Reason for Murder Read online

  Elena was given her choice of the “specials,” and worked a quiet eight-hour shift. At nine p.m. she made her way across the expanse separating the hospital and the Nurse’s Home. A bright desert moon cast grotesque shadows from the tall jacaranda and blocky privet hedges. Only her shoes made noise as they came in contact with the rough surface of the ambulance driveway.

  “Hold it, Elena!”

  She jumped back, indrawn breath ending in a gasp as she recognized the man who had stepped from the dark shadows.

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “Let’s talk, Elena.” Pete Romero grasped her arm, began edging her toward the street.

  “We have nothing to talk about,” she said, trying to disengage her arm.

  He whirled her around and slapped her twice. Hard.

  “Go ahead and scream. The hospital will appreciate the notoriety—especially from you,” he said. “Now, do we talk?”

  She nodded silently, face burning from the blows, her lips pressed tightly together to keep from crying.

  He led the way to a black sedan. It was parked between two street lights, a short distance from the hospital entrance. He motioned for her to get in, then walked around the front of the car and climbed in the driver’s side. He turned to her.

  “So you went to an outsider?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Steven Pelchek. Didn’t you already know?” she asked.

  “I told you I’d help you if you needed anything, didn’t I? I told you to come to me.”

  “Yes, and I know why,” she said, staring straight ahead.

  “Where is he now?” he asked.

  “When I left him this morning he was going to see Mr. Elman. I suppose he’s still at Capital City.”

  “Is he coming down here?” Romero sounded surprised at her ready answers.

  “I’m sure he is,” she said defiantly. “He said he was.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “He told me to.” She faced him and thrust out her chin. “He said someone down here would get worried and he wanted them to know who to worry about. It looks as though he was right. I’m going to tell him how you’ve been bothering me, Pete. Maybe he’ll find out something about you.”

  Before she could move, Romero imprisoned her clasped hands in an iron grip. The other hand darted down the inside of her uniform, tearing off the top button and baring one shoulder.

  “What are you—” Her voice ended in a gasp of disbelief and pain as his rough palm cupped her breast and squeezed. She tried to bite the heavy wrist. He exerted more pressure, and she shoved her face into the back of the seat, muffling a scream. The pressure relaxed a bit and his voice grated in her ear.

  “Mention my name just one time to anyone and I’ll make you wish you were never born. I may anyway. Quite a few people in this town would like to see the last of the high and mighty Mrs. Cal Baker. Ever since he married you, you’ve thought you were too damn good for your own people. So you keep your mouth shut! Hear?”

  “All right, Pete,” she sobbed. She lifted her head, staring scarlet-faced at the back of his hairy wrist.

  He withdrew his hand. She quickly pulled the collar of her uniform together, sat hunched over, hugging her bosom with both arms.

  “You made a mistake,” Romero said. “We don’t need any help in this town. You tell him that. You understand?”

  “Yes,” she said in a low voice.

  “All right. Get out of the car.” He watched until she had scrambled out, then leaned across the seat, stared at her from the open window. “Don’t forget! Mention my name and I’ll frame you good. Don’t hope I can’t do it. It would be easy in this town.”

  She turned and ran toward the Nurse’s Home without answering. Betty Wilson, coming from the upstairs bathroom, saw her dash through the front door and rush to her room.

  Elena threw herself on the bed face down, sobbing. Soon she heard the door open and felt gentle hands on her shoulders. She allowed herself to be turned over. When the Wilson girl saw the condition of Elena’s uniform, the imprint of Romero’s fingers on her face, her eyes turned cold.

  “Who did it?” she demanded.

  Elena shock her head.

  “I’ll call the police!”

  “No, no, Betty!” Elena put both hands over her flushed face. “I’m all right now. You can’t tell anyone at all. It might hurt Cal. Or me,” she added, rising to a sitting position.

  “What kind of bastard would rough you up like this?” Betty asked.

