Mrs. Mark Fuller weren’t suicide-murder after all, but rather what he called ‘a diabolical double murder’ and that neither Justice Fuller nor Chief Justice Adair had ever been bribed. Two days later, just before the two investigators were to question the stepmother again, her Cadillac ran off the road at an estimated seventy-eight miles per hour and into a cottonwood tree.”

“Killed her, too, I bet,” Fork said.

“Broke her neck. An autopsy showed a point-one-six-percent alcohol in her blood, which made her more than legally drunk. An autopsy of the Cadillac by a team of mechanics hired by the attorney general revealed what he described—at still another press conference—as ‘an inexplicable failure of the car’s steering mechanism.’ When a reporter asked if that meant somebody had messed with the tie rods, he said he couldn’t comment until further tests were made, and went on to announce that the stepmother, over the past five months, had withdrawn almost two million dollars in cash from her several bank accounts. After that, everybody thought they knew where the money in the shoeboxes came from and the tie rods were almost forgotten.”

“Pretty good motive,” Sid Fork said. “She puts up two million to win how much—fifteen million, twenty?”

“If both the Jimson kids died, she’d get all the gas royalties,” Vines said. “The last I heard they were valued at anywhere between fifty and a hundred million dollars.”

“If she could’ve made it look like those two kids had successfully bribed the supreme court to keep them out of the gas chamber—”

“It’s lethal injection in my state,” Adair said.

“Okay,” Fork said. “Out of the needle room. But if that’d happened, I don’t think there’s a court in the land that’d lift a finger to keep the kids from being executed.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Adair said.

“And if Mr. Vines hadn’t found that half a million in your closet,” said B. D. Huckins, “I think it still could’ve worked.”

“I’m afraid that’s right, too,” Adair said.

“Anyway, it sure has a happy ending, doesn’t it?” Sid Fork said. “The two kids are acquitted. The state supreme court turns out to be honest after all, except for that little problem its chief justice had with the IRS. And when they finally got around to figuring out the ‘who profits?’ angle if the kids’d been executed, it turns out to be the wicked stepmother. That about it, Mr. Vines?”

“Just about.”

“Then tell me this,” Fork said. “Did they ever try and come up with the sucker who did the scut work? The one who zapped the old judge and his wife, then dressed up like a priest to stick that half a million bucks in the judge’s closet and maybe even messed with the tie rods on the stepmother’s Caddie?”

Before Vines could answer, B. D. Huckins looked at Adair and said, “What was the stepmother’s name?”

“Marie. Marie Jimson.”

“Before she was married—her maiden name?”

“Marie Contraire.”

Sid Fork’s face went almost white just before the blood raced up his neck and turned his ears a cardinal red. He jumped to his feet, pointed an accusatory finger at Huckins and roared,
“Goddamnit, B. D.!”

The mayor gave him her sweetest smile. “I just wanted you to hear it in context from them and not from me.”

The red was fading to pink as Fork, still glowering, sat back down and said, “That was one shitty thing to pull.”

“Shut up and listen some more,” she said and turned to Adair again. “Because Sid wasn’t with us when we met with Parvis at Cousin Mary’s, I gave him a condensed version of what we talked about. Obviously, I left out a few details.”

“Like the stepmother’s maiden name,” Fork said.

She ignored him and shifted her gaze to Vines. “When you called earlier tonight, I was in some delicate political negotiations with the sheriff and that’s why I hung up on you. I apologize.”

“No need.”

“Later, Sid came up with some very important information, which is the real reason we’re here.”

She’s giving him all the credit for something, Vines thought as he looked at Fork. “What’d you turn up, Chief?”

It was not a modest smile that spread across Fork’s face. “This guy that B. D. and I knew a long time ago—the one who dresses up like a priest and a plumber and all—and who we knew as Teddy Smith or Jones?”

“The killer,” Vines said.

“Yeah. Him. Well, I found out his real name.”

“How?”

“From fingerprints he left on that pink van.”

“Stop milking it, Sid,” Huckins said.

His proud and happy smile still in place, Fork looked from Vines to Adair. “Well, the guy’s real name isn’t Smith or Jones—although that’s no big news. His real name’s Theodore Contraire.”

Fork watched with evident enjoyment as surprise rearranged the faces of Adair and Vines. It was Vines who recovered first and asked, “Her brother?”

Fork nodded. “Who else could she trust with something like that? According to his sheet, he has—or had, I guess—a sister three years older than him whose name was Marie Elena—like the old song—Contraire.”