Where's Evie?
by Carter Stewart

The day after my Bay Area interview with old Max Crown, I packed my bag, climbed into my restored 1966 yellow Ford Mustang, and headed north. Destination: Crescent Bay, on the Oregon Coast. Thankfully, I got out of town just one jump ahead of Ed Knee Knocker, my bookie’s depraved debt collector, plus half-a-dozen other insistent creditors. Alas, P.I. work isn't what it used to be, at least not for moi.
Poor old Mr. Crown was a sad piece of work. Terminally ill from some interior malevolency, he seemed in the final stages of a world-class anxiety attack over his missing granddaughter. My heart, flinty as it is, went out to him. He had hand-raised the girl from infancy, and she was his whole life–what he had left of it.
Evie, a recent U.C.L.A. graduate, had decided to drive up to Seattle for one last fling before entering law school. She'd phoned Max from the Forecastle, a motel in Crescent Bay, the night of November 21. The next day she’d simply vanished.
While I was with Mr. Crown, we reviewed Evie's personal history, her assortment of friends, her recent credit card activity and bank accounts, etc. Crown then gave me a current photo, a description of her car–an old Datsun–the stuff she took with her, and, more importantly, my retainer of $1,000. Unfortunately, welcome as it was, the grand constituted a mere drop in the bucket in my financial swamp–a David to Goliath. I perked up, however, when Crown offered me a bonus of $5,000 cash money if I found her alive or dead. He just had to know. The $5,000 could pull my chestnuts out of a very hot fire. I just prayed he'd live long enough to pay me off. His last wheezing admonition to me was: "Mr. Peacock (that’s me), when it’s over, please don't tell me she wound up in some fiend's shallow grave."
I tried to calm his fears, arguing that she was probably out on a lark and would no doubt be getting in touch soon. I didn’t, however, believe a word of it. My considerable experience and gut instinct told me that something bad had happened to her. Thing is, I didn’t know the half.
Two days later I drove into the gravel parking lot at the Forecastle, a run-down old seaside motel, registered, and had a brief chin wag with the desk clerk, a strange, beetle-browed duck with a squashed beak, bald head, and no chin under his five o’clock shadow. Seen a lot of his ilk down on Wall Street in L.A. cadging quarters and pissing in doorways. His eyes were a weird shade of pastel green, and he kept moving them around. His name was Cliff, and he looked like he'd fallen off one.
He'd reported Evie missing when the maid found her bed unslept-in, no luggage in the room, and her locked car parked around in the back lot, behind the motel. He’d first called Max Crown to give him the bad news, then the sheriff. The sheriff's deputies had sauntered by, dusted the car and the room for prints, and had removed the Datsun to the impound lot. That's all Cliff knew–he said.
Frankly, I didn't care much for his looks.
Afterward I left the motel and dropped around to speak to the sheriff's investigator, an avuncular, but keen-eyed, old bird named Walter Pendergast. He was nice enough, but didn't have much time for me. Actually, he didn't have much of anything. But it was his day to share, so he let me glean a few facts from his thin file, to wit: Evie's luggage was missing and so far no one had reported seeing her, except the redoubtable Cliff. Her picture was being shown around town and the local radio and TV stations were helping. Oh, and when prompted, he admitted to having at least six unsolved missing persons cases stretching out over the last few years. Nobody appreciates that sort of albatross about one’s neck. I could tell it hurt. He finally gave me directions to the impound lot, and I thanked him and left. I had dinner at a clam house and went back to the motel, where I found Cliff behind the counter, deep in a Batman comic book. After spending an uneventful night on the motel's sagging bed, I showered the next morning, changed into chinos, a black turtleneck sweater and Levi jacket, and had my breakfast at McDonald's. It was a chilly, gloomy day, more than a match for my mood-of-the-moment.
I drove to the local Chevron station–where Evie had purchased gas on the 21st–and asked for the manager. He didn't remember Evie, but a review of his credit card vouchers told us that she'd filled her car's tank on the second shift. The kids who worked that shift would be in around 4:00 p.m.
I said I'd be back.
I returned to the motel and collared Cliff again, asking him where Evie had parked her Datsun the day she checked in."
"Out front," he grunted.
