I wasn't surprised to hear him say that. The whole affair had taken on a certain inevitable feel, evoking in me the same foreboding that must brush the senses of someone gradually approaching the vortex of a whirlpool.
'Joan Clark and her daughter were living with a man named David Branly,' Dockard said, attempting to blow a smoke ring and creating something closer to a mushroom. 'Know anything about him?'
'Only that he's lived with Joan and Melissa Clark on Star Lane for a little over a month. I overheard that here earlier.' I wondered if I'd been meant to overhear, so Dockard could observe my reaction from some hidden vantage point on the other side of one of the tiny room's walls. 'Wasn't I meant to eavesdrop?'
Dockard neither confirmed nor denied. 'He's dead,' he said.
I considered that a hell of a way to change the subject. My stomach dropped a few notches. 'You mean Branly?'
Dockard nodded, lifting a hand to brush back his Hitlerian lock of hair. 'Mr. Branly was found dead yesterday in a car parked behind a Laundromat on Surf Avenue.'
'And not of natural causes?'
'A twelve-gauge shotgun sawed down to less than eighteen inches was fastened with electrician's tape to the steering wheel column of his car, down low near the floor, where he wouldn't see it. It was aimed up the column, straight through the center of the steering wheel, and a wire ran from the trigger to a lever attached to the accelerator pedal. When Branly stepped down on the pedal to start the car…' Dockard spread his hands, palms down.
In spite of myself I imagined what Branly must have felt-the shock, perhaps the instantaneous knowledge and horror at the blast of flame and noise at his feet.
'He was struck in the stomach and groin,' Dockard went on. 'Killed instantly.'
'Mixed up with an organization, maybe?'
Dockard shrugged. 'If it was a gangland killing, this is the first time I've heard of this method being used. Generally these things follow a pattern, and generally they don't happen in Layton.' Dockard drew open his flat center drawer, reached in and tossed several glossy photographs on the desk before me.
I tried to swallow my squeamishness, forced myself to pick up the photos and look.
They were Branly's death photos, but they were surprisingly undisturbing to my stomach. The pictures showed a fairly young man from the waist up who appeared to be sleeping and experiencing a bad dream. There were several front shots and two with the head turned for a profile angle. It was a classically handsome profile. Branly was still wearing a plain sport coat and loose-knotted tie, and the only indication of violence was some splatters of blood marring the pattern of the coat. I tried not to think of how the area of the body below the bottom edges of the photographs must look.
'I've never seen him before,' I said, laying the photographs back on the desk.
'Neighbors of the Star Lane house have. When they saw those photographs, they identified him immediately as that nice young Mr. Branly. And they identified Joan Clark as Mrs. Branly. Said they were a pleasant young couple, not outgoing, though. Said they moved in just over a month ago and led a quiet life.'
'What prompted you to ask the Star Lane neighbors about Branly?'
'The car he was found dead in had out-of-state registration-under Joan Clark.'
I sighed, rested my palms on my knees and felt their warm moisture through the material of my pants. 'Lieutenant Dockard, if I could help in any way, I would. What I am is a man trying to make a living, and I don't mind telling you I'm into something here I don't want to be into. I never heard of David Branly until today, and I don't like being involved in the investigation of his murder. All I know about any of it is what I've already told you.'
Dockard ground out his cigarette stub in a glass ashtray, slowly and carefully, as if it were something alive and he savored the killing of it. The last hazy wisp of smoke had drifted up from the ashtray and dissipated before he looked at me again.
'I believe you, Nudger,' he said, 'but I don't disallow the fact that I might be wrong. We don't railroad people here in Layton, but you've got to understand that this is an unusual case, an important case to everyone involved.' He stood to signify that it was at last time for me to leave.
'Because Carlon is a big man?'
'We both know that's why,' Dockard admitted, 'and we both know that's the reason certain rules and procedures might be stepped over, or on, in this investigation. If we don't come up with something within a reasonable length of time, there'll be repercussions, so everyone connected with the case wants results.'
'What I want is to be out of it.'
'Maybe you can be, Nudger. Your car's parked in the lot out back.'
I stood up stiffly, almost reluctantly, from the soft vinyl chair, crossed the thick carpet to the door.
Walking from Dockard's office was pure pleasure, equaled only by the pleasure of walking from the building.
My humble motel cabin beckoned like home.
6
I steered the green compact into the Clover Inn's gravel parking lot, listening to the tiny stones pinging off the insides of the fenders. Afternoon shadows were lengthening, and I saw that the parking space in front of cabin 5 was in shade.
After I parked and switched off the ignition, the little car's engine turned over a few times on its own, as if overheated. I felt overheated myself. Today brought me closer than I wanted to get to becoming involved in a murder case. The problem with homicides was that there was always someone else involved who was a murderer. All my frayed nerves needed was the knowledge that someone might be stalking me-with my death in mind. I didn't kid myself. I knew it was better to be a dead hero than a live coward. It was just that I didn't have the stomach for it. I lived on.
I struggled out of the car and stretched, realizing abruptly that I was hungry. After a cool shower to make me alive again, I'd eat at the Clover Grill, then phone for reservations on the first flight I could board out of Orlando.
When I entered the cabin, I found Dale Carlon sitting on the bed.
'Afternoon, Mr. Nudger.'
I closed the door behind me, wishing I hadn't bothered to come back for my luggage. Carlon was smiling at me-a new side of him. It was an even, handsome, definitely PR smile.
'How did you get in here?' I asked.
'It happens that indirectly I own part of this motel, Mr. Nudger.' The smile turned genuine. 'You'll find that few doors are locked to me here in Layton.'
I was momentarily angry with myself for feeling uncomfortable, awed by his authority. 'That brings us around to why you're here,' I said.
'I thought you'd like to know you've accomplished your objective. Melissa is returning home with her father on the earliest direct flight. Gordon and I decided it would be better this way until things are settled.'
'Maybe I can be on the same flight,' I said. I considered offering him a drink, then decided my brand would probably fall below his standards. To hell with it.
'I hope not, Mr. Nudger. I want to hire you.'
That took me aback, but it explained why he'd been waiting for me. 'As you said, I've already accomplished my objective.' I wondered if he was letting Gordon Clark take Melissa because he wanted to or because he knew he'd have to eventually anyway. Or would he have, here in Layton?
The handsome smile grew more confident. 'I'm sure I can change your mind.'
I knew what he was getting around to. 'Why do you want to hire me, Mr. Carlon?'
'To find my daughter.'
I walked to the small writing desk, half leaned, half sat on it. 'Your daughter is mixed up in murder, Mr, Carlon. I don't want to be. I don't extend my investigative activities that far, but I can give you the names of some top investigators who'd be interested.'
