Too Sweet to Die (9 page)

“Be my guest,” said Mitzi, sliding the phone toward him. “Charge it to the Cinema Azul. Is it okay if I go back to work?”

“Yeah, sure.” Easy dialed the Carmel number as the chubby girl left the little office.

The same woman servant with the soft Mexican voice answered. “Yes?”

“I’d like to speak to Cullen Montez.”

“Mr. Montez he is not here now, sir.”

“Okay, then let me talk to Mr. Nordlin.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, sir … Mr. Nordlin died early this evening.”

E
ASY WATCHED A WALL
of old inscribed photos as he made his next call. Fifty browning smiles beamed down on him. The one break in the pictures was a small grilled window. A light rain was falling against it.

The phone only rang once at the other end. “Ingraham Sanitarium. Good evening.”

“Hello, Marlys?” said Easy. “I want to ask …”

“John?” said Dr. Marlys Newborn in Carmel. “I’ve been trying to contact you for the last two hours or more. You told me I could reach you through the Kearny agency in San Francisco and I’ve called there twice. I even phoned your LA office. A man named Hagopian was very kind but he didn’t know where you were. Where are you?”

“Still in San Francisco. What’s Hagopian doing in my office?”

“He said a girl was using his place for a séance so …”

“Okay, why did you want me?”

“John,” said Marlys. “I’ve been lying to you. Some.”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“I did know where Jill Jeffers was. Still I felt I owed it to Dr. Ingraham to maintain the security of
…
”

“Ingraham had her there at the sanitarium,” said Easy. “I was starting to wonder about that, which is why I called you.”

“Yes. Jill had supposedly …”

“Nordlin tried to work the same dodge twice. When Jill showed up in Carmel to confront him with what she finally remembered, he turned her over to Ingraham again.”

“She supposedly suffered a nervous collapse, John. That’s the story I was given,” said Marlys. “Now I’m not to certain what …”

“You said Jill
was
there. Did Cullen Montez come and get her?”

“No, John. Dr. Ingraham has … he’s gone off somewhere with Jillian.”

“Ingraham?”

“Yes. About four hours ago there was a call for Dr. Ingraham from the Nordlin estate, from Cullen Montez,” continued Marlys. “You know Senator Nordlin has died?”

“Yeah.”

“Apparently the upset and excitement of all this furor over Jillian was too much for his heart …”

“Sooner or later,” cut in Easy, “all you people are going to have to stop blaming Jill for what you do to each other. Now, where in the hell did Ingraham take her and why?”

“You’re not including me in with people like Montez, John? I …”

“You only work there. I know. Where’s your ugly little boss taken the girl, Marlys?”

Marlys said, “You’re right, John. We can thrash out our personal difficulties later, at our leisure. The important thing right now is Jillian, of course. John, I happened to overhear some of what the doctor said to her just prior to his practically dragging her out of here. He was telling her she’d have to show him where the house up in San Montroni was. There was some talk about money, hidden money.”

“Good Christ, is Ingraham going after the dough Nordlin has stashed up in Sonoma County?”

“I think that must be what he has in mind,” said Marlys. “Dr. Ingraham, despite the really fantastic success of his book and of the entire Howl Therapy program, has been having some desperate financial problems lately. There’s an ex-wife, some failed franchise speculations … Apparently all the financial pressures coupled with the heavy responsibilities of the sanitarium have pushed Dr. Ingraham into acting in this highly uncharacteristic way.”

“Uh huh, highly uncharacteristic,” said Easy. “When did the two of them leave there?”

“Over three hours ago, John. I debated awhile with myself before I first tried to contact you. I finally decided I had better.”

“He’s got a four- or five-hour drive to do,” said Easy. “So he and Jill probably aren’t there yet. Do you know exactly where this hideaway is?

“No, beyond the fact it’s in the vicinity of the town of San Montroni. There are a couple of big wineries there, aren’t there? I went to a wine tasting in San Montroni once as I recall.”

Easy said, “Thanks for telling me all this, Marlys.”

“Will you stop by here on your way back home to Los Angeles, John? I’d like to see you.”

“Maybe.” Easy hung up. The rain was coming heavier outside. The pictures kept on smiling. He dialed the Kearny agency.

“Kearny Detective Agency. Cruz here.”

“Joe, this is John Easy.”