"Makes sense. So why do you suppose she left it around back later that night? Why not park it in front of her room?"
He shrugged. "Search me. Say, you a cop or somethin'?""Private investigator." I showed him my ID. "You help her unload the car?"
"No."
Chivalry is dead. "You hear anything that night, Cliff? See anything odd, maybe?"
He sighed. "Ain't nothing, I don't suppose." He glanced up and there was an expectant look on his face, one I've seen before. I reluctantly pulled out my wallet and slid a precious ten across the counter. He snatched it up like a snapping turtle. Now you see it, now you don't.
"I seen her car come in that night, late-like."
"You spot who drove it?"
"Naw. Too dark. But he run it around back."
My pulse quickened. "Wait a sec. You said he."
"Uh–sorry." Cliff reddened. "It's a broad we're talkin' about, ain't it."
"Uh-huh. Now, why did you say he, as in man, when it was the woman’s car?"
"Er, maybe `cause she drove it like a man, fast and cocky goin' around the corner, tires squealin’ and such. It sorta looked like a big person was driving, too."
"And you didn't check it out?"
He frowned and shook his head. "I ain't no Sherlock Holmes."
"Too bad."
"That's all I know," groused Cliff, somewhat offended. Just then I could see I'd used-up the ten–and they don't grow on trees.
Next, I walked across the road and checked out the shops that hug Highway 101 like a shabby row of pink stucco shoeboxes. I explained my mission about the missing girl to the assorted clerks and showed Evie's picture around. Nobody had seen her.
At four-thirty p.m. I talked to the Chevron kid who'd filled Evie's tank. Fortunately, he remembered her because she was so "cool," and because she'd asked him where she could get her car's stereo tape deck repaired. He'd mentioned Tony's Auto Radio.
I thanked him and climbed into the Ford. Sitting there a minute, thinking that this last bit of information struck a wrong chord, I wondered why the guy at Tony's had drawn a blank when I'd shown him Evie's photo earlier in the day. Perhaps it was because there was another clerk on duty at night, but it seemed worth checking out again. So I dropped by Tony's and asked the same counterman to take a closer look at the Evie's photo, mentioning my conversation with the gas station attendant. He took the picture and stared hard at it. I watched his fingers begin to tremble.
Huh-oh.
This kid was a piece of work. Mid-twenties, of medium height, with overdeveloped triceps and a feral face, the lad had state prison written all over him. I didn't think he could be the owner, a Tony something-or-other. He wore a "Shit Happens" tee shirt, and a perpetual smirk. Right away I was prone to suspicion.
He casually handed back Evie's photo. "So, maybe I did see her. So fuckin' what?" A tough guy, too.
"Are you Tony?" I asked rhetorically, stuffing Evie’s photo into my jacket pocket.
He affected supreme disinterest. "No. Mr. Angelo owns the place. I run it for him. Name's Marty. Now, what's your problem, fella?" His voice had a nasal twang.
I ignored the question. "Tell me about the night this girl came in."His cocky expression morphed to wary. "What's to tell, man?" he murmured, looking down at his grimy fingers. "She come in here at closing time. I guess I just forgot about it. Sent her on her way. Nice little package, too." He looked up and grinned.
I wanted to slap him.
"Real sorry she's missing," he added. I've seen more concern in the eyes of a scorpion. "I’ll bet." I turned and left, grinding my teeth. Anger does that to me. My ex-wife says I'm mercenary, mercurial, mean, and cold-blooded. She don't know the half.
The next morning I trekked over to the impound lot and checked Evie's Datsun. The lot man loaned me the key so I could crank her over. The car started like a Swiss watch, but I was immediately assailed by the braying voice of Johnny Cash.
I hate Johnny Cash.
I snapped off the radio, then noticed something interesting: the bolts holding the tape deck assembly in place had sharp, bright corners as if having recently been worked on. Also, I recalled Crown telling me that Evie loved classical music. Furthermore, a box of classical music tapes was lying on the back seat. On closer inspection, I found the Cash tape to be a demo, and it had Tony's Auto Radio stamped on it.
Ah ha!
I scooted back to Tony’s and collared Marty again. He looked up in surprise as I swung through the door like a stalking hound. "Marty!" I cried.
"What?"
