Free to Die Page 5

  “One time,” Brad snapped, “Tuckman offered me a business deal. I haven’t talked with my ex in over three years. My mom died when I was six. The lady who took care of me spoke Spanish, so I picked up enough to get by in the streets. Now get your butts back to my ex and get some real facts.”

  Cogswell, scribbling in a small notebook, asked, “How about a fast rundown on the last three years?”

  In rapid order, Brad gave his movements. He didn’t mention Tom Fairchild; let them figure it out. Feldersen hardly listened. To Brad, he looked like a pale blond fox watching a hen house. Cogswell scribbled hastily. When Brad finished, he stood, setting his coffee cup on the table. “Now get out of here.”

  Cogswell snapped his notebook closed and stepped in front of Feldersen who was also standing. Gently he nudged a shoulder of the younger man. Both turned toward the door. Feldersen gave Brad an angry look of righteous indignation, before following his partner out.

  At the window, Brad watched the two men exit the building. The younger man’s anger overflowed into his jouncing stride and an occasional arrogant toss of blond hair. Even without hearing, Brad could understand the gist of his gestures and bobbing head. They bode no good for him. They got into the green Ford. Feldersen drove, leaving smoking, scorched rubber on the asphalt in the parking lot. Brad watched the car until it passed from sight.

  Feldersen had lost control; he’d be dangerous if they met again. But of the two, Cogswell was the most dangerous. If the man decided it was necessary, Brad knew he’d be swatted like a fly in the name of God and country. He’d seen the type in Nam and had been frightened of them then. Why was the CIA interested in him? Had they been following him before he arrived at Tuckman’s? Or had they picked him up there?

  He walked across the room, glanced at Tuckman’s card and dialed. He explained the visit briefly, then asked, “What would the CIA want with you?”

  “Nothing. Now if ya’d asked about narcs or border types, they’re always on my case. How about our deal?”

  Brad hung up; a shudder rippled down his spine.

  CHAPTER 5

  Monday Evening

  A knock at the door awoke Brad with a start. He slipped on his pants and padded across the carpet barefooted. He paused to slip on his shirt and button it, then opened the door.

  It was Josie, stunning in a sarong-styled dress, slit at the sides to mid-thigh. “May I come in?” she asked.

  He nodded. She glanced around the room, then perched on the side of the bed, watching as he slipped on his socks and shoes. “I called before coming up, but didn’t get an answer,” she said almost as if asking a question.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I unplugged the phone.” He fished around for the cord and plugged it back into the wall.

  “Right now, that’s not a good idea. People need to be able to find you. At least until next Monday.”

  “Right.” He felt the muscles across his stomach tighten. He wondered if she’d noticed the sudden tremor in his hands.

  “It’ll work out. I’m sure of it,” she said.

  “There aren’t many things I can’t deal with, but that judge.” He paused, shaking his head. “About that crap in Amanda’s office?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s not my style.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she said with a smile. “Want dinner?”

  “Is it that late?”

  “It’s after six.”

  “I slept nearly four hours?”

  “Do you have a decent coat?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’ll be a cheap date. We’ll eat in the hotel.”

  “Who said you were taking me?” They argued as he grabbed his jacket and followed her out the door.

  * * *

  Brad couldn’t remember a more enjoyable meal. The hamburger steak was the best ever and the baked potato was better. He knew it was the company, not the food. The only business they’d discussed was the two CIA agents. Josie had been puzzled; she’d asked pointed questions. With the dishes removed, he asked, “Was this Amanda’s idea?”

  Josie nodded. “She worries about you.”

  “She always has. Did you know about her and my dad?”

  “Only that she wanted to marry him.”

  Brad nodded. “Dad was a hard-working, hard-drinking type who laughed a lot. He loved driving a Cat, the bigger the better. Amanda is such a lady, a class act in every way. Despite the contrast, they were a hell of a team for a long time.”

  “I wonder why they never married.”

