3 X CD

By CD Moulton

Three books from the CD Grimes detective stories. A Question of Murder is a collection of 11 shorter works, Murder, He Guessed is a murder that leads to a huge scam being run against NASA, and Dead File is CD finding an old note in a file, which leads to an investigation, which leads to a Caribbean island paradise and several more murders. It is a more action-oriented work than any of the CD Grimes mysteries before. CD is a multimillionaire who likes the detective bit that he learned from his grandfather, the original CD Grimes. He has access to a lot of technology that others don't, but finds that it can be a hindrance. He has a wife and family [in the later books] that figure into how far he can go. He is loyal to his friends, and they are loyal to him. These books are about problem solvers, not blood and guts and semi-porno. CD gets into situations that place him in great physical danger, but remains an honorable, decent person.

• Language: English
• Publisher: CD Moulton
• Release date: Mar 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370124442

CD Moulton

Born in Florida, travelled the world as a rock guitarist with some big names in the late sixties, early seventies. Been everything from a high steel worker to longshoreman, from musician to bar owner, and much more. Educated in botany and genetics. Now living in paradise (Panamá!)

Book preview

Three Favorites X CD

three of the most popular CD Grimes Mysteries

Book seven

A Question of Murder

11 shorts

Book eight

Murder, He Guessed

Book fourteen

Dead File

© 2018 by C. D. Moulton

all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, either electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any other information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

These are works of fiction. any resemblances to persons, living or dead, or to events is purely coincidental.

A Question of Murder

CD Grimes

Book seven

A Question of Murder

11 shorts

© 1988 by C. D. Moulton

Critic comment

These are rather standard fare for the detective magazines, though they tend to be among the better type.

- GGL ***

Contents

Foreword

Sleuth

No Fishing From Bridge

Say Again?

Fish Tales

Return To Sender

Third Time's the Charm

Dead Line

Show Time!

Name Your Poison

No Takers

You Don't Threaten A Cracker

About the Author

CD Moulton has traveled extensively over much of the world both in the music business, where he was a rock guitarist, songwriter and arranger and in an import/export business. He has been everything from a bar owner to auto salvage (junkyard) manager, longshoreman to high steel worker, orchid grower to landscaper, tropical fish farmer to commercial fisherman. He started writing books in 1983 and has published more than 250 books as of January 1, 2015. His most popular books to date are about research with orchids, though much of his science fiction and fantasy work has proven popular. He wrote the CD Grimes, PI series and the Det. Nick Storie series, Clint Faraday series and many other works.

He now resides in Puerto Armuelles, Panamá, where he writes books, plays music with friends, does research with orchids and medicinal plants – and pursues his favorite ways to spend his time: beach bum and roaming the mountain jungles doing his botanical research. He has lately become involved in fighting for the rights of the indigenous people, who are among his closest friends, and in fighting the extreme corruption in the courts and police in Panamá.

He offers the free e-book, Fading Paradise, that explains what he has been through because of the corruption.

A Question of Murder

Formerly: Another Look At the Files

Foreword

These are a few odd cases from the files that may hold some interest to others. They show a small bit of what the detective business is about.

Most of my cases are about murder. That's my specialty. When I was a teenager, growing up on the Crane Estate in Nicely, CD Grimes, my Gramps, was a famous detective. He taught me most of what I know, and gave me a few pointers about how to approach a case. He was also a billionaire, and that has passed on to me, in great part.

This is in explanation of a few things that appear to irritate readers of my crap.

I am used to power, to giving orders that are followed. That is a part of having limitless money, and of the training to run those Crane companies, which I now hold 51% of. (of which I.... I know. Bitch, bitch, bitch.) The government won't let me get rid of them, but that's not germane here.

To reinforce that, Gramps said: a detective, to be successful in the field of murder, must be borderline arrogant, and totally self-assured, at all times, that he is in control, and is smarter than the killer. A detective who is always unsure and confused is not going to do more than be used by many criminal types. If I sound like a pompous ass, it's part of the act. When the act drains over too much into my personal life and relations, my real friends tell me to stop being an asshole jerk.

I thank them for that. My method does make me accept far too many things as real, not projections, and leaks into how I treat others, at times. Sometimes, I am an asshole jerk. I'm human.

Another thing is the take control way I work with the police here and statewide. People who are not aware that I am a special marshal for the grand jury tend to say, "Yeah! Right! I see the cops putting up with that!"

The grand jury (Which, personally, I don't believe has any place in a democratic, just society) has broad powers. Much too broad, in my conception.

Anyhow, note that the method works, and realize that I am not really what these things can sound like – at least, I sincerely hope not.

CD Grimes

Englewood, FL.

May, 1988

Sleuth

It was raining that morning as I threw the worn trench coat and soggy hat in the general direction of the rack. My fags were a gooey yellow-brown scum dripping through the cellophane, and Lucy was giving me one of her looks.

Let her look! I pay her to pick things up.

I pay her when I get the dough, that is. She's a good broad. She puts up with a hell of a lot from me, and I know it.

"Before you go in there, you should know that Turner and the D.A. are already there. D.A. Mortimer has blood in his eye. They also said a Mrs. Blossom is expected, and I am to send her in.

