In Lieu Of Surrender

Chapter 1

The day started out lousy and before long it was going to be elevated to the rotten category. I came into the office early that morning in 1949 to clear up the paperwork from an uninteresting divorce case. While waiting for the coffee pot to finish I puttered around the desk and then stepped to the window. Yellow-gray mist swirled up the street, covering the city with a thick eye-irritating blanket. Already in a dark state of mind because of the fog, the dullness of my task and a hefty hangover, I couldn’t know that things were about to get a lot darker.

Turning away from the window, I busied myself again at my desk until the shrill, irritating jangle of the telephone split the morning stillness. Out of self-preservation because of my throbbing head, I grabbed the receiver before the second ring. I was hoping it was a wrong number or maybe just Howard, my landlord, chipping and moaning about something or calling in to remind me of rent day.

Toby Grant private investigations, I grumbled into the receiver, peeved at being disturbed before my first cup of coffee. It was neither Howard nor a wrong number, but Justin Franks, my best friend and Chief of Police from Santa Marcia, a small city up the coast. We had gone to high school together, joined the Marines together and went to war in the South Pacific together. He was like a brother.

Toby, I need your help. Rita is dead and I’m about to be arrested for her murder.

I almost dropped the phone. Justin’s voice was so unnatural and strained that I felt the muscles in my scalp tighten. Wh…what? Justin, what the hell are you talking about?

I can’t tell you over the phone but please hurry. He sounded choked-up and on the verge of tears. This was not at all the confident and assured friend I was used to.

Okay, I’ll get on the road as quick as I can. Sit tight until I get there, buddy. I jammed the phone back on the cradle.

~ * ~

A few moments later, just as I was getting ready to scoot out the front door, I heard Howard enter through the back.

Morning, Toby.

I can’t talk now, Howard, I yelled, slamming my desk drawer. I’ll be gone a few days and I’ll check back for messages.

Your rent’s almost due, he reminded me. Howard could be a real jerk and as much as I hated taking the time to write a check, his fit at my tardiness would have been worse. Maybe that’s how you succeed in business, but it’s a sad indictment on the commerce community in this country.

I liked Howard but sometimes he reminded me of a cantankerous little Chihuahua, always snipping and snarling in perpetual ill temper. These tendencies normally peaked out around rent time, but his prices were right and he provided telephone and secretarial services along with some remarkable research assistance. I truly believe there was a bird dog, in addition to the Chihuahua, somewhere back in Howard’s ancestry.

I wrote the rent check, grabbed my coat and a half cup of coffee and hurried by his office.

Just a moment, I’ll give you a receipt.

No time, I said over my shoulder, going out the door. I was in a rush to get to my friend, to help him, and at that moment, everything else was incidental.

~ * ~

When I neared my apartment, I was still agonizing over the phone call. I had to force myself to forget it for the moment and concentrate on the things I needed to do to get on the road. I nudged into my parking place and turned off the engine.

I'd been ticking the items off on my fingers as I drove. Pick up my other suits and shirts from the laundry, draw money from the bank, pack underwear, tell the landlord I’d be gone for a few days and lock the apartment.

Oh, yeah, I better throw the garbage out too, I mumbled as I got out of my little yellow Ford convertible. I don’t want the place to start stinking while I’m gone.

An hour later I was on the road, certain I must have forgotten something in the mad rush. While driving west toward Los Angeles and the coast, I could see the brown haze over the city being shoved east by an on-shore breeze. On days like this when it piled up against the foot of the mountains where San Castro nestled, the noxious haze caused the eyes to water and the nasal passages to burn. People were calling it ‘smog’, an acronym for smoke and fog.

The weather that fall had been miserable, as miserable as it gets in Southern California. Rain, long since having lost its novelty, was threatening again in a line of clouds moving in from the west. There seemed no let-up when storm after storm washed in from the North Pacific, leaving the landscape soggy and my spirits in much the same condition. I was a sunshine freak.

At Highway 101 I turned north and sloshed my way up the coast. I wanted to push to get there sooner but realized that an accident or a ticket would really delay me, so I slowed down. My mind drifted as I rolled along, wondering about Justin and where this trouble came from.

