Treacle and Frank O’Daniel. Insurance companies are always skeptical when a heavily insured party dies under unusual circumstances, especially when his business partners are the beneficiaries. Great Western would save $100,000 if Randall’s death turned out to be murder instead of an accident; and they would save $200,000 if it was murder and the other two partners had something to do with it. I was here because Great Western was a small company and did not maintain an investigative staff, preferring to farm out that kind of work to private operatives like me. And I had done a fair amount of work for them over the years.
“Questions?” Barney said when he was done explaining.
“Sure. How long has the Northern partnership been in effect?”
“Seven years. They started small, buying up land in the Redding area and building houses on it. That was back during the big real estate boom, so naturally they made a potful. They started purchasing land for the Musket Creek project a little over a year ago.”
“Same three partners from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“Equal partners?”
“No. Randall had forty percent; Treacle and O’Daniel split the other sixty.”
“Do those two also get Randall’s forty percent, now that he’s dead?”
“No. But they do get the chance to buy out his share from his estate.”
“When did they take out the double indemnity policy?”
“Just after they formed the partnership.”
“A point in favor of the two survivors,” I said. “Why wait seven years to knock off Randall?”
“Money-what else? They need it, bad. Northern Development isn’t doing too well these days. Overextended themselves on land purchases and a housing development near Red Bluff, for one thing. And the Musket Creek lawsuit has been a drain on their capital; they had most of their eggs in that basket. There’s a good chance they’ll go under if they don’t get a break pretty soon.”
“A break like a nice fat chunk of insurance money.”
“It’d help, that’s for sure,” Barney said. “Obvious motive. Maybe too obvious.”
“Maybe. How did Randall get along with the other two?”
“Fine, according to Stan Zemansky, our company rep in Redding. Stan sold them the policy and he knows the three of them fairly well. No business hassles, no personal feuds-at least none that any of them is talking about.”
“What does Zemansky think about Randall’s death?”
“Accident, same as everybody else.”
“How likely is it one of the Musket Creek citizens set the fire that killed him?”
“Likely enough. The bad feelings between them and Northern Development run deep.”
“Groups of people like that usually have a leader,” I said. “Who would that be in Musket Creek?”
“Man named Coleclaw, Jack Coleclaw. Runs the local store. Sort of an unofficial mayor. He and Randall had some run-ins, one of them public.
“Violence? Or just words?”
“Just words.”
I lapsed into silence. I was thinking that if I took the job, it would mean driving up to Trinity County right away and spending some time in Redding and Musket Creek. Which would put the kibosh on my vacation plans. I didn’t like the idea of disappointing Kerry-not only because she had arranged for some time off at the ad agency where she worked, and we had planned a nice quiet ten days together in Santa Barbara, our first real getaway trip in the year we’d known each other; but also because she’d been withdrawn and tired-looking lately. Overwork, she said. I had a feeling there was more to it than that, but she wouldn’t talk about it. All she’d say was that she needed to get out of the city for a while and then she’d feel better.
And now this-Ragged-Ass Gulch.
But what could I do? My bank account was not exactly bulging, and Great Western paid well for services rendered and allowed a generous expense sheet. If it were any other time I might have been able to let Eberhardt handle it; but he was already working on a missing-person thing for a well-to-do local family, one of those cases where a rich kid goes off to find the meaning of life, drops out of sight, and usually turns up in a commune or maybe soliciting funds for somebody’s screwball religion. Eberhardt had turned up the job himself, the first major piece of business he’d brought into the agency since I’d taken him on as a partner six months ago. Even if it hadn’t been lucrative work, which it was, I could not very well ask him to drop it and rush up to Trinity County just so I could be free to spend some time in the sun with my lady friend…
A sharp rapping noise made me blink: Barney was using his knuckles on the desktop. “Hey,” he said, “you still home in there? Or did part of you go out to lunch?”
I gave him a crooked grin. “I’m still here. Just mentally bemoaning my lot in life. All right, Barney. I’ll get to work right away. Usual rates?”
“Yup. You going to pad the expense sheet this time?”
“Hell no. I never padded an expense sheet in my life and you know it.”
“Yeah,” he said, “and it bothers me. You’re too god-damned honest. Couldn’t you at least stick on a couple of beers that you didn’t have? Or an extra dime for the parking meter? It’d restore my faith in the fundamental immorality of mankind.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Try real hard,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable working with a saint.”
In spite of myself the word “saint” made me think of Jeanne Emerson, a very attractive Chinese photojournalist who had developed an idealized view of me and my job-a sin-eater, she’d called me, only half- jokingly. But that had all been before the night a couple of months ago when I’d finally let her come over to my flat to take some photographs for an article on me she was planning to do. I hadn’t wanted to be alone with her, because it had become obvious that her interest in me wasn’t strictly professional, and I happened to be in love with Kerry; I’d been stalling Jeanne for weeks. But then I’d given in in a weak moment, and Jeanne had come over, and what had happened after that…
“Hey,” Barney said again, “now what? You look constipated all of a sudden.”
I stopped thinking. That had always been one of my problems: I thought too damned much about nearly everything. “Only one of us is full of crap, my friend,” I said, “and that’s you. Let’s have the file.”
He gave it to me, grinning, and I thumbed through it. Lists of names, addresses, personal and background data on the three Northern partners, copies of the Redding police report on Munroe Randall’s death and the Trinity County Sheriff’s Department report on their Musket Creek investigation, other pertinent information-most of it on computer printout sheets. The address of Stan Zemansky’s insurance agency was there too. I tucked the file into the calfskin briefcase Kerry had bought me for Christmas-to upgrade my image a little, she’d said-and then got on my feet.
Barney stood too, speared another peppermint, and came around his desk. He looked me up and down and shook his head admiringly. “Got to admit it,” he said. “You’re looking good.”
“You admitted it when I came in, remember?”
“How much weight have you lost, anyhow?”
“A little over twenty pounds.”
“How long did it take you?”
“Three months, about.”
“What’d you do, just give up eating?”
“More or less. Plenty of salad and eggs.”
He pulled a face. “I hate salad and eggs.”
“Me too.”
“Took a lot of willpower, huh?”
“Yeah. I slipped a couple of times at first, but after a while it wasn’t too bad.”
“So everybody keeps telling me,” Barney said. He patted his ample midriff. “But I can’t seem to do it myself. I like food too much. Carne asada — that’s my main weakness. Did I ever take you to my cousin Carlos’s place in the Mission? No? You never tasted carne asada the way he makes it. A gallon of sour cream, and those sweet onions he uses… ah Jesus.”
