Joe was right about Roger's injuries. Mostly bruised and scraped, he wasn't hurt seriously enough for the hospital to think that keeping him overnight was necessary—as long as someone looked after him. So of course, Roger returned with Joe to 17 Paseo Verde.
"Can't you tell me something about these people who have Claudia?" Joe said in exasperation as he drove home.
"Well . . . the top man isn't someone to be crossed," Roger said slowly. "Not at all. We don't know his name, but he's rather impossible to miss."
"And just how is anyone 'impossible to miss'?" Joe retorted.
"He's . . . rather heavy, you see," the very slight Roger said with a bit of a grin.
Joe sighed. "Okay. What else can you tell me about him?"
"He's quite cultured," Roger mused, staring out at the darkened sky. "He enjoys fine wine, fancy cheese, works of art, and classical music, to name a few of his interests. Oh, and gold. He's very big on gold."
"Of course." Joe looked and felt weary. "And you don't have any idea who ran off with his?"
"No idea whatsoever," Roger said. "You know, it was strange, though."
"What was?" Joe countered, wondering at the same time if he really wanted to know.
"Well, I didn't think anyone else was out where they were chasing me. It was this old, deserted bit of highway, like I told the police."
"And there was an old pumphouse there. I know," Joe nodded impatiently. Lieutenant Malcolm had gone out there with a team but had found nothing. They hadn't expected to; naturally the criminals had moved on.
"So, before I got to the pumphouse, I ran smack into this odd bloke wandering around on the hill. I called to him, apologizing for the collision, but he didn't say anything. And he didn't come after me, so I don't think he was one of them."
"You don't think the mysterious stranger is the one who took the gold, do you?" Joe frowned.
"He could have been coming back to check on things and make certain he hadn't been found out yet," Roger said. "As long as Claudia and I have the spotlight, he's safe."
"Yeah, I guess that could be true," Joe said. "Or he could have just been out for a walk and doesn't have anything to do with any of this."
"Also very possible," Roger nodded. "Especially since Los Angeles has quite a few unusual residents."
"Roger, I think you're one of the most unusual residents Los Angeles has seen in years," Joe declared.
As he had expected, Roger just smiled that cheeky smile. "You're quite right, Joe."
Joe shook his head. "You seem almost proud of it."
"Always take pride in being unique. That's what my dear old dad said."
"But did your 'dear old dad' know how you were going to be unique?" Joe retorted.
Roger fell silent. "I suppose you've got a point there."
Joe didn't offer anything else. The day had already seemed never-ending. Right now he just wanted to get home, put Roger to bed, and hope that possibly Roger's enemies would wait until morning to attack.
He frowned as he pulled into his usual parking space and noticed a police car nearby. Lieutenant Malcolm was leaning against the driver's door, waiting.
"What is it?" Roger asked.
"That's what we're going to find out," Joe said, getting out of the car and going over. "Art, what is it? Did your boys find something after all?"
"Not to do with the case." Art pushed away from the car and met him halfway.
Something about his somber manner sent a chill up Joe's spine. "What's going on, Art?" he demanded.
"The boys found something, alright," Art told him. The chill grew worse. "A homicide. Lew Wickersham."
Joe froze. He wasn't sure what horrible thing he had expected to hear. He only knew that it definitely hadn't been that.
"Joe?" Still weak and hurt, Roger was opening the passenger door and trying to ease himself out of the car. "What's wrong?"
Joe barely heard him. "How?" he finally managed to ask.
"Car wreck," Art said. "It crashed somewhere near that old shack Mr. Bard told us about. It definitely wasn't an accident; the brakes were gone."
"And Lew . . . Lew was in the car?" Joe stammered, still trying to wrap his mind around what he was being told.
He hadn't worked for Lew in years. He had never been a team player and finally he had just got fed up trying to work as part of such a huge team as the Intertect Detective Agency, with so much reliance on computers and technology instead of legwork and the human factor. But he and Lew had parted on good terms, even though some of the other Intertect employees hadn't felt the same. Joe and Lew had remained friends through the years, getting together whenever they could. Joe had wanted to drop in on him again, but hadn't had the chance with the heavy workload. And now . . . now he wouldn't be able to, ever again.
"Actually, he was found some distance away from the car," Art frowned, "collapsed in the grass."
Suddenly a bolt shot Joe through the heart. Remembering Roger, he whirled to look at the confused man. "This person you ran into," he barked. "What did he look like?!"
Roger rocked back, blinking in surprise. "Why, I really didn't get a very good look at him," he protested. "He was tall . . . I believe he was wearing glasses . . . and that's about it!"
Joe stormed over to him, his eyes flashing with outrage and pain. "It was Lew, wasn't it?! Maybe you could have helped him if you hadn't been so caught up in your own problems! It's always all about you. And now Lew's dead and you were the last person to see him alive!"