If memory serves, it was Sherlock Holmes who said, To formulate a theory without sufficient facts is folly. Then again, it might have been Dick Tracy. I settled down and continued on toward Santa Marcia. The day had all the charm of a toothache and I turned on the radio to see if I could find some music to comfort me. After visiting all the stations I could get, I turned it off in disgust. I just wasn’t ready to listen to some clown preaching we were all going to Hell and then asking for a donation so I could do it with a clear conscience. On another station, the strains of Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, gnawed at my ear drums and I finally shut the thing off, deciding I preferred silence to that particular tune.

~ * ~

After an hour hunger pangs reminded me I hadn’t eaten since the afternoon before. Though hesitant to take a time out from the drive, I had to eat something. What good would I be if I arrived with my tongue hanging out and my mind consumed with food?

A beanery just off the highway and overlooking the ocean caught my eye. There were a number of cars in the parking lot so I was intrigued. Cars usually pile up at a restaurant because the food is good, or the coffee is good, or there is a cute waitress. How could I be so wrong? I don’t know what the attraction was there. The food was so-so, the coffee barely drinkable and the waitress reminded me of a snarling first sergeant I once knew.

Judging by the way she motioned me to a seat at the counter with hand signals and a sour expression on her puss, she may have been a traffic cop in her off hours.

While wolfing down my half cooked breakfast and drinking my lukewarm coffee, I glanced down to see a Santa Marcia Times newspaper abandoned on the stool next to me. The headlines read.

Police Chief’s Wife Murdered. Body Found In Couple’s Bedroom. Robbery May Be Motive.

The rest of the article was fill-in and didn’t offer up much information. One detail was missing—there was no mention of a suspect—and that caused me to wonder. If the police believe it was a robbery, why was Justin thinking he was going to be arrested?

When I’d finished, I tried to get the attention of my waitress but she was busy talking to some guy at the end of the counter, practically drooling in his coffee. I thought I might get my little thermos filled but it looked like this was going to be a dry run. Disgusted, I left money on the counter to pay the bill plus one penny. When I approached the door, I heard her sneering voice booming across the floor, Hey Mac, you left this penny here. Are you sure you don’t need it? I think she was trying to insult or embarrass me. It didn’t work.

Nah, that’s for you Honey. It’s your tip. It’s about all the service and food was worth.

There was a pause and then, with hands on her hips and a glare on her face, she snarled, Come back soon, Sweetie.

No chance of that, Darlin’. I smiled and walked out the door.

I felt a bit better and, once on the road, I reviewed what information there was. It was scant and the effort proved useless so, I let my mind wander back to the first time I met Justin…

It was 1939 in the San Castro High School cafeteria at the beginning of our senior year.

Hi, can I sit here?

I looked up to see a new guy. He was big, handsome and toothy, with a kind of funny lopsided grin that started in his eyes and seemed to radiate over his entire face like a morning unfolding. A shock of unruly hair hung down on his forehead, and he kept brushing it back but it just wouldn’t cooperate.

Sure. Are you new here? I asked.

Yeah, we just moved to town a month ago.

What’s your name?

Justin Franks. How about you?

Toby Grant.

Senior?

Yeah.

Me too.

Over his shoulder I could see the girls at one table looking in our direction. Chattering and giggling behind their hands, they were studying the newcomer in the time honored way of the species. The thought occurred to me that he was going to be very popular.

What classes do you have?

Let’s see, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read out loud. Home Room, first period. Social Studies second, Gym, then Algebra, Spanish and History last.

That’s practically the same as me, only I have wood shop last period.

Great, at least I’ll know someone in my classes.

He seemed quiet, even shy, and had a boyish quality about him that would, no doubt, further endear him to the female eye. I basked in his reflected glory, which enhanced my social status considerably. Personally, I didn’t mind riding someone’s coat tails. We became instant friends, laughing and talking as if we had known each other most of our lives.

Weeks melded into months and months into years and our friendship grew. We graduated from high school and worked in various jobs. They were mostly menial until one day I applied and was hired by the local police force. When training was complete I began to pound a beat. Justin, at my urging, joined too, and we became brother police officers. Life settled down to a sweet routine with an occasional drunken evening or trip to the beach to add to the excesses of youth.

