Out of the Past (7 page)

“Maybe you can help me—”

“And maybe you can help me,” Leon said, “but we'll have to talk about it tomorrow.”

Leon moved quickly to the door, opened it, stuck his head out, then slipped away, leaving Clint standing there holding his gun, wondering what had just happened.

He holstered the gun, removed the holster and hung it on the bedpost, where it always resided when he was in a hotel. He walked to the window and looked down at the street. Somebody had tried to bushwhack him on the way here. He'd assumed it was someone who recognized him in St. Jo, but now he wasn't so sure. Had Sandy been right? Had they been after her? Or both of them? And was the point to keep him from Kansas City?

And who but the Cameron family would want that?

Clint slept fitfully, which was odd because the bed was one of the best he'd ever slept in. He dreamt all night about Anne Archer, and about Little Sandy, and how they were a family living on a ranch somewhere, only to have men invade their home to make a try at the Gunsmith's reputation. Every dream ended up with Clint alive, standing over the bodies of the invaders and his family. All dead but him.

He woke for the final time when the sun streamed in his window and quit the bed. He didn't want to take a chance on having another dream.

A knock on the door sent him grabbing for his gun, but it was a porter—not Leon—with the water for the bath he'd forgotten he ordered.

Once the bathtub was filled with hot water, he shaved, then soaked in the tub until the water was tepid. Next he dressed but quickly realized he had nothing with him that fit Kansas City and the company he was going to end up keeping. That meant some shopping—but not until after breakfast.

Clint brought his new purchases back to the hotel and asked the desk clerk to have a porter take them up to his room.

“Of course, sir.”

The clerk waved and the porter who came over was Leon, the black man who had come to his room.

“Yassuh?”

“Take these things up to Mr. Adams's room.”

“Yassuh.”

Leon never looked Clint's way, so Clint did the man the courtesy of returning the favor. The black man picked up the packages and made his way up the stairs to the second floor.

Clint started to leave, but decided to give the desk clerk something to think about—or rather, something to take back to Louis Cameron.

“Can you give me directions to the police station, please?”

“Sir?”

“You do have a police department in town, don't you?” Clint asked innocently.

“Well, yes, sir, but if there's a problem I'm sure the sheriff could help you.”

“I think I'd rather take it to the chief of police,” Clint said. “Directions?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” the clerk said and provided them in detail.

“Thank you.”

“Uh, sir?”

“Yes.”

“There's no problem here—I mean, with the hotel? Nothing . . . missing from your room, or anything like that?”

“No,” Clint said, “nothing like that. It's a more . . . personal matter.”

“I see.”

“But thank you for the concern.”

“Uh, yes, sir, we do, uh, try to keep our guests . . . happy.”

“And you're doing a bang up job of it, too.” Clint actually leaned over and patted the man on the shoulder. “Keep it up.”

“Uh, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Clint nodded and left the hotel. Maybe that would give the desk clerk and Louis Cameron something to think about.

The police station was a modern, two-story brick structure that dominated the block it was on. Clint entered the building and presented himself at the oversized front desk.

“Yes, sir, what can I do for you this fine day?” the granite-jawed, gray-haired sergeant asked.

“I'd like to see the chief of police, please.”

“Well, the chief is a very busy man, sir,” the sergeant said. “Maybe there's something I can help you with?”

“Do you know anything about the murder of Anne Archer?” I asked.

“Anne who?” The man screwed up his face. “Murder? ”

“I really think I should speak to—”

“Sergeant,” a man standing nearby said, “I'll handle this.”

“Very well, sir,” the sergeant said. “This is Lieutenant Abernathy, sir. He'll take care—”

“Yes, Sergeant O' Connor,” Abernathy said, “I just said I'd do that. Please, sir. Over here.”

Clint walked over and joined the man, who put his hand out.

“Edgar Abernathy, detective lieutenant.”

“Clint Adams.”

The two men shook hands. Abernathy appeared to be in his mid-forties, a little taller than Clint, in good shape and wearing a suit that had once been expensive but had seen better days.

“Adams? The Gunsmith? That Clint Adams?”

“That's right.”

“And you're here about the Anne Archer case?”

“That's right,” Clint said. “At least you know about it.”

“I should, I'm working on it.”

“Still?”

“Well, I haven't found a killer yet,” Abernathy said. “I don't usually close a case until I do that.”

“Well, that's good to hear,” Clint said.

“Why? Had you heard differently?”

“In fact, yes,” Clint said.

“Maybe we should take this to my office,” Abernathy said.

“And what about seeing the chief?”

“I'll introduce you after we've talked. Is that all right?”

“Sounds fair enough.”

As Clint walked away with Lieutenant Abernathy, Sergeant O'Connor called a young officer over and said, “I've got a message for you to deliver, laddie.”

In the lieutenant's office Abernathy closed the door and sat behind his desk. His office was cramped and his chair hit the wall as he pushed it back.

“Sorry,” he said, “they put me in this closet in the hopes that I'd resign.”

Clint couldn't tell if the man was being funny or candid. He sat in the rickety chair across from the detective.

“What's your interest in this case, Mr. Adams?” the lieutenant asked.

“The deceased was a friend of mine,” Clint said. “A very good friend.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you do, and maybe you don't,” Clint said. “I heard about her murder and I'm here to find out who did it—no matter who it is.”

“And what did you mean when you said you were glad to hear I was still working the case?”

“Are we speaking frankly?” Clint asked.