"Check this out." I tossed him the Cash tape.
He caught it deftly. "Huh?"
"Marty, I found this, this thing in Evie's tape deck. You told me you didn't do any work for her. But this hillbilly tape's one of your demos. So what the hell happened, man?"
He dropped the offending tape on the counter like it was HIV-positive. "Get outta here. I don’t have to tell you squat."
"Marty. How did your demo tape get in the girl's car?"
He was sweating now and wouldn't meet my eye. "How should I know?"
I pushed harder. "Let me guess. Evie came in here and you agreed to fix her tape deck. Maybe you asked her to come by later to pick it up. That it?"
He shook his head, Gila monster eyes darting around the room. He was trembling. "No way."
I had him.
"C'mon Marty, you said she was a nice-looking package. What happened when she came back to pick up the car? An accident maybe? Not really your fault?"
He finally found his voice. "Get the fuck outta here dude, or I'll kick your ass. I don't know nothing. Leave me alone." He leaned over the counter and glared at me. "You don’t leave, stud, I’m comin’ around that counter."
Now I'm about five feet, seven inches tall and of average build. I don’t look tough, don’t act tough. And so people like Marty often confuse size with prowess. But I backed off–this time. He was my man. Time to be cool. "Have it your way," I said, and left the store
He stood there watching me trot across the highway. Picking up a six-pack of Corona and a submarine sandwich at the deli, I went back to my room and ruminated on what I had so far; it was long on speculation and short on evidence, so I decided to dog Marty's footsteps and pressure him until he cracked. Watching Marty’s store, just across the highway from my room, I sipped my beer and worked on my personal budget. Alas, even with the grand from Crown, it looked bleak. I had to have that Big Five K. Simple arithmetic. It could get me off the hook.
Around six, Marty and a buddy locked the auto repair shop, sauntered down the street, and entered the Sea Chant, a little bar on the corner just across from the motel. Half-an-hour later I crossed the road and joined them.
The Sea Chant was almost empty. Marty and his pal, a geek with arms like an ape and a brainpan to match, were seated together in the rear nursing a beer. A few deck hands were playing pool in back, and a teen-aged sex kitten was hunched over the bar snapping her gum. Her companion, a big blond kid in a navy Pea coat, was fondling her fondable bosom and whispering dirty words in her ear. It made me horny. I ordered a double Jack Daniel's on the rocks with a beer chaser and spent a lot of time leering at Marty. If I was scaring him, it didn't show.
Pretty soon the girl at the bar began giving me the eye. Unfortunately, this ticked off her blond Adonis. Next thing I knew, Pea Coat was towering over me like a hawk over a wren. He laid a hard hand on my shoulder and snapped, "Time to leave, dwarf."
"Eh?"
Now you gotta understand one thing, I have a very short fuse. Worse yet, I've got this dangerous hang-up about my height. I'm also an ex-golden gloves champ, and I like a good scrap. Thus, bone, muscle, and blood began to hum in unison as I prepared for combat.
"Did you hear what I said?" Pea Coat snarled, peering down at me like I was some sort of bug. All noise in the bar ceased, and the bartender grinned faintly in anticipation.
The sex-kitten yawned and looked bored.I quickly slid out from under Pea Coat's hand, rolling easily off the stool. Backing onto the floor like a dancer, I urged him to join me. He peeled off his coat, displaying a tattooed eighteen-inch set of biceps, and began to circle me. This threat display is supposed to chill you.
I back-pedaled.
He quickly closed the circle, ready to give me a roundhouse right, the barroom brawler’s stock-in-trade. But I suddenly moved in, ducked under his wild swing, and side-kicked him hard in the cojones. My aim, as usual, was impeccable. He let out a shrill scream and bent almost double. I let him begin to straighten up, then reddened his face with a series of hard, humiliating slaps. Then I poked my thumbs in his eyes, and he screamed like a banshee.
And while he was trying to save his eyesight, I fetched him a solid uppercut, breaking his nose. When he sat down on the floor, he immediately threw up a quart of equal parts beer and blood and rolled onto his side gasping like a hooked fish. This all took about fifteen seconds. The red-necks in the joint looked on in awe, and Marty and his friend got up and quickly left.