June Blossom, would you believe!

I gave her my one-sided grin, and sauntered into the office, just as the outer door to the reception room opened. I did a doubletake, and went back out.

June Blossom had long, silky blond hair in a neat upsweep in front, a perfect set of gams that went up forever, the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and all her other endowments in large and perfectly shaped configurations, if you get my drift.

Mr Grimes? she asked, in a voice that sent a little ripple up my spine – like little silver bells.

Crap! Do even my daydreams have to sound so tiredly cliched? This kind of sleuthing went out in the forties!

Well, almost. There were still a few notable exceptions.

My next thing in such a situation would be to know perfectly well that whatever the case was, she did it. I wouldn't get so involved I'd end up getting beat up and getting shot up – or worse. I'm not bulletproof, and am enough of a coward to know I'd probably get hit – and not a flesh wound somewhere that would let me jump from the hospital bed and continue the chase. However, if she was going to use her over-abundance of sexual charms to seduce someone into doing her dirty work, I might turn her over to Jim Barrow for a little while. He could teach her a thing or two about that sort of thing.

You have a silly look on your face! Alma, my wife, noted, coming into the den with a pot of coffee and a big platter of homemade dew-berry muffins. (Actually, they were dewberry 1-2-3 cake cooked in individual muffin tins.) Why the grin?

Oh, I was thinking about a certain type of woman and Jim. More or less how I'd handle a situation in one of those old detective novels.

You mean the sex queen, all legs, helpless type, that always did it?

Oh, they all do it, I fired back, ducking as she threw the Tampa Tribune at me. We ended up in a wad in the overstuffed chair (I do have that prop!) doing depraved things to each other. That was the way Lou found us, when she came in to say I had a caller. I wonder why I didn't hear them drive up?

Alma straightened up her hair a bit, sniffed, and went out for Lou to show a rather large red-nosed individual into the room. If I were going to chose the one who did it in one of my cases, he would have been it, on general principles.

This is Mr. Yost, Lou announced, gave his back a dirty look, and slammed the door behind him as she went out.

Here now, you! I'm not used to being kept waiting, Grimes! he snapped huffily, in greeting.

I warmed to him immediately. Really? You could always show your displeasure by walking out, I replied, as dryly as I could manage. I'm busy. What do you want from me that's so important you couldn't take the time to make a normal appointment before coming in here, bitching because you were kept waiting?

I don't need appointments! I don't have time for all that! I'm used to action!

Then you'd better get yourself into better shape. You look to me like any more action than walking to the door and you'd keel over. I went to the open window, and yelled, Paulo!

I'm too busy to play games with you! I have a meeting in less than an hour with my board of directors. You've got to find out who's doing this to me!

I don't have to find the time of day for you. I handle my board meetings with conference phones. Saves time and money.

Paulo came to look into the window. Mr. Yost is getting the hell off of my property. If he resists your kind efforts to expedite his departure, knock him on his ass and throw him off!

I turned to Yost, who was standing with his mouth hanging wide open, gulping like a fish.

Have a nice day. I sat back at the desk.

"Buh! Duh! Whah? Do you know who I am!?"

Your name is Yost. You're a totally obnoxious ass. You are leaving. I meant it when I said Paulo could throw you out!

I'm Howard Delander Kirkpatrick Yost, the third! he yelled. I’m owner of HDKY Modern Aluminum Products! We're the largest pre-manufactured aluminum contractors in the state!

Paulo was coming into the room for that one, and said, Doesn't your Alabama plant supply all their aluminum, CD?

I don't know which turkeys we supply from which plant. Show Yost out.

As Paulo steered Yost out, I heard him saying he gets all his building supplies from J. R. Crane Structural Metals Corporation.

Yeah, Paulo replied. CD owns all those Crane things. He buys six companies like yours before breakfast, and sells them before lunch so he can spend the afternoons fishing. He don't like golf.

The door slammed, and I heard an argument, then a car drove off. Paulo came in, grinning, and said the guy's chauffeur wasn't about to get into any fight for him, and got fired, so he would drive him home.

Get him a job at the Sarasota plant, if he needs one and has a chauffeur's license, I suggested, and went back to my work on the new hybrid lists of the orchids. It had been awhile since I'd updated them. I'd be stuck the rest of the day, there. I put Yost out of my mind.

The next morning, Jim and I went out for awhile, just inside of Stump Pass, and got a few trout and a nice pompano, then came in for lunch. Paulo came in from Englewood, where he had picked up the mail and some groceries for Lou. I glanced through the letters, and came to one with a HDKY Modern Aluminum Pre-fabricators letterhead. I almost tossed it at the circular file, but shrugged, and tore it open.

Mr. Grimes:

I wish, first, to state that your mistreatment of me this morning was inexcusable, though I admit it is possible I was somewhat at fault myself. I realize that I had no appointment and your type of people are a bit defensive about those things.

However: You are a detective and come recommended quite highly. I have no experience with such sordid affairs that I have ever been in contact with a detective before, but I now find myself forced to seek the services of your agency by events not within my control.