  “Can’t say. Maybe Dad thought I might forget my mom.”

  “Do you remember her?”

  “Not much. She smiled a lot. And she gave great hugs. Mostly I remember her cookies; there was always a jar full of them in the kitchen.”

  “It must have been hard on you when she died.”

  “Harder on Dad, I think. He was gone a lot, because the big construction jobs were usually out of town. He always seemed kind of lost and confused when he got back. After she died, I mean.

  “But we did all the good father and son things and sometimes school didn’t matter for several days at a time. What I remember most was hunting with him. Then, later, I worked with him summers.”

  “How did he die?”

  Brad poured more wine and combed his hair out of his eyes with his fingers. “Oil rig. Somebody dropped a drill casing on him. It happened while I was in Nam. I still miss him.

  “When I finish a tough job or do something I’m not sure about, I catch myself asking, ‘Hey, Dad, what do you think?’ ” He took another sip of wine. “He was some kind of man for sure. But he was wrong about Amanda. He should have grabbed her and held on real tight.”

  “Why people marry remains a puzzle to me,” Josie said. “It sounds as if Amanda and your father should have married. But I’ve known couples who should never have said ‘Hello.’

  “My parents fought every minute they were together. I never could see why they married or why they stayed that way. The day I graduated from high school, I left. I’ve never been back.”

  “Don’t you miss them?”

  “Only what could have been.”

  “Why did you choose this kind of work?”

  “What’s a nice girl, etc.?” There was a sudden hardness in her eyes.

  Brad lifted both hands, palms upward. “A little sensitive?”

  She sighed, then visibly relaxed. “I’m tired of the question. People either don’t take me seriously or wonder if I’m some frustrated macho type.”

  “I was only curious. It seems like a tough life for a guy or a girl.”

  “It can be. For me, it started that way, working vice with LAPD. It was ugly. When I saw there was no future for a woman, I quit and went to work for a large agency. But it wasn’t any better. What they really wanted was me flat on my back as appropriate.

  “I was about to give up on the whole idea, when I met Amanda. She put me on to some good people and good cases, so I’ve been on my own ever since.

  “Most of it is simple and uncomplicated. I have a knack for finding people. Thanks to Amanda, I’ve a good reputation now, so I don’t have to take every case. I’m having good success finding missing and runaway kids; it’s very rewarding.” She smiled. “But that’s enough of me. Let’s hear more about you.”

  “Like?”

  “Tell me about your ex-wife.”

  He grinned. “How come women want to know about ex-wives and girlfriends?”

  “It’s a good solid defensive technique.” She leaned out across the table expectantly.

  “She was beautiful and I loved her madly. Afraid I got sex and love mixed up. I can’t see why she married me.”

  “What made you leave her?”

  “The usual. Except it was a woman she was in bed with. They were pretty energetic about it. She invited me to join in. I packed instead.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “I just wish it could have been different.”

&
nbsp; “How do you feel about Vietnam, now that it’s behind you?”

  A bit off center at the sudden change of subject, he hesitated. “It was a lousy war.” His voice sounded far away.

  “All war is absurd.”

  “Expect so.”

  “How did you meet Hank Walters?”

  “In a poker game in Nam. I was doing well; he was doing better. Some of the players took exception so we had to scramble some. My war changed after that.” He paused, remembering.

  “He’s the best friend I have, yet we’re not much alike. War does that, I guess. It was all such a royal fuckup. The patrols were simpler. Our team went after the enemy his way. It changes a fella some.”

  “Killing will do that.”

  “You’ve never killed?”

  “No. And I’d rather not.”

  “You’re lucky.” There was no sarcasm. After a moment he continued, “You carry a pistol,” he pointed out. “You’ll have to use it one day.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t believe it’s that simple. Situations, people, the world, they’re all complex multifaceted systems. There are always options.”

  “I’ve been in some tight spots these last years,” Brad said. “For me, it’s been easier than for most. I’ve enough size that guys usually take a look at me and move on. And if somebody misses that, I’m quick enough to end it fast. But things can go wrong; it can come down to some dying.”

