Man on a Leash Read Free

kept trying to call you and finally asked the San Francisco police to check your apartment. The manager said he didn’t know where you were. Crowder’s note here says you were on a boat somewhere. You a seaman, too?”
    “No,” Romstead replied. “Just some cruising and fishing in the Gulf of California. A friend of mine had a motor-sailer down there, and we brought it back to San Diego. I flew up to San Francisco last night, and your wire was waiting for me along with the other mail.”
    “So you were on this boat at the time? Where?”
    “If it was two weeks ago, we’d have been somewhere around Cape San Lucas.”
    “Where’s that?”
    “The southern tip of Baja California.”
    “I see. What do you do for a living?”
    “Nothing at the moment. I’ve been in Central America for the past twelve years but sold my business there about four months ago.”
    “And what was that?”
    “Boats. I had the distributorship in Costa Rica for a line of fiber glass powerboats—runabouts, fishermen, cruisers, and so on.”
    “And when’s the last time you saw your father?”
    “About four years ago. I came up to Southern California to visit the plant, and his ship was in Long Beach. I went aboard, and we had a couple of drinks.”
    “The two of you sure as hell didn’t live in each other’s pockets, did you? You didn’t know he had an apartment in San Francisco?”
    Romstead shook his head. “I didn’t even know he’d retired or that he’d bought a place here until I talked to Crowder last night. I wrote to him in care of the steamship company when I sold out and came up to San Francisco, and I guess they forwarded the letter. He hardly ever wrote at all; I’d get a card from him once or twice a year, and that was about it. But just how did it happen? And have you got any leads at all as to who did it?”
    “No. We were hoping you might be able to help us, but if you didn’t keep in any closer touch than that—”
    “What about identification?”
    “No problem.” Brubaker gave an impatient wave of the hand. “What the hell—a man six feet five with snow-white hair? Anyway, his stuff was still in his wallet. But just for the record you might as well verify it.”
    Romstead mentally braced himself and took the two large glossies Brubaker held out. The first was a full-length view of a man lying on his back in a sordid litter of trash: empty bottles, newspapers, a headless doll, charred magazines, and rusting cans, and beyond him, just above the rumpled mane of white hair, a burst sofa cushion and some twisted and half-rotted shoes. It was his father. He was clad in a dark suit, light shirt, and tie, and his ankles were hobbled with a short length of rope. His hands and forearms were under him, twisted behind his back. There were no visible signs of violence except that there was something in his mouth and on his face.
    The second was a close-up, just the head and shoulders, taken in the same location. The eyes were open, staring blankly upward with the dry and faintly dusty look of death. The mouth was spread wide, apparently having been pulled open while the substance, whatever it was, was poured in until it overflowed in a small mound. It looked like flour or confectioners’ sugar. There was more of it in the nostrils and on the chin and some on the ground on each side of the face. Romstead’s eyes were bleak as he pushed the two photos together and handed them back.
    “That’s him. But what is that stuff in his mouth?”
    “Lactose,” Brubaker said. “We had it analyzed.”
    “Lactose?”
    “More commonly known as milk sugar.”
    “But why? Some psychopath’s idea of good clean fun?”
    “Oh, the message seems to be clear enough, but why us? We’re just old country boys.”
    “I think you’ve lost me,” Romstead said.
    “Don’t you know what they use it for?”
    “No—” Romstead began. Then he gestured impatiently. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
    “Exactly. To cut heroin. I’d say