"Jesus," remarked the bartender, an old salt with lumpy eyebrows and a complete set of facial scars. "You box?"
"A little."
He sighed. "Man, but you're cold. Pat was too drunk to defend himself."
"Too bad. He started it."
The bartender shrugged and went back to polishing glasses. A couple of guys came over and tried to help Pat sit up. I glanced around for the desirable one, but she'd already split. So much for barroom fidelity.
Finishing my drink, I walked back to the motel, nursing sore knuckles, and then hit the sack. Before beddy-bye, however, I checked with my answering service down south. Bad idea–three more creditors had weighed-in. I had to find the girl–and fast. Somehow, though, I didn't think I'd find her alive. Marty seemed a pull-the-wings-from-flies type of guy. He'd have shown her no mercy, more’s the luck.
What a world, what a world.
Next morning I phoned the sheriff's investigator. With some pushing on my part, Pendergast admitted that Marty might have a serious rap sheet. In fact, Pendergast said he'd often wondered why his ex-cop fishing buddy, Tony Angelo, would have hired such a dirtbag. Then he asked what else I had on Marty. I had to admit it wasn't much. He offered to call Tony to see if he knew anything that might help. I thanked him and we left it at that.
Around five p.m., Marty phoned the motel, asking me to drop by the shop at 9:00 o’clock. He said if I tried to contact the sheriff the meet was off; said I would be watched, said he was ready to deal. I wondered if he were setting me up. I wasn't sure, but I sure should have passed on this one.
Precisely at nine, I crossed the highway, went around back, and approached the shop from the deep gloom of the alley. The air smelled of rain. As I reached the back door, it squeaked open slightly. There was a thin rim of light coming from within. I pushed the door inward and peeked inside. It was a storeroom. Marty was seated at a desk in the far corner, his back to me. I softly called his name. He didn't respond.
I slipped through the door, my Charter Arms .38 at the ready, my finger on the trigger, and moved toward him. As I drew near, I saw that Marty had something stuck in his right ear.
"Marty?" I edged closer.
I reached out and slowly turned the swivel chair toward me, jamming my gun in his chest as he came about. But I needn't have bothered. He was dead, in rigor, a commercial-sized ice pick shoved through his right ear, its reddened tip coming out of the left. A thin drool of blood and yellow brain matter made a lacy pattern on his shirt collar. My hackles rose, and I crouched low, beginning to spin to my–
"No!" The sharp command came from a darkened corner to my left. "Drop it! I can drill you." I had no doubts, so I tossed the revolver on the floor.
"On your knees, son. Hands on your head." His voice was strong and authoritarian–a cop's voice. Pendergast?
Shit!
"That's better." He eased up behind me, and I felt the business end of a cannon on the back of my neck.
"Heard you're good with your dukes," he whispered. "But don't try anything with me, or I'll kill you right here."
Yep. I'd fingered the wrong guy. And it was going to cost me.
A split-second later something hit me on the head, and I went down and out like a slaughterhouse steer. When I awoke, a large, muscular man in cowboy garb was sitting in the swivel chair so recently occupied by the late Marty. I was handcuffed, my ankles taped. This had to be Tony Angelo, Pendergast's ex-cop friend–and Evie's murderer. Not to mention those six other lost souls.
He was in his mid-fifties, good-looking, with black wavy hair, a tiny mouth, and huge hands. He wore Himmler-style bifocals and had the coldest set of blues I'd ever seen. He gently lifted me up to a sitting position. "Sorry about that rap on the head. I needed some time to tidy up."
"Where's Evie?" I gasped, the pain in my skull hideous. I was nauseated, too, ready to puke.
He poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. "Hell, now I knew you'd ask about that. Just one of those things. Know what I mean?" He lit a foul-smelling cigar, blowing some of the smoke my way.
I immediately gagged.
"Oops, sorry, bad habit. Probably kill me some day." His grin was benign, his tone moderate and conversational, but in those frigid eyes of his I read my death warrant.
"What happened to her?"
"Well now, our mutual friend, Marty-boy, turned me onto her. He knew I liked young pussy."
"Go on." I began to worm around in the `cuffs. They had a familiar feel and my hope quotient rose.
"Patience, Mr. Peacock. All in good time."