I used part of the family capital to establish the HDKY company as a diversion and, frankly, it has grown to be my major source of income. Someone is now sabotaging that business and I don't know who or why.

That is what I need your services for. Find out and put a stop to it.

I do not know what your normal fees may be so I am including my personal check for five hundred dollars ($500.00), which I am sure will cover things until you have some results.

No signature, no nothing, except the check. I saw red.

After lunch, I went to my den and wrote:

Yost:

Am in receipt of your letter and hereby inform you that I am returning your check. I would hate to have all that money laying around here for someone to steal or something.

I don't care about you or the HDKY company. Please do not again disturb me. If you find you need the services of a detective you will find some excellent agencies in the yellow pages. I think you should use one of the commercially advertised companies, considering that they are more in your price range, apparently. My minimum standard retainer fee is fifty thousand dollars ($50,000.00) with a daily rate of five hundred dollars ($500.00) plus expenses, so you will realize the commercial establishments, which generally charge two hundred dollars ($200.00) per day, are more in your price range.

I didn't sign it, either. I carried it to the post office as I went out to the island to visit with Jim and Mac, then went home, took Alma to Sarasota, to the Asolo Theater, for a comedy show where we had an altogether pleasant evening.

The following day, I spent with the orchids. The morning after that, I had business in Ft. Myers. I returned home late in the afternoon to find I had another letter from Yost.

Some people have enough nerve....

I tore it open and a check fell out. I let it lay on the floor while I read the letter.

Dear Mr. Grimes,

Please forgive my former shortness with you and the implied slights. I was understandably upset at the time. I do urgently need help. You have here my check to include your retainer fee and a few days expenses. I have instructed all of my employees to cooperate with you fully.

I am desperate, Mr. Grimes! I think someone tried to kill me!

Very sincerely yours,

He signed this one.

I picked up the check. It was for seventy five thousand. Alma was reading it over my shoulder.

He must have checked and found you really do own all those Crane things. From what you and Paulo said, I don't wonder that someone wants to kill him. At least, murder's up your alley, while industrial espionage isn't. You shouldn't have quoted the retainer and fees. He's got you, now.

I shook my head and grinned. If there was one thing I was equipped to handle, it was this!

I called the Sarasota plant, and told Tony Jacobi, #1 manager and huge help in all my projects, to find out who was stealing HDKY blind and let me know. There's no one in the business better than Tony, and he already works for me. I would hand Yost his crook, if there was one, and his check. I would tell him not to ever bother me again for any reason.

Tony sent all the evidence over the following afternoon. He had it down to a science, and we had our thieves, the manager of the number three prefabrication plant, and the bookkeeper there, dead to rights. They had simply copied bills from our Alabama plant, which are computer-printed, and paid them by P.O. to a bank account owned by the two in Mobile, Alabama. They had embezzled more than eight hundred thousand dollars in the past three months, alone. I gathered the evidence, made copies for my records, and drove to the big estate on the Myaka River, where Yost lived. I had to go in through two security gates, and was instructed to remain inside of my car until the dogs were tied by the houseman, who would then take me in to Mr. Yost, if he would see me. There was word to allow me through at any time.

I drove up to the house, where there was another steel gate. A man was chaining four Dobermans, then waved to me, and threw a remote switch which opened the gate. I went in, and the gate closed, then went into the house with the houseman, who used the house phone to call for Yost. He punched several numbers, but got no response, then shook his head, sighed, and led me to a room with rather comfortable, but mostly unused furniture. He went out, and was gone for more than half an hour. I couldn't leave with those dogs out there, or I would've marched out of the place after about five minutes.

The houseman returned, and said he couldn't understand why, but Mr. Yost didn't seem to be in the house – and he never left the place, except in his Mercedes, and with a chauffeur. There was no chauffeur on duty, and the Mercedes was still in the garage.

He called the gate and to the river security fence, but Yost hadn't gone anywhere, and no one else had come or gone, except for me. I didn't like the smell of this. At all.

I asked where Yost usually was at this time of the day, and the houseman, Jon Lord, said he was often in his study. He had been served coffee and pastry there about an hour and a half ago. The door was locked, now.

We went to the study, which was in the center of the house, and which had no entrance or exit, except for the one door. It had no windows. There was no key for the lock, except the one Yost carried on his chain.

We went through the whole house, carefully. The only place we couldn't enter was that study. Yost wasn't anywhere. We even checked the garage and storage rooms, and had the river security man check the boat and boathouse.

Then he's in the study, I said. Process of elimination. He couldn't be anywhere else – so ring the number for in there, Jon.

It's quite soundproofed, Sir, Jon said. You won't hear it out here.

He rang the number. I couldn't hear it, at all.

We don't know it's ringing, then. He may be right there.

Jon looked thoughtful, then went to a bellpull to one side, and yanked the cord.

It has a bell that is directly attached, Sir. We installed it in case of electrical failure. It works from either side, you see. The bells are there in the ventilators.

He pointed to a small grille in the ceiling. I got an idea, and asked him to go ring the number for the study again, as I climbed on the table. With my ear by the vent, I could hear the bell, very faintly.

I inspected the small grille carefully, then climbed down.

What do we do now, Sir?