  “This gives me the creeps,” Josie said with a gentle shudder.

  “A nightcap?”

  She nodded, picked up the check and walked toward the cashier.

  * * *

  “To better times?” Brad lifted his glass.

  Josie smiled and lifted hers in return, then leaned back in the chair. Brad settled his legs onto the couch. He stretched and eased down further until his head rested on the arm of the couch. His eyes on the ceiling, he said, “Can’t remember being this comfortable.” His left hand stroked the fabric of the couch.

  “Do I hear a touch of self-pity?”

  He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Don’t think so. Had some bad breaks is all.” He turned his head to face her, seeking her opinion.

  “To better luck, then.” Her smile broadened.

  The phone rang. Remembering the benefits of not having one, he reluctantly eased off the couch.

  “Ashton?” a muffled voice asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thought you’d like to know.” Brad could hardly distinguish the words. “Your ex-wife’s been murdered. They’re gonna nail ya for it. You still have time to get clear.” The connection was broken.

  Brad’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the receiver. He straightened slowly, took two halting steps, then leaned against the wall.

  When he realized Josie was trying to take the receiver from him, he let go and looked around, willing himself to deepen his breathing. He focused on the city lights through the window, seeking to slow whirling, unwanted images.

  Determinedly he moved to the table by the window. As he dropped into a chair, Josie knelt beside him and began lightly stroking his hand. Her touch brought his attention to her face.

  He could find no break in the even line of her pale lipstick. Her nose was shiny; should he tell her? He could see traces of past smiles and laughter.

  “Lydia’s dead. Murdered.” He felt her grip on his hand tighten.

  “Who was that?”

  “Used a handkerchief or something.” He took a deep breath. “He said I’d be tagged for it.”

  She gave his hand a strong squeeze, picked up the glass he’d unknowingly dropped and moved quickly to the kitchenette. He heard the water run as she rinsed the glass. She returned it to him with Wild Turkey and very little ice.

  He took two long swallows. “Less than ten hours ago, I find out charges won’t be dropped. I’ve got the CIA’s attention. Now Lydia is murdered and some cluck tells me I’m going away for it. What the hell is going on?” There was more puzzlement than anger in his voice.

  At the knock, Josie walked quickly to the door and opened it.

  “Hi, Josie,” Sgt. Walters said. “You’re easy to look at in that outfit.” His smile of appreciation faded at the expression on her face.

  “Join the fun,” she said, opening the door wider.

  Half a step inside, his face expressionless now, Hank swept the room with a glance that settled on Brad. Josie sat down on the couch, dividing her attention between the two men.

  “Is she really dead?” Brad asked softly.

  “Yeah.” His dark eyes were nearly black. “One round through the pump.” He moved to the window, watching Brad intently. “How’d you hear?”

  “Some jerk just called. Scared the hell out of me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He claimed I’d be nominated.” Hank was puzzled. Brad watched him mull it over, checking every edge and corner. “Am I a suspect?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t think so, ’cept you’re her ex-husband. That puts you on the list of possibilities. It’d be nice if you had an alibi. Say maybe for three-thirty this afternoon.”

  “I was alone, sleeping.”

  “Must’ve been a good sleep. Your phone didn’t answer. I called as soon as I heard.” There was no suspicion, only hope of a good explanation.

  “I had the phone unplugged,” Brad said with a sigh.

  “Not much help there,” Hank commented. “It’s too bad you didn’t bed down with her,” he said, nodding toward Josie with a grin. Her left eyebrow lifted slightly. Brad blushed.

  “I’ll make a statement,” she said. “When I came in at six, the bed was warm. He had been sleeping at least two hours.” She caught Brad’s look. “It’s nothing to do with trust, Brad. I’m supposed to know what’s going on.”

  “Will it help?” he asked Hank.

