Badge of Evil (7 page)

This brought the sum total of Holt’s day to zero and when quitting time came with no word from Van Dusen, he went home in a disgruntled mood. He was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t making a fool of himself unnecessarily. “I’m out of my depth,” he told Connie bitterly. “I swore I wasn’t going to play cop and that’s all I’ve been doing since yesterday. I ought to have my head examined.”

“Don’t fret so. I know you’re on the right track.”

“If I’m so blasted right, why doesn’t Van call me? The answer is he didn’t find anything.” All the same, Holt spurned his wife’s suggestion that they go to a movie to relax, and spent the evening pretending to read but listening for the telephone. It didn’t ring once.

In the morning, he stopped by the restaurant opposite the Civic Centre where Van Dusen usually had coffee. But the waitress hadn’t seen him and Holt began to wonder if the chubby investigator had dropped off the face of the earth. Muttering to himself, he reached the glassed-in cubicle that served as his office and was startled to find it already occupied. Van Dusen sat on his desk, his heels thrumming impatiently against its side.

“Where the devil have you been?” Holt asked, rather uncivilly.

“Waiting for you. I wanted you to see me do this.” Solemnly, Van Dusen removed his hat and began to chew on the brim.

Excitement kindled in Holt’s stomach. “You found something?”

“I should hope to kiss a duck.” Van Dusen put down his hat, grinning. “Mitch, I got to hand it to you. You called it right down the line.”

“Then why didn’t you phone me? I’ve been sweating blood.”

“Buddy boy. I had a lot of checking to do. You’ll thank me before I get through, though nobody else will. Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” Holt did so and Van Dusen swung around on the desk to face him. “I started checking out the motels in the Naranja Beach section — remember Shayon’s list of street names, all in that area? I got a ping on the third one, the Rancho Del Mar Motel, a big swanky layout north of town. Shayon and the Linneker girl registered there about seven o’clock on the night her father got blasted. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Donald Sexton. The handwriting checks, the motel people identified their pictures, even Shayon’s licence number is on the registration card.”

“Seven o’clock,” echoed Holt. “And Linneker was killed about eight. Go on, Van.”

“Don’t dismiss it so lightly, if you please. Do you know how much cross-checking I had to do to get that far?” Van Dusen grinned. “Motor Vehicles, handwriting analyst, newspaper photo lab — I’ve been on the move, boy.”

“I’ll raise your pay in the morning but tell me the rest of it now.”

“Here’s the nut. The two of them were there at seven and they positively didn’t leave before ten, maybe even later. Seems that the big TV antenna at the motel had to be taken down and the repair man had it laying right smack across the driveway for better than a couple of hours. The motel people are positive about it. They kept checking to see if any of their guests needed to get out. Some of the guests did, of course, but not little old Number
7
— which is where Shayon and Tara Linneker were enjoying preconnubial bliss.”

Holt said cautiously, “That means that their car couldn’t get out. But how about them sneaking out on foot, getting a bus or a taxi?”

“Now, now,” said Van Dusen patronizingly. “Didn’t I tell you I checked? There’s no regular city bus line out that far, only a Greyhound that comes by every four hours. I talked to the driver who was on the run that night. He didn’t pick them up. I checked the taxi companies, looked at the dispatch sheets personal and chatted with the hackies, too. No soap. This alibi will stand, unless those two kids come equipped with wings.”

“There’s a possibility of two cars. Tara probably has one of her own and they might have — ”

“I can’t keep track on which side you’re on,” Van Dusen complained. “Sure, Tara’s got a car of her own. And two days before the murder she drove it into a palm tree. It’s still in the garage getting the dents erased. I saw it myself.”

“We’ve got to be sure of every out.”

“You’re so deep in detail that you’re missing the main point. They’ve got a perfect alibi because it’s an alibi they couldn’t possibly arrange for. How on earth could they fix it so that a busted TV antenna would barricade them in that motel at the right time?”

Holt was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Well, I don’t see any loopholes. You did a bang-up job, Van.”

“Thank you, sir, she cried.”

“There’s no case against the two of them, obviously, and it’s a good thing we found it out now before we stuck our necks out too far. It would have come out eventually, anyway, when we went to trial but I think it’s apparent that Tara and Shayon don’t even realize what a good alibi they’ve got. Thanks to that broken antenna.”