Call the police, and have them send out some men. I rather think we'll find Yost in that room. Dead.

You think he committed suicide, Sir?

I just grunted.

If he's inside there, it has to be suicide. Only he has the key, and he would have had to lock it from the inside. It doesn't lock or unlock without the key, Sir.

"Then it should be open and shut. If the key is inside there on his ring.

Call the police.

He nodded, and went to the phone, called the police, called the gate to say they were coming, then went out to tie the dogs. I had no doubt Yost was in there, and that he was dead, I had some idea of the basic mechanism that was used, I knew who had done it, or who was part of it, anyhow, but I had no motive – yet. That's the worst trouble with murder that's done by a clever person. It's sometimes difficult to get a conviction, unless you can tie it all up properly.

Jon came back in to ask if I cared for coffee, saying he was certainly very nervous, and needed something. I agreed, and went with him to the kitchen. I asked Jon a number of questions, discovering he was the only one, besides Yost, who was allowed inside of the house, since the divorce. The ex-wife took Yost for a huge bundle, took the young daughter, and left him. Yost wouldn't trust a woman in the house, since.

So what'll you do if he's dead?

Oh, I've some put by, Sir. I'll be all right until I find other employ-ment. Where are those police? It seems hours! He looked at his wrist watch, which was a very nice diamond-faced Patek, and there was a nice little red Porsche, sitting beside the garage. So that was it.

Do you know what kind of investigation I was conducting for Mr. Yost?

Sir? Investigation? What do you mean?

I'm a detective. I was coming here. You and all the other employees here had orders to cooperate fully with me. Surely you could figure there was to be an investigation!

Well, er, you see, Sir, Mr. Yost was a most suspicious, uh, person, sometimes, so we are, uh, used to this sort of thing. Nothing ever comes of it.

He had other detectives in? Do you know who any of them were?

Well, Sir. We weren't supposed to know anything, except that a Mr. Matthews or a Mr. Smith was coming, but we knew, Sir. Mr. Yost sometimes was a very suspicious person, you see.

And they got in the gates?

Suddenly, Jon was sweating and fidgeting. Er, that is, Sir, they always came in with him, before.

But you said no one had been in the house, except the two of you, since the divorce. It wasn't anything to do with here, you know. It was to do with the HDKY aluminum company. Yost was far too stupid to see what was going on here.

"Here, Sir? Is there something going on here?

I think that will be the police.

We heard the cars drive up, and went to the door, together. I knew the officer in charge from an earlier case, and told him to catch Jon when he ran, that it was a murder, and that Jon did it.

I turned over the evidence against the two at the HDKY plant to him, and we got into the room with a locksmith they called. It was well set up, but locked room mysteries are old hat, now, and I could figure this one – had figured it before we entered the room.

Yost was in the easy chair, at the desk, shot through the right temple with a revolver, which was under his right hand. The key was in the lock, still on the chain.

Okay, how did he do it? Mike Carlson, the sheriff, asked. "The guy's right-handed, there are only his prints on the gun, it's the same gun that killed him, his hand is powder residue positive, the key's still in the lock, so it wouldn't work from outside, anyhow, there's no evidence of anything that could have been used to turn the key. I don't see how you're going to be able to convince a court this one wasn't suicide. I know it, and you know it, but we don't count. What was the tipoff?

There wasn't any dust on part of the little grille when I listened for the phone. You'll find there isn't any on a couple of the louvers on that one up there, either. If you'll get me a Popsicle stick and some mono-filament line I'll show you how it was done.

He grinned, shook his head, and got the stuff. I tied the Popsicle stick carefully on one end and ran the monofilament through the grille in the study, then went into the hall, where I fished the end of the line through, with a wire. I had Mike stay inside the room to watch how easily it worked, ran the stick through the ring on the keys, put it against the flat part of the key, wrapped the monofilament line around the stick on the other end, and held it in place as I closed the door to within three inches, withdrew my hand, closed the door, very carefully, after taking the other end of the line and putting a little bit of tension on it to hold the stick in place. I gave the line a sharp jerk, then slack, then slowly pulled it in. It caught in the grille, and I slacked and pulled twice, then the stick came through. Mike opened the door, and grinned.

"Slick as you please! The stick turned the key, and the line came off the end when it pointed at the grille. The fisherman's knot came loose, the stick slipped right through the ring and up and away!

I can see he was stealing Yost blind, but why kill him, now?

"All Jon knew was that Yost had some high-priced detective coming in about some thefts. He didn't know it had nothing to do with this place, and figured he was about to get caught. It wouldn't do any good to run. He'd be found, and the running would be as much as admitting guilt.

"If Yost committed suicide before the investigation, there wouldn't be an investigation.

"Jon tried a bit too hard to plant the idea of suicide. We had no proof Yost was in there, much less dead, yet he was telling me it had to be suicide, because there was no way in or out of that room, if the key was in there. He tried to gloss over the fact Yost would never have taken the chain off of his belt by not mentioning it. He then tried to leave the impression that Yost was always bringing detectives around, and my being hired was just another in a long run of them, but Yost didn't know the first thing about hiring a detective – and that for an entirely different purpose. That and a few hundred other little details.