  “I can’t tell you, Betty.” Elena’s voice was calmer now. “But he’s bothered me ever since the trouble started. The police couldn’t do me any good. Just my word against his, and you know how far that would go.”

  “Well, you know best,” the other girl said doubtfully, “but I’d tell someone and get this guy off your back.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Baker?” a voice called. “You’re wanted on the phone. Long distance.”

  Pelchek stood in the phone booth, waited patiently.

  “Hello?”

  “Elena? This is Steve.”

  “Oh, Steven, I’m so glad you called. Have you heard anything yet that will help? Did you see Mr. El—”

  “Just a minute!” he interrupted. “Take it easy. I think we may have started something up here. I’ve hired another attorney to help Elman and we’re going to try for a thirty-day stay of execution. That’ll give us some time to work on the case.”

  “If only you can, Steven,” Elena said fervently.

  “Well, we’re going to try like hell. Now, how are things down there? Are you all settled at the hospital?”

  “Yes. I went back on duty early this afternoon. Tonight, when I left the hospital for the Home, there was a…” She let her voice trail off.

  “What else happened?” he asked sharply.

  “Pete Romero came by, Steven.” Her voice quavered, then strengthened, and she continued in a rush of words. “He slapped me and then made me go…”

  Pelchek stood quietly at the phone and listened.

  CHAPTER 4

  A BREATH-STOPPING circle of aridness hung over the small border town of Las Milpas, causing the lazy streets to shimmer in the dust of desultory traffic. Pelchek drove through the town slowly, heading for the highway south of the city limits. At eleven o’clock in the morning the blazing sun reflected blindingly from the shiny store fronts. He glanced at the cars parked in a diagonal row against the curb, the silent sentinel of a parking meter before each one. Mostly new, middle-priced cars.

  There were quite a number of people on the sidewalks—Saturday shoppers, men in Levis, with loud shirts and large hats; men in ties and shirt sleeves; men in suntans; mining men and cattle men. Most of the women wore house dresses, and a good many were pushing babies in the combination shopper, walker and perambulator. Some were pregnant.

  Somewhere in this town, among these people, he had to find a person who had knifed a man to death—or seen a man knifed to death.

  Everywhere he looked he could see the new and modern, glinting in chrome and glass, paradoxically set next to ageless structures of adobe. As he passed one of the newer buildings, the open door afforded him a glimpse of colored lights reflecting from a bar mirror. A neat neon sign told its name. The Intime. Three coatless businessmen came through the door, cutting diagonally across the street toward a small office building.

  As he drove down the main street a pedestrian at an intersection paused to let him by. Pelchek looked up at the rearview mirror and abruptly stopped the car.

  “How do you get to the Casa Camino?” he called across the seat.

  The man put his hand on the open window sill, nodded in the same direction Pelchek was driving.

  “Keep right on going, mister. About two and a half miles straight out of town you’ll see a big sign on the right. It’s got a sombrero on top. The Casa’s just on beyond.” />
  “Thanks.”

  Soon the blocks of commercial buildings gave way to used-car lots, service stations and an occasional residence. Palm trees lined this segment of the main street of Las Milpas. In another mile it changed again, this time into the state highway south.

  Two miles south of the city limits was an emerald oasis. The Casa Camino. Its broad and spacious lawns of bright green and cool shadows rested the eyes and drew the weary traveler as, indeed, the desert motel had been designed to do. Pelchek drove the Ford between stone pillars onto neatly raked pea gravel, bleached white by the torrid sun. White stucco buildings lay under red-tiled roofs, had a semicircular background of tall cottonwood trees.

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

  “Steve Pelchek. It was called in late last night.”

  “Just one moment, Mr. Pelchek, while I check our list.” The desk clerk walked to an alcove and began going through a card file.

  Pelchek looked around the lobby. Elman had told him this was a plush spot, but he hadn’t expected such lavishness. The size and decor of the Casa Camino was not in keeping with the town he’d just passed through.