Worried, Art grabbed for Joe's arm. "Hey, easy, Joe," he said in concern. "He couldn't have known."
"He could have known the man was hurt, if he would've taken time to look!" Joe snarled, pulling away.
"He could have asked me for help," Roger finally stammered. "He didn't say anything!"
"He was probably too dazed from the crash," Joe snapped.
Roger shrank back. He had never seen Joe this upset. Even during the escapade over the money, Joe hadn't ever lost his temper. Perhaps that was one reason why Roger had felt he could keep pushing Joe's buttons.
"Does this mean you want me to go find a hotel after all?" he asked at last, his voice very small.
Joe gave him a hard look. "I wish you would," he admitted. "But no, you can still stay here. Mainly because I want to meet the people who gave you this going over."
Roger nodded, subdued. "Of course." He started to limp toward the front door, leaving Joe talking with Art.
Art looked to Joe with deep regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Joe."
Joe drew a shaking breath, trying to get himself under control. "You're absolutely sure it was him?" he asked, hoping against hope for a miracle.
"I've met him, Joe," Art said quietly. "He looked just like I remembered him. And he had all the proper identification. There's no mistake; it was Lew Wickersham."
Joe's shoulders slumped. ". . . Are there any persons of interest yet?"
"No one in specific," Art said. "It could have been almost anyone upset about one of Intertect's current or past cases."
"And I suppose every Intertect agent is up in arms ready to find out who," Joe said.
"A lot of them, anyway," Art said. "There were a few who didn't like Mr. Wickersham that much, but they didn't hate him enough to kill him."
Joe began to pace. Art studied him, recognizing the restlessness and what it signified. "You want to investigate yourself, don't you, Joe?"
Joe stopped and looked to him. "Lew was my boss for a long time, Art. We went through a lot together. And even after I left, we stayed friends. I can't rest easy knowing his murderer is out there running free."
"Intertect might resent you being involved," Art cautioned.
"They can resent it then," Joe shot back. "I'm involved."
"Joe, maybe you're too close to the case," Art sighed.
"And Intertect isn't?" Joe's hands were on his hips as he glared.
Art recognized that classic, defiant stance. He imagined Lew Wickersham had seen it many times.
"Alright," he relented. "You and Intertect are probably all too close to this case. You should all just let the police handle it. I know that my saying this is like talking to a brick wall. But I had to try."
"Okay, so you've tried." Joe started to turn away, then turned back. "I want to see where it happened."
"I know you do," Art nodded. "But Joe, right now you already have a prior commitment." He glanced to the door, which was ajar from Roger having decided to enter and wait inside.
Joe followed his gaze in exasperation. "Roger just had to show up tonight of all nights," he grumbled.
"Stay here tonight, Joe," Art implored. "You can look at the scene of the crime tomorrow. And bring Roger along. Maybe he'll remember something else."
"Yeah, like maybe he saw Lew's crashed car," Joe muttered. He turned away. "Alright. I'll see you later, Art.
Art sighed. "Joe . . ."
Joe paused. "Yeah?"
"Don't mix Roger up with the murderer."
Joe stiffened, but nodded. "I know."
"There probably wasn't anything he could have done for Lew even if he had realized Lew was hurt," Art said.
"I know that too," Joe scowled. "They might have both been taken prisoner and beaten. And with Lew already hurt from the crash, he couldn't have stood that too." Suddenly he froze, a new and alarming thought coming to him.
"What is it?" Art asked in concern.
"Art, are you sure Lew died from injuries in the crash?" Joe demanded, whirling back to face him. "What if the people who are after Roger saw Lew and killed him because they thought he'd seen too much?"
Art frowned. "Well, we won't know anything until the full post-mortem," he said.
"But it is a possibility," Joe prompted.
"Oh, I suppose it is," Art said. "But it's also highly possible that Wickersham was fatally injured in the crash, like the coroner decided at the scene."
Joe nodded, but wasn't convinced. "Let me know as soon as that post-mortem comes in," he said, again starting for the door.
"I will," Art promised. "But don't do anything reckless in the meantime."
Joe didn't bother to acknowledge that. "Goodnight, Art," he replied.
"Joe. Joe!" Art called in vain as Joe headed inside and shut the door after him.
Sighing, Art turned away, shaking his head. "One of his best friends dies and I tell him not to do anything reckless," he addressed nothing in particular. "What am I thinking?"
xxxx
Roger wasn't anywhere downstairs when Joe went inside. Figuring he had found his way upstairs to the apartment, Joe climbed the stairs and hoped that Roger had wandered into the guestroom instead of Joe's room.
To his relief, he found the guestroom door ajar. Climbing the last set of steps, he went to the doorway and looked in. Roger was lying on the bed, still fully clothed.