“You’re supposed to call Dr. Marlys Newborn in Carmel,” said Cruz.

“Just did,” replied Easy. “Do you have anything more about the location of the Nordlin hideaway?”

“Some,” said Cruz. “Your lady doctor friend told me some of what she wanted to pass on to you and I’ve been digging a little more. The place is in San Montroni. Right now I’m trying to track down the real estate man who sold Senator Nordlin, the late senator, the place back in 1950. My contact in the county court house in Sonoma is out with the flu and so I couldn’t get the location that way.”

“I’ve got to get to the place tonight. Dr. Ingraham is taking Jill Jeffers there.”

“Your Dr. Newborn told me,” said Cruz. “We could notify the Highway Patrol. They might be able to stop him enroute.”

“I don’t know what shape Ingraham is in,” said Easy. “Or what he’ll do if somebody tries to slow him down.”

“You want to go up there yourself?”

“Yes,” said Easy.

“Then try the Cuidera family. They’ve got a winery right on the main drag in San Montroni, with a family mansion attached. They’re close friends of the Nordlins I hear. They must know where the hideaway is,” said Cruz. “In case they won’t cooperate, call me again when you hit there. I may have the location by then. If I can’t get hold of this real estate guy I’ll give the phone company up there another try. For some reason, afraid of Nordlin probably, I haven’t been able to get the address out of them.”

“Okay, keep on it.” Easy left Mitzi Levin’s office, walked across the small lobby and out to the street.

Mitzi tapped a finger on the ticket booth glass. “Do you know where Jill is?” she called.

“Almost,” answered Easy as he began to run through the rain to his car.

S
ONOMA
C
OUNTY PARALLELS THE
Pacific and lies north of San Francisco. By eleven thirty that night Easy had passed through Santa Rosa and was driving his Volkswagen farther inland toward San Montroni. The rain was falling heavy now, a strong wind slapping it against the windshield. Easy hunched slightly, rubbing moisture off the inside of the window with the heel of his hand.

He’d tried the car radio the first few miles of the drive. After a half-dozen newscaster eulogies of Senator Nordlin he clicked it off.

He swung out and passed a giant grunting diesel truck and had the late night highway to himself for a while. The first time Easy saw the Dodge Colt he gave it only peripheral attention. The two-door compact was a silver-grey color and blended quickly with the rainy night as it passed Easy doing seventy-five.

Easy’s VW jogged on at a steady sixty, quivering slightly, swaying now and then in a gust of wet wind. He wiped the windshield again, spotted the junction road which led to San Montroni and turned off the highway. A black and white sign told him he still had fifteen miles to go.

The ground on all sides of him was level, dark field after dark field. A tan jackrabbit popped up suddenly, frightened, in the bright thrust of his headlights. Easy’s foot touched the brake and he guided the car to the left. The jackrabbit hopped away into the darkness.

This was Easy’s last encounter with anything until he reached the silver bridge. The bridge was only a few hundred feet long, humped fifty feet above a small dirty river.

When he hit the bridge his tires made a ratcheting sound on the fretted metal. Easy didn’t hear the first rifle shot at all and he more felt than heard his left front tire explode. He was midway across the span.

The car began trying to take itself away from him. The rear end fought to swing around to the front.

Easy kept his foot off the brake, trying to gently steer the wildly gliding car off the bridge. He couldn’t do it at first.

The VW turned around, its rear slamming into the far side of the metal bridge. Then it half-spun, seeming to skid sideways.

Finally Easy felt the car back under his control and he guided it the rest of the way across the bridge.

He would have made it safely off the bridge and back on the road if another rifle shot hadn’t come. This one smacked the windshield, turning it to rock candy.

Inadvertently Easy flinched, allowing the VW to get away from him for a few seconds.

His small black car slammed against the bridge again, scraped harshly alongside a concrete piling and then jumped from the bridge to the roadside. The VW swayed over the road, then skittered off to the left.

It skidded through weedy grass, tore through a barbed-wire fence and smashed, with a crumpling splash, into a narrow irrigation ditch.

Easy unbuckled his seatbelt, hit the door and rolled free of his VW nosed down into the muddy water. He worked himself quickly away from the car, moving back toward the silver bridge.

Easy was twenty feet along the ditch when the car exploded with a great whomping sound. It began to crackle and burn, sizzling in the hard rain.