Abernathy smirked and said, “I always speak frankly, Mr. Adams. That's why I'm in this closet.”

“I heard that since the Cameron family was involved, there wasn't much being done to solve the case.”

Abernathy frowned.

“I was afraid that might be the public's perception, ” he said, “simply because I haven't caught the killer yet. Believe me, sir, it hasn't been for lack of trying. ”

“I am going to believe you, Lieutenant,” Clint said, “since we're speaking frankly.”

“What are your intentions if you find the killer?” the lieutenant asked.

“You know my reputation.”

“I don't believe everything I hear or read, sir,” Abernathy said.

“I plan to see that Anne Archer's death is avenged,” Clint said. “If not for me, then for her daughter's sake.”

Abernathy tapped his forefinger on the desk for a few moments as he regarded Clint.

“I'm going to trust you with something, Mr. Adams,” he finally said, “if only because this case has frustrated me to no end.”

“Okay.”

“Of course we know that Miss Archer was seeing Bill Cameron,” he said. “I do believe that someone in the family is responsible for her death. For that reason no one is talking to me.”

“I've heard all about them since I came to town,” Clint commented, “so I can understand that.”

“There isn't anyone in this town who isn't afraid of Louis Cameron.”

“You're not.”

Abernathy smirked.

“Actually, I am, but that won't stop me from arresting him if he did it.”

“Who would stop you?”

“Maybe the chief.”

“I heard he was his own man, not in Cameron's pocket the way the sheriff is.”

Abernathy frowned. “How long you been in town?”

“Got here yesterday evening.”

“You're well informed, already.”

“I'm going to be honest with you, Lieutenant, and show you just how well informed I am—and hope it goes no further than this.”

“That would be refreshing.”

“Anne Archer was a Pinkerton.”

Abernathy sat straight up in his chair as if a bolt of lightning had gone through his body.

“What?”

“You didn't know?”

“Not a clue,” the lieutenant said, “and you don't know how much that annoys me. I imagine I'm pretty good at this job.”

“I'll bet you're right.”

“Not if I didn't know that,” he said. “How did you know about it?”

“I told you, we were friends.”

Abernathy studied Clint for a few moments.

“Bullshit,” he said. “You're not being totally honest with me.”

“I'm being completely honest.”

“Then you're not being totally informative.”

“There's a difference.”

“She has a partner here in Kansas City.”

Clint remained silent.

“You're not working for Pinkerton, are you?”

“No,” Clint said, “Ol' Allan and I are not a good fit.”

Abernathy laughed.

“You turned him down,” he said. “He'd hate that.”

“Then we have something in common. You turned him down, too, didn't you?”

Abernathy nodded.

“I prefer to stay official.”

“So where do we stand?” Clint asked. “I came over here to feel the chief out, see if I would be able to depend on him and his police department for some help.”

“I'll let you speak to the chief and be your own judge,” Abernathy said. “As for me, if you get anything I can use, I'd be obliged for it. And since our goal is the same, I'm here to help you if and when you need it.”

“That sounds like what I need,” Clint said, “but I still want to meet the chief.”

“Let's do that now,” Abernathy said. “Maybe later we can meet away from here and talk again.” He stood up and came around his desk. “Maybe you can talk to the Archer woman's partner and see if they want to come forward on this, as well.”

“My concern there is for her daughter,” Clint said. He decided not to mention that Sandy was his daughter. If word ever got out that she was the Gunsmith's daughter, her life wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel.

“I can understand that. How old is she?”

“Fifteen,” Clint said, then smiled and added, “almost sixteen.”

“So the partner is watching her?”

Again, Clint didn't reply.

“Okay, then,” the lieutenant said. “Let me go to the chief's office and see if he's available. I'll be right back.”

“I appreciate it.”

After Abernathy left, Clint knew he was going to have to do some checking on the man before he fully believed that he was being frank. It could all be an act. Clint was sorry he could not take the man at face value, but he was just too cynical at this time in his life to do that.

And then there was the question of who in this department was in Cameron's pocket—like, for instance, the desk sergeant. Clint was going to have to assume that just as word had gone out to Cameron that he had checked into the hotel, word would get to him about his visit to the police department. Hell, he'd made sure of that himself with the desk clerk.

He was jolted from his reverie when the lieutenant returned.

“The chief will see you,” he said. “This way.”

Clint followed the lieutenant down a hall and was grateful that he was going to be able to judge the chief on his own, without hearing any baised opinions first.

While Clint was meeting with the chief of police, another meeting was taking place in a small, out-of-the-way hotel.

It was an odd thing how Franklin Walters's phobia about germs seemed to fly out the window when he was naked in bed with Olivia Cameron. At the moment his face was buried deep in her crotch. She had her long, slender legs spread as wide as she could, actually holding onto her ankles while the man worked on her with his tongue. He still didn't have the hang of this oral thing, and he wasn't any good at Frenching, but she was hoping to be able to whip him into shape sooner or later. She did not have any other suitable candidates for lovers, so she would have to make due with Walters.

She arched her back and released one ankle so she could stroke her own breast and pinch the nipple in the hopes of getting herself closer to orgasm.

Walters had seemed a good prospect because he was willing to fuck her in spite of the fact that he feared Louis Cameron. However, she soon learned his willingness was due more to her own attractiveness than any display of courage on his part. Simply put, he was unable to resist her—and that was before he was given a sample of her wares. Once he got a taste of Olivia, he was hooked.

“Easy, darling,” she said, reaching down for his head, “right there . . . yes . . .”