Did he run?

"He had a bunch of jewelry and clothes and the Porsche, and headed for the gate, but didn't get that far. He seems to think we can't prove anything, because, as he tried to convince you, there was no way in or out of that room, without the key. I'm going to let him make a state-ment, then I'm going to tell him the old stick-and-string through the ventilator thing hasn't worked in fifty years, and let him try again.

I'll bet three separate statements before he breaks down.

Five,

We should have averaged. He made four.

No Fishing From Bridge

CD, Hon! Can you come to the phone? Alma called from the potting bench at the far end of the Cattleya house. I sighed, wiped my hands, then went to take it from her.

It's Cal, she said, then went back to her repotting.

Yo, Cal?

Yo, CD. I've got something here that may be right down your alley, Cal said (Cal's Lt. Calvin Jones, FHP, a good family friend, as well as a business acquaintance).

What? And where are you?

I'm at the south bridge from Bonita to Ft. Myers Beach. North end. Seems we have a body. Apparent drowning. Black male, twenty three years old.

This going to be twenty questions? I'm not all that close to you. Why me?

It's Lark Hinson.

Cal, I don't have any idea who La ... Oh. Another one from Bayou Critter? Bass, wasn't he?

Yeah, CD. He sounded tired. "Listen, CD. I don't think this is drug related, and I damned well know that three people from one little local rock band didn't all have accidents! There are two of them left.

I've asked John, from the Marine Patrol – he's out in the chopper – to pick you up. He should be there any second. I'll take you home.

I could hear the chopper in the distance, so I sighed again, and promised I'd come. John could have me there pretty fast, but I didn't see any reason for me to go. This wouldn't be the kind of thing that seeing the victims would solve.

I told Alma I was going, went to the house to pick up some things, and was on the chopper in less than five minutes. That little job is really fast, for a chopper. I suppose Cal held things up, but not much had been moved when I arrived. John went on out again, and I went to Cal, who pointed to the edge of the water, just under the bridge.

I looked over the body, after Cal introduced me to the locals and said he had called me because I was working on a case that could well be related. The coroner was examining the location, so I stood off and saw what little there was to see. It was about half tide, leaving ten or eleven feet from the water to the underside of the bridge. There was a steady stream of traffic across the bridge, but the solid concrete structure didn't budge from it, and didn't drum like some. The coroner told the photo-grapher to get a couple more shots, then came toward me.

What's the verdict?

He's dead, was the reply.

I hoped this one wasn't going to be like Slats Lattimer, who I despised at first sight (And who returned the favor. There was no reason for it, it was just chemical).

You from the FHP? Why are they on it?

I'm working on a related case, maybe. They're automatically on it, if anything happened on the bridge.

He nodded, then said, "Good chance. Heavy blow to the head. Lots of weight behind it. Could have hit something. A rock – if he came off headfirst. Can't be sure until we get some kind of deterioration and residuals tests done, but I'd say six or eight hours.

'Course, something hard and heavy could have hit him, and would do almost the same thing. Prelim says he was unconscious then, and drowned, though the blow fractured the skull, and he would have had a hard time, regardless. Sixty forty he'd of died anyhow. No paint'r anything, so I seriously doubt he was hit on the head by a car. Lab reports this afternoon or tomorrow.

I looked at the body from a little closer.

What ripped the skin on his hand like that?

Blunt, maybe a quarter of an inch thick. Could'a been anything.

I moved back, and looked up at the bridge. It would have happened between two and four in the morning, if the time was right. The tide would have been about an hour from low. I estimated where the edge of the water would have been, and looked upward from there. There was a metal sign just over the spot, with the bolts trailing brown rust along the bridge rail and under it, so I climbed up to the road, and went out on the bridge.

It said No Fishing From Bridge. It was one of those metal signs on a galvanized steel pole that was bolted to the bridge railing.

I started back, then turned around to inspect the sign, then the pole.

Hey, Doc! I called. Come here, will you?

He came grunting up the slope, and out to me.

Is that his blood on those bolts? I asked, pointing to a galvanized bolt with a brownish-red stain. He called the lab boys over. They were able to get prints from the pole, and a sample of the blood.

"It'll be maybe a foot deep down there, at low tide. There are plenty of rocks. He was hanging on here for dear life when someone pried him loose.

He had his foot on the stanchion there, and pitched over. If he had dropped feet first, he may have broken legs, but he most probably wouldn't be dead.

I reckon they'd of shot him, or something, so he'd be just as dead. Prints on that pole look like his. Little loops, and a scar across the thumb.

This one, I respected. He noticed things.

That was about all that happened, there, so Cal and I got in his cruiser as soon as the body was hauled off and headed for a little coffee house he stopped at sometimes for some lunch and talk.

Now, I said, after we’d ordered. "Sonny Jim McElveen, key-boards, `Harpo' Drake, lead guitar, and now `Lark' Hinson, lead vocals and bass. We have `Sticks' Gordon, drums and lead vocals, and Ed Mayer, rhythm guitar and wind.