“That ought to distract him,” thought Easy. For an instant, as he’d spun off the road, he’d seen the man with the rifle. A big man crouched in the scrub brush on the other side of the road, illuminated for a second by the splash of light from Easy’s car.

The heavy-falling rain washed the ditch mud off Easy as he approached the bridge. Crouched low, he edged under the silver span into the shadows along the riverbank. Among the rocks and gritty brown earth were scattered aluminum Lucky Lager beer cans, lost hub caps, and a ruined baby carriage lying on its back with its wheels in the air.

Easy saw the Dodge Colt again. It was parked off the road, at the other side of the bridge, near the brush where the big man with the rifle knelt. The car was empty, meaning the guy with the rifle was probably alone.

The man was cautiously rising up, watching Easy’s VW burning orange in the night across the road from him.

Easy recognized the man. It was one of Cullen Montez’s big sidekicks, the polite one named Neil. They must all be heading for the Nordlin hideaway, too. With Neil, maybe, bringing up the rear. Neil had identified Easy’s unkempt Volkswagen when he passed him back on the highway. He’d decided apparently to wait on the San Montroni road to devote some further time to taking Easy off the case.

Easy, bent low, made his way up beyond the silver bridge and the silver-grey car. He stalked along behind roadside scrub, slipping his .38 revolver from his shoulder holster.

Neil was standing full up now, his rifle tipped down, his left hand shielding his eyes. The hard rain had taken the curl out of his hair and peaked it down over his broad forehead.

“Drop the rifle, Neil,” shouted Easy. He was ten feet from Montez’s man, standing upright himself, his .38 pointed.

Pausing barely a second, Neil turned and fired the rifle straight at Easy.

Easy was not there. He threw himself flat out on the ground. He got off two shots.

“Shit,” said the polite Neil. A spot of red blossomed on his right sleeve, was washed away by rain, formed again. He’d dropped the rifle when Easy’s shot hit him. He took off on the run, away from the road and Easy, cutting across the recently harvested field.

Easy, spread with mud and straw, rose up. He watched Neil run. The rolling hills beyond the field were thick with oaks and pines. “I know he’s got a hand gun,” said Easy. “He can tell me where the hideaway is, but it may take me an hour to outfox him in those trees.”

The big Neil, running in zigzags, was nearly to the dark woods.

Easy stood by the road a moment, letting the rain work on his mud. He collected the dropped rifle, a big-bore Winchester with a telescopic sight. Then he went to Neil’s car. The key was in the ignition, with a gold Spanish coin hanging from the ring.

Easy opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat. It made a mess on the cream-colored upholstery.

T
HE FIFTY-YEAR-OLD MAN IN
the doorway had a bland boyish face, a bright pink at the moment, and a tumbler of Scotch in his right hand. “If I’ve ever seen anybody who needs a drink, it’s you,” he told Easy. “You look like you fell head first into an irrigation ditch. What happened to you?”

“I fell head first into an irrigation ditch,” replied Easy. “You’re Cuidera?”

“Who else would I be?” said the blond Cuidera. “I’m your host. Come in.” Behind him a large living room full of drinking guests showed. “You’re late, but there’s still plenty to drink.”

Easy stepped into the big black stone Cuidera house. It was nearly 1
A.M.
“My name is John Easy. I’m a …”

“Glad to have you, Johnny,” said Cuidera. He patted Easy on his damp back. “We’ll get you a drink. I personally can’t stand our famous Cuidera Brothers fine wines, but a lot of people love the stuff. If that’s your bag, you’ll find plenty on hand. Or, if you’re like me, you’ll want a shot of J&B on the rocks. How about it, Johnny?”

“I’m looking for Jillian Nordlin,” Easy told Cuidera.

“Not here so far as I know,” said Cuidera. “Of course I don’t know half these deadbeats anyway, but I know little Jilly. Known her all my life. Or all her life rather. She must be nearly twenty-one now.”

“Twenty-five,” said Easy. “She’s in danger, at the Nordlin place up here. Can you tell me how to get out there?”

Cuidera was jostling Easy toward a bar which had been set up across the dim living room. “I thought you came to my party to hoist a few, Johnny? What’ll you have?”

In front of the white-topped bar stood a thin brunet in a black cocktail dress. She frowned as Cuidera approached. “Bud,” she said to him, “what’s the trouble?”