  A uniformed attendant had materialized as he parked the car. As they walked across the flagstoned terrace to the lobby entrance he caught a glimpse of a swimming pool behind the main building. Sprawling cottages joined each end of the main building to form an arc on either side. A highway hotel. First class, and generic to the Southwest.

  The main section of the lobby was sunken. Richly carpeted and filled with large, comfortable-looking chairs, it was air-conditioned to a pleasing coolness. Massive divans dotted the large room.

  “Here you are, sir. We’ve put you in cottage thirty-six.” The clerk placed a registration card before him, at the same time handing him a pen. “I’ll have the boy take you right over.” The man behind the desk gave the waiting bellhop a key.

  Pelchek completed the card and shoved it toward the clerk. “Have him take the bags,” he said. “I’m not going right now.” He glanced around the lobby. “Where can I get a beer?”

  “The Highway Room is open, sir.” The clerk nodded toward an archway across the room. “Or you can be served at the pool, if you wish.”

  “Thanks,” Pelchek said, heading for the cocktail lounge.

  He was served his beer in the cool bar. The bartender remarked about the hot weather, the humidity, then left him alone. The room was darkly subdued in furnishings and lighting, nearly empty, and it echoed with the stillness that fills a hotel saloon during the slack hours. The odor of pine oil, aftermath of the cleaning crew, vaguely irritated him. He drank the beer slowly, wondered where he should begin. Elman had mentioned Mathewson. The chief of police.

  “He’s an old timer down there, Steve, and only did his job when he arrested Cal Baker. Or you could try Newell, the district attorney.”

  “The D.A.?”

  “That’s right. Remember one thing—these people didn’t persecute Baker. They prosecuted him. On evidence submitted and proven to the satisfaction of a jury. I talked to them both and am assured they did what they could to find that missing witness. If you can uncover anything, they’ll be your best bet for what help you’ll need.”

  Pelchek sipped at his beer. Until he heard from Elman regarding the stay, he’d have to shoot in the dark. So, he’d try the district attorney’s office. Elman might be right, and the local officials would want to know about him anyway. He felt the sense of rushing time and knew he should be doing something decisive… something fast. But what? He wagged a finger at the man behind the bar.

  The signal was interpreted correctly and rapidly. A fresh beer was placed before him. He picked it up, slid off the stool and walked halfway around the circular bar. He stopped when he came to the girl.

  “All right,” he said. “My name’s Steve Pelchek.”

  “Oh?” She didn’t look up until she’d finished her drink. Then she turned on the stool and glanced up at him coolly. “I’m sure it must be great fun to be Steve Pelchek. Was there something?”

  “Yeah. You and your friend have been watching me ever since I came in. Why?”

  Her companion stood up and faced Pelchek. About forty, he was blond and pink-skinned, wearing white tennis shorts, an open-necked jersey and a leather wristband. He looked very healthy.

  “See here, fellow. You can’t just barge up and bother people in here,” he said. “This young lady and—”

  “Yes, I can,” Pelchek broke in. He stood with feet apart, beer glass in hand. He looked at the girl. “Can’t I?”

  She studied him contemplatively. For an answer, she picked up some car keys from the bar and, without looking around, handed them over her shoulder.

  “Go wait in the car, George.”

  The man started to say something, looked at the dangling keys. He took them and walked out.

  “You’re rougher than I expected.” She indicated the stool beside her.

  “I thought you were in Europe, Miss Baker,” Pelchek said, sliding onto the stool.

  “Smarter, too. But just call me Chris… everyone here does.” She motioned for the hovering bartender to replenish her drink, then turned on the stool again. “May I have a cigarette, please?”

  He shook a cigarette from his pack, gave her a light, and sat watching as she puffed on it nervously, her eyes following the movements of the bartender. Almost beautiful, he guessed. As spun aluminum can be called beautiful. Hard and fine and without prettiness.