"McElveen's brakes fail, and he goes off I seventy five into the side of a log truck. It happens. Drake falls off a fourth story roof onto a parking lot in Naples. It happens, but not so often two nights apart, and both after midnight, and both members of the same band, still, it happens.

"Now Hinson. This one leaves evidence up there that he had a grip on a signpost, and was forced off of it. Same band. Two nights later. That doesn't happen. No way!

No evidence of any drug use, and not enough alcohol to have that kind of effect, even without Hinson's obvious murder. I need anything you've learned from Clewis, in Naples, or the sheriff who handled the wreck.

We handled the wreck. I did that, myself. That's what caught my attention when the second one bought it. That's why I said something was fishy.

You checked the wreck? Why did those brakes fail?

I've got the lab boy's report in the car. I'll get it for you, he replied, and went out. The lunch was served, then he handed it to me. It said the car had been traveling at the speed limit on the interstate, had taken the off ramp onto exit 21, and had slammed into the log truck that was sitting at the intersection, waiting for traffic to clear. I knew that.

There was a split under the negative post on the battery. It was a side post. The battery acid had run down the grounding wire and dripped on the steel brake line, where it went from the left to the right of the car on the crossmember, and had eaten almost through the line. The emer-gency brake cable wasn't attached at the Y brace. Now there was plenty of evidence something was very wrong! Why hadn't Cal seen it?

Cal, don't those brakes have separate line systems, front and rear? Why wouldn't the rear brakes hold without the cable?

No balance block. There was just a fourway connector on it. The car came without power brakes, and McElveen changed it over, him-self. It came with a six, and he put the V-eight in it when the six blew. He put a low ratio rear in it, too. They pulled their gear in a trailer for awhile, before they started getting good bookings, and could afford to get roadies and their own truck. That's probably when he disconnected the emergency brake. Never got around to hooking it up.

They still got the car?

Yeah. Storage place. I didn't have any reason to be suspicious then, CD.

If you saw things like I do, you would've screamed bloody murder. There's one thing that really stands out like a sore thumb – like several sore thumbs on the same hand!

He was used to my spotting inconsistencies he didn't see, so just said, Clue me?

"It was three ten AM when the wreck happened. He came off the freeway at high speed. He hit a log truck waiting for traffic to clear. That alone would mean I needed a hell of a lot of questions answered! After that, so much wrong with the brakes, all at once?

If you want one more little detail, that was a seventy nine Camarro. They had equalizer blocks, with or without power brakes. With front disk brakes, you have to have one.

I was suspicious about the brake system. What do you mean about the rest of it?

Number one, he came off I seventy five at such a high speed. Did he often do that? At that particular intersection?

He lived about a mile down the road there. He did it every night, after the show was over.

Okay. That tells me a hell of a lot. The log truck – we'll leave the fact there aren't any log trucks on the roads at three in the morning – didn't come off the freeway just in front of him, or he would've already braked, found the brakes weren't holding, and stayed on the interstate to drift to a stop across the overpass.

So? What are you getting at?

How many cars were there on the side road?

"Maybe one every ten or fifteen minutes. Oh, Jesus! I didn't see something that obvious?! What the hell was the truck waiting for there? What traffic?"

So you begin to see. It says here the emergency brake pedal was to the floorboard. That's why I want to see that car!

"Now I see it all. If he hadn't hooked up the things, he wouldn't have hit them! He came off the interstate as fast as he always did, at the time he always did, to find a log truck with no reason to be there stopped at an intersection, just ahead of him. He hit the brakes hard, and the line popped, there was no balance block, so no brakes. He hit the emergency pedal, expecting it to stop him, but it was disconnected. He was doing better than fifty when he slammed into that truck!

I think I remember something else about that car, too – now. Let's eat and go look at it.

What do you remember? I asked, as he searched through the report. He folded it, and handed it to me with a finger under a notation: Transmission was in Lo.

"He knew enough about cars to know there was no way to jam it into park with it moving, so he put it in lo to slow with motor compression. Damn! I see so many of them that I got sloppy! I deserve a good swift hard kick in the ass!"

We finished our lunch, then went to the police storage yard. I had to jack up one side of the car, which was accordianed to such an extent it was hard to tell what it was.

The emergency brake line is held to the `Y' chuck with steel beads, I explained, from underneath. To replace them, you just slide them in. The master line is tied to the frame with a piece of copper wire, and the side lines are tied around the bell housing with bits of monofilament. Took maybe two minutes.

We checked the line where the acid ate through.

The old engine had blown oil for months, if not years. It's caked on the ends of the line, but was wiped away so the acid would reach the steel, Cal noted. "Good job. It's not at all obvious, and could have been done when he changed the engines – but why would he just wipe off part of it?

"God, CD! I really blew this one! Look at the balance block lines! All nice and clean, and the fourway is nice and clean, too! The brake line's filthy up by the master cylinder, which he changed when he added power!

God! I really blew this one!

You had no reason for suspicion, at the time. I wonder about that roof where number two supposedly fell off.

"I don't give myself excuses. There aren't any. I blew it all the way through! I was suspicious about Drake, even though it wasn’t a HP case. I checked everything. He went up on that roof a lot, at odd times when he was writing music or lyrics. His girlfriend and his brother said he went up there to be alone. No distractions. There wasn't anything overlooked there. There just wasn't any leftover clue. Nothing obvious."

