Reason for Murder Page 5

  “Is this an official visit?” Pelchek asked. He stepped over, picked up one of his bags, and tossed it on the bed.

  “Nope. I just dropped by to find out about you.” Romero crossed to stand at the foot of the bed. “We’re not partial to tourists helping us in our homicide cases.”

  “Then you’re not here with a warrant?” Pelchek began putting things away in a bureau drawer.

  “That’s right. I’m here on my own and want to know—”

  “Get out!”

  Romero didn’t move, the grin still tight on his face. His hands, grasping the bedstead, began to turn white at the knuckles. A flushed stain of dark red started creeping from under his white collar.

  “Listen, Polack,” he said thickly, “your size doesn’t bother anyone down here. When I question someone in this town they answer me. Now what are you doing in this case?” He leaned over the end of the bed, staring.

  Pelchek slapped him. From a position leaning over his suitcase he whirled, swinging wide with his open left hand. The force of the blow drove the detective against the wall, six feet away. Five white marks showed immediately on his flushed face.

  “That’s for the Polack,” Pelchek whispered.

  Romero made a fumbling movement toward his right hip and Pelchek hit him again. This time driving his full six-feet-four frame behind a straight right hand that sank into the detective’s belly. A rush of air exploded from the man’s contorted mouth, and he began to sink into a squatting position, both hands holding his tortured stomach.

  “That was for nothing, Romero,” Pelchek said, staring into the man’s unbelieving eyes. “You know what this is for,” he added, and lashed out with a foot, low and vicious.

  The detective’s body arched in agony. He fell to the floor, vomited. Pelchek watched patiently until he painfully tried to draw his feet beneath him, then grabbed the man with both hands, slammed him against the wall.

  “I don’t know whether you fit in this thing, Romero, or if you’ve just been trying for Elena Baker. I’ll find out.” Pelchek shook him until the glazed eyes focused. “You don’t walk in and lean on me with your dime-store humor. You have any business with me, you do it legal.” He released the detective and stepped back. “Now keep out of my way, mister, and don’t even think about going near the girl again. If I hear of it I’ll bend you.”

  Romero drew in great, sobbing breaths. He stared at Pelchek, then, still bent over, stumbled from the room.

  “Romero!” Pelchek stood in the open doorway and watched the police officer make his way across the lawn. Romero stopped, not turning.

  “You can report this if you like.” Several people by the pool had stopped what they were doing and were looking toward the cottage. Pelchek continued in a lower tone. “If you do, you’re in trouble. Baker’s wife was afraid to appear against you before. She isn’t now.” He paused. “Another mistake, Romero. I’m a hunky. Sometimes they’re even rougher than Polacks.”

  Romero gave no sign of hearing as he slowly headed for the flagstone walk. Pelchek watched the retreating detective until he passed from view, then closed the cottage door. Now it starts, he thought, as he walked back to his suitcases. Now it starts. He sat on the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke. Then lay back, remembering the cool and spacious truck yard under clear Wisconsin skies, the rapping of diesel engines, and crisp, clean air.

  A few minutes later he sat up, mashed out his cigarette in the bedside ash tray, glanced at the torn knuckles on his right hand. Three of the fingers were slightly torn where they’d come in contact with Romero’s belt buckle.

  He rose from the bed and made his way into the bathroom. There he washed his hands thoroughly, wrapped his handkerchief around the still-bleeding fingers. Back in the bedroom he walked to the window, stared out at the sundrenched pool. And began rearranging his ideas about the case.

  A routine homicide? Maybe not. Ever since his talk with Elman, the visit with Baker, and the phone call from Elena, the case had moved further and further away from the simple, sordid picture he’d allowed to form in his mind. It had been easy to follow that line of thought.

  A comparatively well-to-do man is accused of murder in his own community. He’s had proper representation by defense counsel and been found guilty by a jury of his own townspeople. On the surface it should spell guilt, and with little question. He shook his head. Then why rough up a girl? Or lean on him, a stranger? His thoughts were interrupted by a knock. He went to the cottage door, opened it a crack.

  The smiling bellhop was holding a tray. The tray held a frosted and covered cocktail shaker, one glass.

  “Compliments of the Casa Camino, sir. May I come in and pour it for you?”

  Pelchek opened the door a little wider, took the tray. “Never mind, son. I’ll put it inside. Wait here a minute, though. I want to talk with you.” He took the tray from the boy, set it on a table in his room, returned to the open door. “This your town, son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Know most everyone around here?”

  “I guess so. Anyway, everyone that moves around very much in Las Milpas.”

  Pelchek nodded. “How about a cop named Romero?”

  The boy hesitated, looked at Pelchek expressionlessly. “Yeah. I know Romero.”

  “What about him?”

  The bellhop shrugged. “He’s just a cop, I guess.”

  Pelchek pulled a bill from his pocket, folded it the long way, and tucked it in the boy’s breast pocket.

  “What I mean, sir,” the boy said, glancing down at his uniform, “is that he packs a little weight around town. They say he gets rough with some of the Mexicans.”

  “Like you?’” Pelchek asked.

  “No, not me,” the boy said. “Romero and I get along okay.”