“Who says TV is a menace to our youth, anyhow?” asked Van Dusen, chuckling. “Well, where do we go from here, Mitch?”

“I think I’d better call McCoy. He may not like what I have to tell him but he’ll have to recognize the facts.” Holt dialled the number of police headquarters. While waiting, he dug out the list of names that Pitzer had given him the day before. “Here’s something for you to chew on instead of your hat.”

“Looks dull,” said Van Dusen, studying it.

“And it probably is. I’ve marked the juicy part — on the second page. Farnum and O’Hara.” The operator at police headquarters was having difficulty locating McCoy. “Both of them have moved so the addresses are worthless. O’Hara is supposed to have gone to Frisco. I don’t have any lead at all on Farnum.”

“Is this just to keep me in practice or do you have something in mind?”

“They were fired by Linneker in November. The dynamite was bought shortly afterwards. Probably doesn’t mean anything but we’d better check it out so — ” A man’s voice on the telephone interrupted him. “Is this you, Captain? This is Holt, district attorney’s office. Sorry to disturb you but a big development has come up in the Linneker case and I want to get together with you.”

“By all means,” McCoy agreed. “How did you find out about it, Holt?”

“How did I — ?” Holt stopped, puzzled. He looked across at Van Dusen, wondering if the chief investigator had talked to McCoy previously. Yet he could see by Van Dusen’s expression that such was not the case. Cautiously, Holt said, “I think I’d better come down and see you, Captain.”

“As a matter of fact, I was on the point of calling you. Could you make it right away? I think you should be in on this from the beginning. It’s your baby from now on.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” said Holt. He hung up and stared at Van Dusen. “Van, you’ve known McCoy longer than I have. Did you ever think he might be psychic?”

“I always thought he was Irish.” Van Dusen looked curious. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know.” Holt grabbed for his hat. “But I think I’d better go find out.”

B
Y
the time he had driven across town to the police station, Holt thought he knew what McCoy was going to tell him. And that was that the cops had found, working independently, the same information as had Van Dusen. It stood to reason that McCoy and Quinlan, with vastly more experience, would be ahead of him on the scent. Holt didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. He was human enough to want recognition for what he had discovered, yet he knew that relations all around would be better the less he intruded on the police province. It was a situation that called for diplomacy.

McCoy had left word with the desk sergeant that he was in the police laboratory and that was where Holt found him, perched on a stool and chatting with the lab technicians. Quinlan was not with him.

McCoy greeted Holt with a broad smile. “Well, you made a quick trip. Wanted to be in at the kill, huh?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you, Captain.”

“I’ll bet you do. Still can’t figure how you found out about it so fast. The D.A. must have a pipeline.” McCoy stretched his arms happily. “Well, Holt, it’s all over. The race is run, the chase is done. We’ve got the proof we need.”

“We have?” asked Holt cautiously. He still wasn’t sure where this was leading.

“Take a look,” invited McCoy, waving his hand at the laboratory table. Among the litter of retorts, test tubes and Bunsen burners sat a grimy shoe box. The cardboard top had been removed and, for all that Holt could see, the box was empty. “That’s the little baby that’s going to put them in the gas chamber. Providing you boys at the D.A.’s office don’t kick it, of course. And with the case we’re giving you there shouldn’t be any danger of that.”

“Put who in the gas chamber?” Holt said slowly. “I’m not quite sure I follow you.”

“Why, Shayon and Tara Linneker,” said McCoy impatiently. “Isn’t that who we’ve been talking about all along?”

Holt hesitated. It had come to him finally that McCoy’s “big development” and his own weren’t the same thing at all. He said, “I think I’ve got something to tell you, Captain.”

“In good time. Wait till I tell you first.” McCoy had a small boy eagerness about him as he waved Holt silent. “The dynamite, that’s what finally did it for us. You remember that it was Black Fox brand that Shayon bought up in Seacliff.”

“A man of Shayon’s general description,” Holt demurred quietly.

McCoy didn’t pay any attention. “And it was Black Fox brand that blew Linneker to kingdom come. The lab established that. But something else didn’t jibe, not exactly. Shayon bought two dozen sticks, plus blasting caps. No doubt about the number; it’s on the register. Yet the lab estimated that no more than eighteen sticks were used at the cabana. Beats me how they can tell from what was left down there, but these test tube boys are marvels, as you know.”