We'll get a report, and see. Like you always say, I see things from a different angle than most people.

We checked around, but didn't find anything else, there, not that we needed it, now. Something might be important, later.

The next stop was the sheriff's office to look at the reports on Harpo Drake. He got the name because he had a head full of curly blond hair. I read over the report, then asked if the officer who had investigated that roof was around. He was called on the radio, and was asked one question.

Was Drake's acoustic guitar and/or notepaper found on the roof?

No. Nothing.

So that would tell me to look further.

Why? the cop at the desk asked. I mean, we knew about the other band member, so we were damned careful. There was no reason to suspect anything.

You know Hinson was murdered last night? Cal asked. That throws a lot different light on things. I think I see what CD means about that roof. His girlfriend and brother both told you he went up there to write music at odd times. They said that was the only reason he went up there.

So?

How you gonna write me some music without your instrument, or at least paper, for the words? Let's go, Cal. We have to get to the last two survivors before whoever is knocking them off can finish the job! We walked out with the cop staring at us.

We went back into Bonita Springs, where Ed Mayer lived. He wasn't home, so we went on into Ft. Myers to look up Sticks Gordon.

Gordon was a tall skinny black dude who was scared as hell about something. If I hadn't been with Cal, he would've slammed the door in my face. He didn't much trust Cal, because he was a cop, black or not.

You know about Lark? Cal asked.

Yeah, Man. I've heard of music critics being hard-assed, but this is ridiculous!

No jokes, I said. There are only two of you left. We get some information, or there's nothing we can do to save you from whoever this is. There's got to be something you've seen or heard or read or some-thing. You have to tell us.

"Man, I swear! I don't know nothin'! I thought about it ever since Harpo. I was sort of worried about Sonny – the way he took care of that car. Ain't no way he let the brakes go bad, Man. He was always adjusting' and tinkerin'! What was a log truck down' there at three in the morning? Bullshit, Man! And Harpo was on the roof without his box, Man? Bullshit!

I don't know what's going' on, Man! If I had fifty bucks, I'd be outta here!

You make plenty in that band, Cal said. Why don't you go?

I got expenses, Man! I ain't got no stash!

Crack?

"Hey, Man! I ain't that stupid! he said, angrily. All the shit I see? No way, man!"

His grandmother is in a convalescent home, and gets most of what he makes, a voice said, behind us. I turned to see a rather nice-looking girl in the doorway.

Hey! That ain't none of their goddamned business! Sticks cried.

Baby, you gonna be another meatloaf on a slab, you don't get out of here! I got a little set by. I'll sell some ass, if I have to. I don't want you dead!

You don't have to prostitute yourself, I said. I'll get him out of here until this is settled. We have to get some kind of lead, is all. Maybe you'd better get some stuff together and come with us, now, Sticks. The wrong person sees cops coming in here, and they could get itchy.

He was really scared, and didn't see anything else to do, so he started throwing things into a cardboard box.

I got a suggestion, the girl told Cal. "You thought about maybe seeing who was drivin' that truck?

Is it true that Lark had the whole side of his head caved in?

I'm definitely going to see who was driving the truck, I agreed. I'd say Lark hit a rock, headfirst, when he was shoved off of the bridge. I don't know how long he was able to hold onto the sign. He had one foot against a stanchion post, and was able to hold....

I'd say you thought of something, Cal said. What?

It can wait. It's an outside possibility that's not going anywhere. Let's get Sticks safe and sound, somewhere, then we'll check on our truck driver. We can go back into Bonita Springs by the beach route, and I'll stop to check when we cross the bridge.

We took Sticks and his girlfriend to a place Cal knew about, where they'd be safe, then stopped at the FHP offices for the information on the truck driver. He lived down toward Naples, so we would stop at Ed Mayer's place again on our way.

We stopped on the bridge. I couldn't see what I wanted from on the bridge, and was too far from the shore, but Cal has a good pair of binoculars, so I went below to study the sign and below it.

Bingo!

Cal! Radio for the crime lab boys to get out here right away, with something they can get under that rail base with! They'll need cameras and such!

I climbed back onto dry land, after making the best sketch I could of what I saw.

What you got? Cal asked.

"I've wondered at that tear on the back of Lark's hand, all along. It was on the back, not where he might grip on the inside – yet his blood was on that bolt. How could that have happened?

"It couldn't – unless he deliberately tore the skin!

"When I first noticed the sign base from down here, I wondered how the rust marks got down under the rail base.

He held onto that sign, tore his hand, and wrote us a note that will, I think, identify our killer!

What does it say?

"That's what I don't understand. It says one plus one equals zero, then an R and what looks like a lower case e and a straight line with a bit of a hook outward at its base. It's all a bit rough.

Mean anything to you?

They cut an album awhile back. One plus one equals zero was a cut on it. It was the one that got them started, I think. I don't know about the other things. REJ doesn't ring a bell, at all.

The hook on the J turns out, so it isn't a J. It could be B and F or P with a smear. We have R – E something or P – F something or some-thing else.