  “Women?”

  “Maybe.” the boy looked up at Pelchek. “When some of the wheels want entertainment I can usually take care of them. Then they take care of me.”

  “And you take care of Romero.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Okay, kid.” Pelchek started to shut the door, then stopped. “What do you think about the Baker conviction, boy?”

  The uniformed Mexican youth looked at Pelchek blankly. “The Baker conviction? I don’t know a thing about it, mister.”

  “All right, kid. If I need you, who’ll I call for?”

  “Just ask the desk to send Ramon.”

  “Okay.” Pelchek shut the door.

  He took the metal cover from the cocktail shaker and poured the cold Martini into the glass, then sipped at it for taste. It was cold and dry.

  A small, quiet, nothing town, he told himself. You could drive through it a hundred times and never see beyond the flat façade and two-dimensional people. Yet a so-called crime of passion had already loosely encompassed a group of completely unrelated people, welded them into some sort of force for either good or evil. He couldn’t tell which. Probably both.

  He picked up the phone and called the desk. When the operator answered, he asked for the cashier. The operator connected him immediately.

  “Cashier’s office.”

  “This is Pelchek. Cottage thirty-six.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pelchek?”

  “I came in today on a reservation phoned in from Capital City. I’ll be here indefinitely. How do I establish credit in order to cash checks?”

  “Do you have a hotel credit card?”

  “No.”

  “Where are you from, sir?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  “And your business?”

  “I operate a truck line.”

  “Are you rated, Mr. Pelchek?”

  “Yes. I’ve been in Dun and Bradstreet for two years.”

  “Do you wish to cash a sizable check today, sir?” the woman asked.

  “No, I guess not. Not for a couple of days, anyway.”

  “Very well, sir. We can have a card for you by tomorrow.”

  “Thank
s.” He hung up.

  He finished unpacking, showered and changed clothes, then lunched in the motel coffee shop. When he was through, he returned to the lobby. After tossing the key to the waiting clerk, he paused. “How do you get to the General Hospital?”

  “Right back the highway to town, sir. When you get to Birch Street, turn left. The hospital is two blocks down Birch. The corner of Birch and Second. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. Who let that cop in my room?”

  “Well, sir… he, that is… I was only—”

  “Who’s the manager here?” Pelchek interrupted.

  “Mr. Fenner. But I’m sure—”

  “Okay. I’m expecting a call from either David Elman or Ernest Bartlett. You’ve heard of Bartlett? I’m sure he’ll be interested to know how this hotel takes care of his clients.”

  “But, sir—”

  “I left a mess in the room. Better send someone over to clean it up.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away. I’m terribly sorry that you were bothered, Mr. Pelchek, but Mr. Romero assured me—”

  Pelchek left the worried-looking clerk talking to himself and headed for the parking lot.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled up in front of the two-story hospital, turned off the ignition and waited. He looked at his watch. It was almost one-thirty.

  A figure in white came through the entrance door, ran across the lawn to the car. It was Elena Baker. She climbed into the car and grasped his hands.

  “Oh, Steven! Steven!” She was shaking with emotion. “I’ve been watching for hours. Since your call last night I haven’t slept a wink. Have we a chance, Steven? Have we?” Half-crying, she buried her face against his neck and shoulder.

  “Take it easy.” Pelchek gently reached for the girl’s arms and eased her back in the seat. The white uniform accentuated her dark beauty and she smelled faintly of ether and antiseptic.

  “But it’s for Monday, Steven! Monday! There’s so little time!”

  “We should know today. Tonight at the latest. Bartlett’s out hunting the judge now. By this time he’s probably found him.” He shook her shoulders lightly. “Settle down a little. You can’t do me a damned bit of good this way.”

  “I’m sorry. Of course I can’t.” She sniffled, blew her nose. After a deep breath she looked up at him. “There. I’m all right now. There are a couple of things I have to tell you. First, watch out for Pete Romero, Steven. He’s mean, as I told you last night. He’ll be looking for you. Second, Chris Baker’s in town. One of the girls at the—”

  “I’ve met them both,” he said dryly.

  “What!”

  “They were sort of a separate welcoming committee. Miss Baker and I had some words, and I ran into Romero. He won’t bother you any more. Won’t be able to, for a while.”

  “You hurt him?”

  “Yeah, I hurt him. Now, who was the guy you mentioned over the phone? The one you said might know something.”

  “Alfredo Reyes. Al.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He owns the Mazatlan Pool Hall. On Ninth Street.”

  “You think he knows something?”

  “I’m not sure, Steven, but if there were any Mexicans involved in Walker’s death he should know about it.”

  “Big man?”

  “Yes. On that side of town.”

  “Well, I’ll look him up if I have to. There’s no use making any plans until I hear from Elman. This evening I’m going to have a talk with Newell, if I can locate him.”

  “Yes, Steven. What can I do?”

  “Right now, you can get out of the car.”

  She complied, leaned in through the open window.

  “Stay here at the hospital,” he ordered. “I want you where I can call you. Where is the Nurse’s Home?”

  “Right there.” She indicated the frame dwelling next to the hospital. “The phone’s on the hospital switchboard.”