  “Pretty slim.” He shrugged. “It’s worth a statement though.” He was lost in thought for a moment. “Lydia Allison had some strange friends and a lot of ’em. I don’t think the department’ll ever get to you.”

  “The fella on the phone said different.”

  “There’s nothing I know that puts you in the picture.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Hang loose. Maybe drop by in the mornin’ and make a statement.”

  “Should I bring Walden?”

  Hank was silent for a moment. “That might be a good idea. Lt. Stratford keeps breathin’ over my shoulder. If he butts in, it would be nice to have Walden handy.”

  “Why’s he on my tail?”

  “He’s a hardnose who thinks you’re guilty. He’s just doin’ his thing.”

  Josie stood abruptly, frowning. At the far end of the coffee table, she bent down and picked up a nickel-sized object from the carpet. She tossed it to Hank who scooped it gracefully from the air. He looked at it briefly, then let his glance drift lazily about the room.

  “It was stuck to the table,” Josie commented, bending down and running her hand across the underside. She shook her head. “The wood grain was too coarse to hold it.”

  She grabbed her purse and rummaged through it. She withdrew a penlight flash and moved to the dresser. She opened a drawer and began removing his shorts and socks. Hank began a slow stroll, stopping occasionally to study the room.

  “What is it?” asked Brad.

  “It’s a bug,” Josie replied.

  “And it’s not ours,” drawled Hank. “We haven’t got that kinda budget.” He stepped into the kitchenette.

  Josie removed another drawer, examined it, then examined the interior of the cabinet with the help of the penlight. “Somebody’s got a tape of everything we’ve said.”

  Brad could not see Hank in the kitchenette, but he could hear cabinet doors being opened, then closed. He watched Josie. Finished with the dresser, she pulled a chair over to the wall under the ventilator system. Standing on it, she examined the area behind the screen, then the screws attaching the screen to the wall. Apparent
ly satisfied, she stepped down and studied the room once more. Hank was doing the same from the kitchenette. “Only one isn’t likely,” he said.

  Josie nodded agreement.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Hank said softly.

  Josie reached for her purse and walked to the door. Hank opened it for her and waited for Brad to follow. He glanced once more around the room before closing the door behind him.

  * * *

  The bar was filling; serious drinking had begun. Hank left the bug with the bartender, then followed Josie and Brad to a booth directly under a speaker emanating soft rock at a volume that covered quiet conversation. Hank was the last to sit, after looking the crowd over, particularly those seated nearby. The waitress took the order from Josie and left.

  “What do you think?” Brad asked.

  Josie leaned out on her elbows. “Somebody is trying to set you up. Maybe for Gerald’s murder. Or Lydia’s. Or something we don’t even know about.”

  “Why?”

  Hank answered, “They may be tryin’ to cover somethin’. Or they want you runnin’ again. Or it’s somethin’ else. To tell it true, I don’t know what the hell is happenin’.

  “And here’s another chuckle. The DA’s office stonewalled me.” His anger flashed brightly in his eyes, then faded. “Same shit. There’s new evidence and they’re evaluatin’. I’ll have something tomorrow,” he said grimly.

  “I remember this feeling.” Brad looked far beyond the wall he was facing. “I was ordered to take my platoon and sweep an area across a river. When we got to the water, I didn’t like the feel of it. I went back and asked if we could wait for dark. But the word was go, so we went. My point squad was maybe halfway across, when twenty Cong regulars opened fire from dug-in positions. Only a dozen of us made it back.

  “I’ve the same feeling now I had about that river. Somebody’s out there.” When he looked up, he could see Hank was worried. He couldn’t read Josie at all. “I can’t just wait for somebody to start shooting.”

  “We’re not back to that, are we?” Josie asked.

  “What’s that?” Hank asked.

  “He wants to find Gerald Allison’s killer. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  Hank hesitated. “I never gave it a thought. It’s been three years, Brad. All I was figurin’ was to get you loose. It’d be tough.”

  “Impossible?” Brad asked bluntly.