We waited there for the lab van, explained what we'd found, and headed for Mayer's again. He was just coming in. We asked him a lot of questions, but he had no answers. He was planning to move in with friends in Tampa, other musicians, until we learned something.

One more thing, Cal said. Does one plus one equals zero R E mean anything to you?

That's the lead cut on our album. I don't know what R E may mean. Why?

It may be important. Where can we get one of those albums?

He went inside, and returned with a couple of albums.

We sell them, T-shirts and bumper stickers where we play for extra dough. We have the lead cut backed with Thundercrest on a single, but I don't have any copies of that, here.

We thanked him and told him to be very careful. He agreed he wasn't going to be anywhere with less than five people for the rest of his life. We got back in Cal's car and headed for Naples and our truck driver, John Dowling. I flipped the album over to read the back, and came up very short.

Cal? Harpo Drake wasn't with Bayou Critter when they made this album. He didn't write their big song.

So? Bands are always changing members. Does that mean any-thing?

"Listen to this. There are pictures of the members of the band with just their first names, except for the listing of credits.

"There's a notation across the bottom. `All songs property of Bayou Critter. All rights reserved.' The band members were Drum Sticks, The Lark, Sunny with a `U', Ed Mayer may not – and 'Red in the Bed.'

This is a very interesting little item here. Says that `Thundercrest' and `One plus One equals Zero' and `Too Late' were written by Red Dowling!

That was the first time I ever saw Cal Jones take his eyes off the road while driving. He swerved a bit, then pulled onto the side. He took the PB radio, and asked for a patch to the main office.

Dowling, John B. Any aliases listed?

No AKA's.

Cal rang off, and looked at me.

I was at the accident. John B. Dowling was mostly bald, but his sideburns and moustache were red. Very!

Let's go back to see Sticks. I think Mayer’ll clam up. He's putting on a good front, but he's more scared than any of them.

Cal nodded. We headed back to his friend's house, where we called Sticks and Alicia, his girlfriend, out onto the porch. Tell us about Red Dowling.

He looked shocked, looked at Cal, looked at me, and groaned. I never once thought of that turkey honkey son of a bitch! I didn't even know he was still around!

His real name is John B. Dowling, Cal said. He was driver of that log hauler. Lark wrote one plus one equals zero then started to write ‘Red’ in his own blood under that bridge. Tell us what it's all about.

Sticks shook his head. Alicia said, "I'll tell you.

"Red was with the band when they started. He was supposed to be their manager, because he had some connections. He wrote some of the songs, but he was the one insisted all material was to be property of the band, not any individual. He was takin' his part of what they made, plus was chargin' for bein' manager. He didn't want to play the clubs. He wanted to just play parties and concerts, and wouldn't listen when everbody said they had to play the circuits before they could play any concerts.

"Last year, when Tina Turner was playin' in Lakeland or St. Pete or somethin', he said he would get them in as lead-on or warmups. Sort of a front band gig. They went to some company, some promoter, and Red played big shit for everybody, sayin' he played for several big names in the early seventies. That's when they found out he was a roadie who drove the bus for Jefferson Airplane or one of those really good names. That's all. Tina's promoters laughed them out of the place, and made some snide remarks about Red's only reputation was one for bongin' the young boys who hung around the stage. Red went into a rage, and quit the band. He was just real embarrassed about us all knowin' he was nothing' was all it was about, but Harpo was movin' out from the band he had 'til then. It was breakin' up, so they made a deal.

"Bayou Critter had cut the album, already. The name and all the stuff was in everybody's name, except Red's – by his own doin'! He said he didn't want to be recognized.

"Red wrote three songs on the album, and Ed insisted we make a contract to give him royalties if any of them ever went anywhere, and on profits, if they sold a lot of records. I think there's about sixty bucks in the bank that belongs to him from what they already sold.

He got mad when they signed Harpo, and said he'd kill them all before they made it without him. He claimed they were only tryin' to get rid of him because he was over forty. I told him that was maybe one of the hundreds of reasons, and he slapped me. Lark cold-cocked him, and told him to stay the hell away from us. That was the last I ever heard of him.

This was all two years ago? Cal said.

Just about.

Then you can identify him?

Oh, brother, can I!

Will you go with us? Cal asked. Both of you?

We headed back to Naples, where the sheriff met us. All of us went to Dowling's address. His landlady told Cal he wouldn't be home before six thirty, because the sawmill didn't close until six. Yes, he was a truck driver. Made deliveries.

We went to an Italian restaurant and had a fairly decent meal. Cal wondered how he had gotten away with taking that log truck. Why hadn't his boss raised hell?

We were waiting for him when he got home, and that, along with other questions, was answered: His cousin was dispatcher, and had let him con the place into letting him make deliveries of select cypress logs for cutting at the mill. He delivered at night (His own suggestion) to make extra money. We learned he had done the whole car thing at the club, just after the band started playing. The band parked it in a special place where no one could see him. He filed the brake line partly through, then dripped acid on it, took off the equalizer block and put on the fourway box, and disconnected the emergency brake. Sonny was always within a few minutes of the same time heading home, so he stopped the truck at the intersection and had put