Holt didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

McCoy continued, “So I was bothered by what happened to those other six sticks. The odds were that Shayon had gotten rid of them somehow since that was the smart thing to do. But these cocky fellows sometimes outsmart themselves. Just on a chance, Hank and I shook down Shayon’s apartment this morning.” He paused, then went on triumphantly. “And the last place we looked was in the outside storage closet that’s underneath the stairs leading up to his front door. The closet had a lock on it but the door frame’s so old that the hasp lifts right out, screws and all. Shayon keeps some old clothes in there and some tools and other junk. And behind a pile of newspapers, I found that shoe box. It had five sticks of Black Fox brand dynamite in it, pretty as you please.”

Holt knew that a comment was called for, but he couldn’t manage it. He felt that his mouth had dropped open with the overwhelming surprise of the revelation. He closed it with an effort.

“Of course,” McCoy said, getting out his pipe and packing it, “that still leaves us one stick short but I figure that the lab boys deserve a margin for error. I won’t quibble over one stick. So there you have it, Holt.”

Holt mumbled, “Are you sure?” It was the best he could accomplish at the moment. McCoy’s discovery knocked the props out from under his own conclusions, and not all the circumstantial alibis in the world would serve to restore them. What had Van Dusen overlooked? Somewhere they had made a glaring mistake.

“What more do you want?” McCoy demanded. “A confession? We’ll have that for you, too, before long. I know how these things go. When that pair sees how it is, they’ll crack.” He lit his pipe from the flame of a Bunsen burner on the lab table. “There’re no prints on the dynamite itself, naturally, since it tends to be oily. But the box is covered with them — all of them Shayon’s. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me, Holt?”

Holt shook his head slowly. “Nothing of any importance, as it turns out. I thought I might have a new angle, but I guess I can forget it now.”

“And I guess I can go back to the ranch and take life easy again,” said McCoy contentedly. “I’m really getting too old for the grind. Time I let the youngsters handle this sort of thing. You’ll have to drop out and see me, Holt, and I’ll give you a turkey for Easter. I raise them, you know.”

Quinlan came limping in, his cane tapping on the tile floor. “Well, Mac, the warrant’s all drawn. You want to go out with me and pick him up? Oh, hi there, Holt — hear the news?”

“Yes,” Holt murmured. “Congratulations.”

McCoy eyed him shrewdly. “Hank, I think our friend the special investigator is a little disappointed that two old dogs turned out to be right. Maybe he figured he was going to beat us to it.” He winked at his partner.

“Don’t let it get you down, Holt,” said Quinlan with a grin. “You can’t win ‘em all. This is kinda different from the Buccio thing. Mac and I got the bulge on you in experience here.”

Holt had recovered sufficiently to smile back. “Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m no great shakes as a detective. But I certainly didn’t expect this” — he nodded at the shoe box — ”and I guess I was knocked for a loop. I’ll admit I had it figured a little differently, but all that counts as far as I’m concerned is the evidence.”

“I was just kidding, of course,” said McCoy, getting up from the stool. “We’re going down to Shayon’s shoe store and pick him up now. Want to come along? It might be interesting. My bet is he’ll go all to pieces.”

“No, thanks.” He had no desire to see Shayon arrested, guilty though he obviously was. He had developed a sort of liking for the defiant young man. “What about Tara?”

“There’ll be time enough for her after we crack Shayon. I want to break this thing fast. Then it’ll be up to you to take it from there.”

Holt drove back to his office but a good deal slower than he had covered the same distance earlier. His mind was still clouded with confusion. He had been completely convinced that he was right, and Van Dusen’s findings had borne out that conviction. But his logic had foundered against the unassailable rock of the hidden dynamite, and there was no arguing against it. He sighed. Might as well admit it, he told himself, you were wrong. But it was hard to swallow, just the same.

Van Dusen was at the drinking fountain as Holt came down the corridor. He hailed Holt cheerily. “Well, I did my homework, teacher. O’Hara left town all right and I sent off a teletype to the D.A. in Frisco to run a check on him. And here’s Farnum’s new address.” He held out a slip of paper.