He opened one eye at Joe's approach. "Oh, hello, Joe," he greeted.
"You, uh, don't want the pajamas?" Joe returned. "There's some in the drawer, you know." He indicated the chest of drawers.
"I would like them, as a matter of fact," Roger said. "But I'm afraid I found it too complicated to get out of these clothes and retrieve them."
Joe sighed. Instead of just being obnoxiously lazy, Roger was probably right. He had quite a collection of painful bruises and bumps that would make getting undressed on his own rather difficult for the time being. Hopefully just for tonight.
"Alright," he relented, grudgingly. "I'll help you get changed, if you want. But I'm not going to be your personal valet. Just as soon as you're well enough to dress yourself, you're going to."
"Oh, of course," Roger said, slowly easing himself up. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
The next few minutes were spent in silence. Joe's thoughts were soon wandering, even as he helped Roger out of the gray suit and into the light-blue pajamas. He was somewhat surprised when the next voice he heard was Roger's.
"I am sorry about your chum, Joe. I honestly had no idea that man was hurt. I really couldn't see him that well in the dark."
"Would it have made any difference if you had noticed?" Joe couldn't refrain from replying, even though he was definitely surprised that the incident had made enough of an impression that Roger would bring it up again.
Roger fell silent once more. "I don't know," he had to admit. "I had my own problems, but it wasn't just me I was worried about."
"Claudia?" Joe said derisively. "You told me she could take care of herself."
"Ah, and usually she can," Roger said. "We just haven't had much luck against this bloke."
"So you were running away, but you were worried about Claudia," Joe said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "And I suppose you were going to worry about her all the way to wherever you were going to hide out."
Roger turned to look at him. "I wasn't going to 'hide out'!" he insisted. "I was going for help. Actually, Joe, I was hoping to get to you."
"And that's why you said my name when you were being worked over," Joe said. "You figured they'd bring you to me so you could still make your plea for help."
"It might have been something like that, I suppose," Roger confessed.
Joe grabbed for the pajama top and held it down so Roger could slide his arms through the sleeves. "And just how much more mileage did you figure you could get out of me after last time?" he demanded.
"Frankly, I wasn't sure I could get any," Roger said. "I know I used you at every turn, Joe, but that's how I stay alive."
"And that's why I'm the only person you could turn to, then and now," Joe said flatly. "No one else would have put up with you at all. And I shouldn't have. I wouldn't be now, if you hadn't involved me and put me in danger."
"Yes, I know." Now safely in the pajamas, Roger eased himself back into the bed. "But thank you anyway."
Joe watched him, unmoved. "We'll talk more tomorrow," he vowed.
"I plan on it," Roger smiled.
"We're going out to where Lew was killed and see if you can remember anything else about when you saw him."
The smile disappeared. "Really, Joe, I told you all I can."
"We'll see." Joe headed for the door.
"Joe?"
At the sound of Roger's voice, Joe paused. "What is it, Roger?"
"You said it was difficult to stay angry at me. Do you still feel that way?"
Joe had to think about that one. "Right now, Roger, it's a heck of a lot easier." He stepped into the hall. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight then, Joe."
Joe couldn't bring himself to feel too badly, even hearing the melancholy tone to Roger's voice. Roger lived by double-crossing and abandoning anyone who stood in the way of his plans, and Joe had come to accept that. But he was finding it hard to forgive Roger just leaving Lew out to die. Roger had even admitted that he didn't know if he would have helped had he known Lew was hurt.
Crossing to his room, Joe took out his gun and lay down on the bed to wait for the possible break-in. He knew he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight.
Unbidden to his mind came the memory of his last conversation with Lew as an agent for Intertect. He had gone to lay his resignation on Lew's desk. And even though he had quit before and come back, this time it had been for good and they both knew it.
Not that Lew hadn't still tried to convince him to reconsider.
"Joe, are you sure you want to do this?" he had asked as he read through the letter of resignation.
"I'm sure, Lew," Joe had replied. "We both knew this day was coming sooner or later. I'm not a team player or a computer geek. I need to be out on my own, doing things my way."
"I suppose I kept hoping it would be an indefinite 'later'." Lew had adjusted his glasses, setting the sheet of paper back on the desk. "You know you're my best agent."
"There's others who are pretty good too. You'll make out." But Joe had hesitated instead of leaving. Lew was upset to lose a good agent, of course, but what bothered both of them the most was simply having to say Goodbye.
"Joe . . . if it doesn't work out, you'll consider coming back, won't you?"
Joe still remembered the sad, regretful look in Lew's eyes. "Maybe," he had said, slowly.
"You've always just needed some time to cool off before." Lew had stood, restless, not content to take this sitting down.