"Used my own cuffs on me, didn't ya? That's really embarrassing." He grinned. "I'll bet. Let's see, where was I? Oh, yeah. The quiff needed her tape deck repaired. Marty told her to come by at nine. I sent him home early. When she showed up, I gave her some coffee with a little Mickey in it and later invited her up to my cabin."
"How could she resist?"
"Don't get cute, son." At that moment he looked like a shark contemplating a meal.
I had to keep him talking. I have small hands. I've gotten out of these `cuffs at parties. But now it was a matter of life and death.
"Well sir," continued Tony, "she tried to leave when I got fresh with her. Hell, and now here's the dumb part. I was hot as a damn wolf, and so I sorta grabbed her. Well, she got pissed off and whacked me with her purse. Guess I blew my stack. Couldn't have that. Know what I mean?"
I hate it when people repeatedly say: "know what I mean?" It's an insult; like we're too stupid to get it the first time.
"So you killed her, and you swore Marty to secrecy."
He stared at me, his expression bland and speculative. "Well–sure. Had to give him some money, too." He reached into a desk drawer and came out with a pair of pink panties, a lacy bra, and a woman's Rolex watch. There were spots of dried blood on the bra–no doubt Evie's bra.
Poor Evie.
He grinned and waved his booty at me. "Check these out. Souvenirs, you know. Panties' got her monogram." He rubbed the panties against his cheek. His eyes closed, and a bit of drool slid down his chin. He was remembering, his eyes half-open, absently licking his lips.
"Woulda been fine. But then you came nosing around and scaring Marty. And then Pendergast called. You shouldn't of mixed in."
You telling me? I wondered then about those six missing persons cases Pendergast had told me about. I looked again at Evie's crumpled panties and glumly considered the possibility that she might have died an infinitely more protracted death than by simple violence.
"You held that ice pick to Marty's ear and had him set me up tonight."
"Yep."
"Then you killed him."
"`Fraid so. Always wanted to know if one of them things would go all the way through. Know what I mean?" He smirked, poured himself some more coffee, got up, and removed a board from the floor under his desk. I could see the gleam of jewelry in there–and several thick wads of currency wrapped in rubber bands. I didn't want to think about how that stuff had gotten there.
He closed the hidey-hole. "Put all my little uh–souvenirs in there. Don't really need the money. But it helps me remember–things."
"Where's Evie?" I asked again, working feverishly against the `cuffs.
He cracked his big knuckles and puffed on that damned cigar. "Got me a cabin and some land back in the hills. Isolated you know. She's lyin' up there in a shallow grave. Buried Marty right alongside her tonight while you were sleeping."
Abruptly I remembered Max Crown's horror that Evie might be found in some "fiend's shallow grave." The irony of it! Poor Max. If I died tonight, though, he'd never know. Good for Max, bad for me.
"You whacked her, then drove her car around behind the motel. Then you slipped into her room, grabbed her luggage and stashed it."
"Somethin' like that." Steam rising from the coffee cup wreathed his face in a pale gray shroud: the Angel of Death. He began to drum his thick fingers on the desk. My time was almost up.
"What about me?" I asked.
"You? Well, in a few minutes I'm gonna walk you into that little shower area over yonder." He pointed to a door across the room. "Then I'm putting a round hole in your head, just about here (he leaned over and tapped me gently over the right ear with his gun). Gonna wrap you in plastic and take you for a ride."
"Swell."
"You're gonna wind up in a ditch north of town with Marty's wallet in your pocket and his gun lying near your body. Pendergast will think you fingered Marty for the girl’s murder, he got scared and killed you, then took off in his car for parts unknown. Car's at the bottom of a lake on my property. Never be found. Neat, eh?" He freshened his cup. I could see the coffee was scalding hot.
"You like your coffee hot," I observed.
"Like my women."
I finally got my hands free. I waited until he put the cup of coffee to his lips, then braced myself on my elbows and lashed out at his face with my taped feet. The searing-hot coffee slapped against his cheek, and he screamed. Then he whipped over backward in the chair and struck his head a savage blow on the small oak table behind him. He twisted about and moaned for awhile, thrashed some, belched and farted, then lay still.
