Read Online Death Claims by Joseph Hansen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph Hansen
Tags: Fiction, General, Gay, Mystery & Detective, Mystery Fiction, Hard-Boiled, Los Angeles (Calif.), Gay Men, Insurance investigators, Brandstetter; Dave (Fictitious character)
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No. I didn't give it to him. But he asked me. I found him in here one morning when I opened up. Poking around in the dark" — the boy jerked his head —" back there. He was in bad shape, sweating. He'd broken in. He wanted to steal it, but he couldn't find it. He begged me for it. Sad. Christ, how sad!"
"You didn't report it."
"He was Pete's father," the boy said. "He was a good man, a fine man. I wouldn't do it to him. How could I? Would you?"
"What did you do?"
"Offered to phone his doctor. De Kalb. He wouldn't let me. I couldn't make sense out of hisreasons. I don't think they were reasons. He was just scared, sick, ashamed. I ended up driving him home. Nice of me, wasn't it?'' Self-contempt soured the words.
"You know the answer to that," Dave said.
"No, I don't. Not what you mean. He's dead. Maybe it was because I didn't help him."
"Somebody helped him," Dave said. "If that's the term for it. Don't blame yourself."
"I couldn't make myself give it to him. If he got caught, it could be traced. I worked hard to get to be a pharmacist. And I'm working hard to get to be a doctor. I'd be finished. That was all I could think of. Me." His smile was miserable. "Makes me one of the good guys — right?"
"Did you tell Peter?"
"Christ, no. How could I tell Peter?"
"And you don't know where he's gone?"
"Sometimes when things got bad in his life-he and his mother didn't get along too well — he'd take a sleeping bag and drive off alone. It was bad, his father drowning. He really loved his father."
"So they tell me," Dave said.
He stepped out of the car into a wind that was cold and damp. He shivered, turning up his collar and crunched across the sand to the pink house that was no color in the night. The warped garage door hadn't been pulled down. The old station wagon was still there, a pale hulk in its stall. He climbed the high flight of wooden steps and at the top felt for the corroded button and pushed it. The buzz came back too loud. He squinted, pawed for the door, touched space. Open.
And no one came. He lifted and tilted his wrist. His watch said greenly 9:50. Twelve hours since his first time here this morning. Had she tired herself out with housecleaning and gone to bed early? He poked the buzzer again. It echoed on emptiness. But then he heard footsteps below. Backed by the dark wash of night surf only a few yards off, her voice came thin.
"Peter? Is that you?" She set a quick foot on the steps. Dave felt the rickety framework shiver.
"Sorry to be a disappointment twice."
She halted. Down where she was, a disk of light showed. Feeble but evidently strong enough to reach him. "Oh, it's Mr. Brandstetter." She didn't care. The light went out, but she didn't come up. He waited a second, then he went down. She was wearing a man's corduroy jacket, much too big for her, the cuffs clumsily turned back. John Oats's jacket? She turned away and her voice sounded as if she'd been crying. "I was walking on the beach when I saw your headlights. I thought it had to be Peter this time."
"I haven't found him. No one else ever comes?"
She shook her head, stepped down onto the sand, moved off. "No. And that was fine when John was here. It's not fine now."
He went with her down the softening slope of dimly white sand toward the black shift and whisper of the bay, its chill breathing. At its inmost curve the window lights of houses rippled yellow on the water. Shadow boats rocked asleep at shadow jetties. He said, "Dr. De Kalb came Christmas week. Jay McPhail."
"That was a good day," she said. "John was really pleased, really happy."
"But no one else? No one since?"
"Someone ate supper with him the night he — " But she couldn't say it. She walked more quickly, hunched inside the bulky coat. He lengthened his stride. She changed the wording. "That last night. But it must have been Peter. I told you — John's friends never came."
"What about strangers?"
She halted,
"You didn't report it."
"He was Pete's father," the boy said. "He was a good man, a fine man. I wouldn't do it to him. How could I? Would you?"
"What did you do?"
"Offered to phone his doctor. De Kalb. He wouldn't let me. I couldn't make sense out of hisreasons. I don't think they were reasons. He was just scared, sick, ashamed. I ended up driving him home. Nice of me, wasn't it?'' Self-contempt soured the words.
"You know the answer to that," Dave said.
"No, I don't. Not what you mean. He's dead. Maybe it was because I didn't help him."
"Somebody helped him," Dave said. "If that's the term for it. Don't blame yourself."
"I couldn't make myself give it to him. If he got caught, it could be traced. I worked hard to get to be a pharmacist. And I'm working hard to get to be a doctor. I'd be finished. That was all I could think of. Me." His smile was miserable. "Makes me one of the good guys — right?"
"Did you tell Peter?"
"Christ, no. How could I tell Peter?"
"And you don't know where he's gone?"
"Sometimes when things got bad in his life-he and his mother didn't get along too well — he'd take a sleeping bag and drive off alone. It was bad, his father drowning. He really loved his father."
"So they tell me," Dave said.
He stepped out of the car into a wind that was cold and damp. He shivered, turning up his collar and crunched across the sand to the pink house that was no color in the night. The warped garage door hadn't been pulled down. The old station wagon was still there, a pale hulk in its stall. He climbed the high flight of wooden steps and at the top felt for the corroded button and pushed it. The buzz came back too loud. He squinted, pawed for the door, touched space. Open.
And no one came. He lifted and tilted his wrist. His watch said greenly 9:50. Twelve hours since his first time here this morning. Had she tired herself out with housecleaning and gone to bed early? He poked the buzzer again. It echoed on emptiness. But then he heard footsteps below. Backed by the dark wash of night surf only a few yards off, her voice came thin.
"Peter? Is that you?" She set a quick foot on the steps. Dave felt the rickety framework shiver.
"Sorry to be a disappointment twice."
She halted. Down where she was, a disk of light showed. Feeble but evidently strong enough to reach him. "Oh, it's Mr. Brandstetter." She didn't care. The light went out, but she didn't come up. He waited a second, then he went down. She was wearing a man's corduroy jacket, much too big for her, the cuffs clumsily turned back. John Oats's jacket? She turned away and her voice sounded as if she'd been crying. "I was walking on the beach when I saw your headlights. I thought it had to be Peter this time."
"I haven't found him. No one else ever comes?"
She shook her head, stepped down onto the sand, moved off. "No. And that was fine when John was here. It's not fine now."
He went with her down the softening slope of dimly white sand toward the black shift and whisper of the bay, its chill breathing. At its inmost curve the window lights of houses rippled yellow on the water. Shadow boats rocked asleep at shadow jetties. He said, "Dr. De Kalb came Christmas week. Jay McPhail."
"That was a good day," she said. "John was really pleased, really happy."
"But no one else? No one since?"
"Someone ate supper with him the night he — " But she couldn't say it. She walked more quickly, hunched inside the bulky coat. He lengthened his stride. She changed the wording. "That last night. But it must have been Peter. I told you — John's friends never came."
"What about strangers?"
She halted,
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