"That was then." Joe had habitually buttoned his blazer, wondering what it was going to be like to not come here every day . . . to not deal with the computers every day . . . to not see Lew every day.
"Alright, Joe. I hope it works out for you." Lew had held out a hand. "But there's no need for us to be strangers. Keep in touch."
Joe had smiled, firmly shaking Lew's hand. "You can count on that."
And they had stayed in touch, all through the years. But it was difficult for Joe to concentrate on that fact. Instead he kept playing Peggy's voice in his mind from two days earlier.
"Joe, what about Lew Wickersham? I told you he called two days ago. You haven't called him back yet."
Joe had been sitting at his desk, surrounded by folders, newspaper clippings, and the ransom notes from the fake kidnapping. "I know, Peggy," he had replied, highly occupied. "I'll call him back when I'm done with this."
And that hadn't been soon enough.
Joe slumped back into the pillows, staring sadly across the room. "I'm sorry, Lew," he whispered. "I was too late. I'm so sorry."
xxxx
Roger's enemies had relocated to the boss's Los Angeles home, a sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills with a state-of-the-art security system. The large man had settled in at his desk in the study, reading through an advance copy of the early-morning paper.
"The man's death has made the front page, I see," he mused. "But you're sure there's no way to connect it with us?" He looked up sharply at one of his henchmen, his blue eyes flashing with danger if he didn't like the answer.
"There's no way, Boss," the lackey insisted. "It was a clean break and everyone wore gloves."
"Yes, but he didn't die from the crash," was the annoyed retort. "You said you had to chase him down and crack him over the head. If he didn't die immediately, he might have said something to the police!"
"He didn't!" the henchman cried. "We checked him out once he was down. No pulse, no nothin'!"
"Very well. I will accept that, Benji." The newspaper was set down. "And there was no trace of the gold?"
"No, Boss. If Bard really doesn't have it and doesn't know what Wickersham did with it, maybe Wickersham passed it off to someone else instead of Bard."
"Such as?" A deep frown filled the man's features. "That agency he ran is one of the largest in California. And it's the largest that's upright."
"I don't think he'd give it to anyone in the agency, Boss." Benji's eyes gleamed. "But guess what?"
"You know how guessing games bore me, Benji. Just tell me what you're thinking."
"Sorry, Boss. You know that detective's office where we dumped Bard off? Mannix?" Benji looked excited. "He used to work for that agency. He and Wickersham were close."
"Really now?" Benji's boss looked interested. "So you think Mr. Wickersham just might have passed the gold on to him?"
"It's possible, isn't it?" Benji replied.
"Yes," the large man smiled. "Yes, it's possible, indeed. It certainly makes another reason why we should visit Mr. Mannix right away." He started to rise. "Tell Donald to bring the car around."
"Right, Boss." Benji quickly disappeared from the room.
His boss watched his departure with a smile of entertainment and anticipation. Yes, they would be on the trail of the missing gold again soon enough. And Mannix would pay, along with Roger Bard and dear Claudia. She was amusing to have around, but after all, all good things had to come to an end sometime. And in this case, sometime would be once the gold was back where it belonged.
xxxx
The motel on the corner of Henning and Elm was generally a quiet place without much business. Oftentimes, all but one or two of the rooms would be empty.
That was the case tonight, and the night clerk was bored out of his mind. He yawned, crossing his arms on the register and preparing to slump down on top of it. They really didn't pay him enough for the amount of sitting around with nothing to do that happened every day.
"Hello? Excuse me?"
The little man looked up with a start. A tall man had approached the desk without him even realizing.
"Oh! Yes, Sir." The clerk straightened up, swiveling the register around for the newcomer to see. "Do you want a room, Sir?"
"Yes. Yes, I do." The tall man swayed, and he grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Now the blood running down his forehead was visible.
The clerk gasped. "Sir, what happened to you?! Do you need a doctor? You're bleeding!"
"What?" The tall man reached up, honestly looking confused until he touched the blood. "Oh. I didn't even know. But I'm alright, really. At least, I think I am. . . ." He took off his glasses, rubbing at his eyes.
"Sir, why don't I call a doctor?" the clerk implored. "You're hurt. And by your own admission, you weren't even aware of it!"
"No! No, please, I just need to rest." The tall man fumbled in his pocket. "I should have my wallet in here somewhere."
"Is there anyone I can call?" the clerk worried. "A family member? A friend? What's your name?"
"My . . ." The tall man paused, looking far away and confused. Finding his wallet, he snapped back to the present and shakily opened it. "There," he said, reading over his driver's license and then holding it out to the clerk. "This is my name here. You see it? It says Jason Faulk."
"Oh," the clerk said, peering at it. "Yes, it does. But Mr. Faulk, I really think you need . . ."
He never finished his sentence. Instead, with a horrified gasp, he watched Jason Faulk collapse to the floor.