I untaped my ankles and snatched Tony's weapon off the desk. Scrambling over to him, I saw there was no need to hurry. His porcelain blue eyes were open, but the luster was gone. Tony had gone to that Bad Cop's Squad Room in the Sky. There'd be no more deposits in that sinister little hidey-hole.
Know what I mean?
I pondered the problem of what to do next. I had two choices: tell the sheriff what I knew, or slip out of the shop and say nothing. I decided on the latter. There were just too many ways I could get tangled up in the net. And since Tony's demise would look like an accident, and since Marty and Evie would probably never be found, I could skin out at flank speed and stay out of it with no one the wiser.
One problem, though, I had to confirm Evie's death for Crown, had to tell him at least. I needed that bonus. And Evie, no bonus. It would probably break Crown’s heart, but what the hell–life is cruel. Just ask Evie.
I grabbed Evie's Rolex, as my proof, found my .38 in the desk drawer, quickly went around the room cleaning up, then slipped into the alley. A brisk wind was blowing a monsoonal tide of rain before it. The area was empty. I looked around, then loped across 101 to my room, damned happy to be alive.Once safely inside, I pondered how to play it with Pendergast, coming up with this: Marty, probable kidnapper of Evie Crown, had skipped town, and so I must follow his trail. I'll call you when I find him. End of story.
He'd buy it. He needed to clear at least one case.
***
So now here I sit, telephone in hand, ready to call the old man and shatter his world. Actually, I'm feeling pretty lousy about it. Gotta tell him that the thing he feared most has come to pass. I don't want to, but I need that bonus. Besides, I have my reputation as a cold-hearted wretch to uphold.
So I dial Crown's number. One ringy dingy, two ringy dingies–
"Max Crown, here." His voice is weak and hoarse, weaker than before. Hospice weak.
"It's Peacock. I'm coming home."
"Well, did you find her?" I can feel the incredible suspense at his end.
I take a deep breath, visualizing his pitiful, wasted face, almost smelling his fear of a ghastly discovery. Then I see Knee Knocker coming at me with a baseball bat. Suddenly, I'm ambivalent. And then I just can't do it. "S–sorry, Mr. Crown. I've got nothing to report." He lets loose a great sigh of relief. "Nothing? You sure?"
"Her trail's cold, Max," I say persuasively. "Could be down in Mexico right now. She was last seen with a bunch of holiday-bound college kids whooping it up," I lied. "And you know kids. This is her last fling. Right? She'll probably be calling you soon." What utter bullshit!
Now comes a long silence; this is where Crown's common sense begins warring with his desperate need to believe this unlikely tale.
"But her car? Her–"
"Still parked in town. You can believe me, sir. We found absolutely no evidence of foul play. She’s off having fun."
After a long pause, he said, "I–guess I'll have to trust you."
Common sense just bit the dust.
"That's the ticket. Sorry I couldn't be of more help. I'll send along my final bill. I won’t be claiming that bonus."
"I see. Well, thank you again," he mutters, not convinced by my clever fabrication, but holding onto it like a remora. With any luck he'll die before it becomes any more obvious that he's been lied to.
I hang up the phone and start pacing the room. Then I stop and look out the window. What in hell have I done? I’ve just insured my complete financial collapse, that’s all. That $5k was in my grasp. I must be getting soft.
This is just not me!
I regain a modicum of composure and resume pacing. So, now what? File for bankruptcy? No, too soon since the last one. Hit my ex up for a loan? No. I'd rather starve. Then I stop pacing. I’ve just had a brilliant idea: Tony's hidey-hole. Lots of cash in there. And since nobody's going to claim it anytime soon, I'll just add grave-robbing to my long list of other sins.
Now that's me. 

Carter Swart has had 3 novels published, with 2 more waiting in the queue at Hilliard & Harris. His fiction has been published in Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Hardboiled, P.I. Magazine, White Knuckles, Blood Review, and Into the Darkness. He is a longtime contributing writer to Backstretch magazine, the trade journal of the United Thoroughbred Trainers Assoc. "A Moment to Remember," published in The Thoroughbred of California magazine, earned him a 1980 National Eclipse Award honorable mention. He was also an editor with Midnight Zoo magazine for several years. He is currently working on his third Lou Corso mystery novel.