  She had the Baker look. Firm, stubborn chin over a generous mouth that had been painted on like a badge. Her hair was short, golden, and nearly natural. Faint circles under gray-green eyes and a slight trembling of the fingers holding the cigarette told him more. Whatever she might be, she was incomplete and unsatisfied. He wondered if she knew men’s eyes were first drawn to the pointed breasts so arrogantly displayed in the knit sweater. He decided she did.

  “Inventory?”

  He looked up. “Always,” he said. “Just checking the clearance lights.”

  “Oh, yes. You truck, don’t you? What are you doing in Las Milpas and in Baker business?” She restlessly mashed out her cigarette.

  “Baker business?”

  “You know what I mean. In my brother Cal’s affairs?”

  “Lady, I don’t think you have a brother Cal.”

  The girl drained her drink, stood up. She was tall, the top of her head even with his mouth. For the first time, he noticed she was a little drunk.

  “I’m sure you could deliver a wonderful lecture on moral obligations, Mr. Pelchek, but we don’t need any. The family has been through enough as it is without stirring it up again at the last minute.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “That isn’t what we’re talking about.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. His wife seems to be the only one in his family who cares whether he lives or dies.”

  “What’s in it for you, Pelchek?” Spots of color had appeared in her cheeks, belying her low tones. “Or shouldn’t I ask that? I understand you and Elena came down from Milwaukee together.”

  Pelchek regarded her silently for a moment. “You know, Baker, maybe you should have stayed away. You think kind of dirty for a woman…” His eyes traveled slowly up the length of her body. “… if that’s what you are. Now go on outside and play with your athletic friend and don’t bother me.”

  “You don’t talk to me like that!” she said, pale with anger. “I’ll have you out of this town in two hours.” She turned to go, snatching her purse from the bar.

  “Hold it!” Pelchek grasped the girl by the arm, turned her to face him. “Now you listen to me,” he said quietly. “I came to this town to do a job. I have other things to do that are important to me, so I don’t like it here. But I’m going to do the job. Your brother isn’t going to walk into that gas chamber if I can help it. I don’t know whether he killed anyone or not, but I’m going to keep him from being executed. So stay out of my way and
don’t make things any tougher than they already are. You don’t impress me, Miss Baker. You don’t scare me, and I don’t like you. Now get outta here!” He turned back to the bar.

  She stood rubbing her arm, eyes hot with anger and frustration. Wheeling, she almost ran from the lounge.

  Pelchek finished his beer, tossed a bill on the bar and returned to the lobby. He picked up the key and made his way to his cottage.

  Heat from the noonday sun was beating down on the carefully tended flower beds and lawns surrounding the swimming pool, only the metallic whir of a busy lawn mower and the occasional sound of splashing water marring the midday silence.

  A flagstone walk formed a semicircle around the patio, separating the pool and cottages, and midway in the curve he spotted number thirty-six. He went up the short walk leading to the door. It wasn’t completely closed. Slightly ajar, it yielded to his tentative push.

  “Come right in, Mr. Pelchek.”

  He pushed the door wide and stepped into the room. A dark man was standing in front of a large picture window, peering through Venetian blinds at the swimming pool. He didn’t turn.

  “It is Mr. Pelchek, isn’t it?”

  Pelchek moved further into the room. He saw his bags, neatly lined up by a small table, kept walking until he stood directly behind the man at the window.

  “Yeah, I’m Pelchek. Who the hell are you?”

  The dark man turned around. He was just over medium height, very stocky, and wearing a short crew cut above a deeply swarthy face. He appeared to be in his middle forties. He smiled, cocking his head to one side, the smile becoming a grin.

  “I’m a local cop, Mr. Pelchek. Romero. Detective-Sergeant Pete Romero. Big title for a thirty-man police department.” The eyes above the grin were muddy black, fixed, and somewhat protruding. “We understand you’ve been tossing some weight around in Capital City. About the Baker case, wasn’t it?”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “Oh, I’ve been waiting for you. Heard you were coming. Small town, you know, and spies in the capital.” Romero continued to grin. “What I want to know is how come you’re stirring up this Baker deal?”