  “Good.” He started the car, put it in gear. “You got a chapel here at the hospital?”

  She nodded, dry eyed.

  “Better use it,” he said.

  She nodded again, turned and walked toward the hospital entrance.

  Pelchek drove back to the center of town. On impulse he turned right on the main street, parking in the first available space. He placed a coin in the meter and began walking toward the main intersection of Las Milpas.

  There were few people walking in the heat of the afternoon sun, and after a block he knew why. The blazing rays had an almost physical weight, striking unmercifully at his uncovered head. He contemplated going back to the car when he saw a familiar sign. The Intime.

  Inside, the refrigerated atmosphere felt almost damp. He breathed a sigh of relief as he made his way to the bar.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Tom Collins. Not too sweet.”

  “Yes, sir. Not too sweet.” The diminutive bartender manufactured his drink quickly, placed it before him. Pelchek tried it.

  “Okay, sir?”

  “Just right.” He turned on his stool and looked around.

  The bartender fulfilled the needs of another customer, came back to stand in front of Pelchek. “You that Polish fella?”

  “My old man was Hungarian,” Pelchek replied.

  “Yeah?” The man pushed the dollar bill toward his customer. “Well, whatever you are, your money ain’t any good here. Not today, anyway.”

  “Why?” Pelchek asked.

  “You did me a favor out at the Casa,” the bartender said, busily polishing the space in front of Pelchek.

  “Romero?”

  “Yeah. But don’t tell him I said so.”

  “News gets around fast.”

  “In this town it does.” The man fixed a fresh drink, set it on the bar. “You’re here about Baker, huh?”

  “That’s right. What do you think of the case?”

  “I don’t think about it at all,” the man said blankly. “Not at all.”

  “You mean you have no idea about whether Baker did it or not?”

  “That’s right. No idea,” the bartender said positively. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Where can I find Ed Newell? The district attorney.”

  “You try his office?”

  “I don’t want to see him there.”

  “You want to see him today?”

  “If I can,” Pelchek answered.

  “You staying at the Casa?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, that makes it easy. But you’ll have to see him this evening. Ed usually eats there every night,” the bartender said. “Ed’s a bachelor,” he offered.

  “Okay, thanks. And thanks for the drinks.” Pelchek finished off the second Tom Collins and left.

  CHAPTER 5

  “WILL you point out Mr. Newell, please?”

  The red-haired girl appraised him frankly before answering. “Certainly, sir.” Gesturing slightly with a large menu, she indicated a distant table. “That’s Mr. Newell over there, sir.” She turned back to him. “May I show you to a table?”

  “Never mind,” he said, moved toward the far corner, and stood by the indicated table. “Mr. Newell?”

  “Yes?” The prematurely gray man looked up, eyes glinting behind rimless glasses. A comparatively young man for his job, with bland, even features. He wore a lightweight suit, a carefully knotted cravat holding his white collar secure. He was drinking a Martini.

  “My name is Pelchek. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Pelchek.” Newell stood up and offered his hand. “Sit down.” He motioned to a chair opposite him. When they were both seated he looked across the table. “Join me in a drink?”

  “Thanks. The same as yours.”

  Newell flagged a passing waiter, gave him the order, then turned to Pelchek. “I expected to see you in my office, Mr. Pelchek.”

  “I thought of it, but I think I’d rather talk to you here.”

  “Of
f the record?”

  “Off the record.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything I can tell you. It was all pretty well covered in court. At this late date, it seems a little foolish to go into it at all. As you know, the appeal was turned down for lack of new evidence and lack of error in the record,” the district attorney said bluntly.

  “We’re trying for a stay of execution.”

  “I understand you are, but don’t think you’ll get it. I can’t see Judge Picari granting a stay without something to back it up.”

  “You never did believe Baker’s story about the witness, did you?”

  “No, frankly I…” Newell paused, waited until the waiter had served Pelchek his drink and departed, then continued. “Frankly, I never did.”

  “Was there anything about this case you didn’t like?”

  “Didn’t like?”

  “Yes. I read the transcript, and your prosecution seemed straightforward enough, but it sounded somewhat cold.”

  “I think academic would fit better.”

  “All right. Academic. You felt it, too?”

  “Certainly. But that’s a fairly common thing in cases involving circumstantial evidence. This one was no different. I presented the evidence to the jury and they found for the state. I’ll admit I—” The waiter arrived with Newell’s food, interrupting whatever the attorney was going to say. When the man had gone, Pelchek spoke.

  “You think it was too easy?”

  “I wasn’t going to use that term, Pelchek.” Newell arranged the plates before him. “Will you excuse me if I go ahead and eat? I have an appointment in an hour.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I wasn’t going to use the term ‘easy,’ Pelchek. Ordinary would be more like it. I thought I’d have more trouble than I did, but it wasn’t easy. No murder trial is easy when you’re depending on circumstantial evidence. However, I was surprised when the jury came in without recommendations. That made it mandatory for the judge to impose the death penalty.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “It’s hard to tell much about old Picari, but I’d say he was a little surprised, also.”

  “I understand your office agreed to drop it to a second-degree charge before the trial got under way?”