World events were about to catch up with us though. On a bloody Sunday in December 1941, the country was plunged into World War II. Most of us had never heard of Pearl Harbor until the first reports came over the radio. Americans rushed to maps and globes to locate Japan. Shock turned to amazement when they discovered the relative size of Japan and America. We’ll whip ‘em easy, was the popular sentiment.

The following day the nation gathered expectantly around radios to hear the declaration of war by President Roosevelt. From then on, the ‘easy war’ got a lot tougher.

That day Justin and I met in the locker room at the station and discussed the news. I was reading a newspaper when he walked in. I shook the paper at him and said, Hey Justin, you see this? It looks like the Army is going to draft everyone before this is over.

Yeah, that’s what Pa said too.

Listen. I been thinking maybe we should go down and join before it happens.

Join the Army?

No, I’ve been thinking about joining the Marines.

There was a hesitation in his voice. I don’t know. I hear they’re pretty rough. Then he brightened and said, How about the Navy?

No man, don’t you remember that movie the other night about the Marines? Those guys get all kinds of medals and stuff and girls hangin’ all over them. Remember?

His enthusiasm for the project was tepid at best. Okay, but I won’t be able to go in for a couple of months. I got some things I want to do.

I’m sure they’ll understand, I said, happy to have my friend going with me.

The Marines didn’t understand at all and a week later we were in boot camp in San Diego, with our heads shaved, thoroughly miserable, scared and wondering what we’d got ourselves into.

I was jerked back to the present when a car, in a rush to get around me, damn near ran me off the road. I leaned on the horn and saluted him with one finger. Idiot, I snarled.

***

Chapter 2

Santa Marcia was an exclusive little city nestled between the shores of the Pacific Ocean and the foothills of the Santa Ynez Mountains, just inland from the beach. It was quaint, white-washed and tidy. Right now, it was also very wet. In the summertime, people flooded in, mostly from Los Angeles, and lapped up the charm. They frolicked in the surf, played in the sand, got sunburned, wolfed down huge amounts of rich food and liquor at exorbitant prices, made love in expensive hotels and drove back to L.A., exhausted and refreshed and maybe a little lighter in the pocketbook. Now the place was deserted, wilted like a corsage after the prom.

When I pulled up in front of the police station, rain was pouring down in buckets. Looking the building over I could see it was homogenous for the area, white-washed stucco with a red tiled roof and brown painted trim. Heavy rough-cut beams and tile floors completed the motif. It was the Old Spanish look that people seemed to cherish along the coast. Trying to avoid getting soaked, I ran from the car and ducked into the alcove in the front entrance. The little patio smelled of wet wood and vegetation. The massive carved wooden doors were more suited to protecting a medieval fortress than the continual flow of people in and out of a modern police station.

When I entered there were a number of people milling around in the corner. From the press cards in their hatbands and the few cameras in the group, I concluded they were reporters and photographers from the newspapers. They were exchanging words with a desk sergeant but stopped and watched me step up to the desk. A few edged in closer to listen, no doubt to see if I was someone important.

I’m here to see Chief Franks.

He expectin’ ya?

Yeah. I’m Toby Grant, but I’ll need the rest room first.

He nodded toward a hallway and few moments later I was back in front of the sergeant. I gave him my name once more. He seemed to have forgotten it already. He let out a slight grunt and I felt like an errant schoolboy in front of the headmaster.

Oh, yeah, I heard you were comin’. Chief’s in there. Go on in. He seemed to be talking through the top of his head as he pointed with his thumb and continued with his paperwork.

I looked where his thumb pointed and saw a frosted glass door with the words Chief of Police emblazoned in black outlined gold letters on the glass. The press watched me for a second, and then crowded around, all speaking at once. Press people were seldom shy in accosting strangers to get a statement.

Who are you, and are you related to the Chief? one asked.

A flash from a camera shoved in my face blinded me for a second.

Did you know the deceased? a man in the back row yelled.

What is your reaction to the murder? a bespectacled young man in shirt sleeves called after me as I pushed through the crowd.

No comment. Sorry. I can’t answer questions right now, I said, with my hand on the door knob.

On the other side was a young woman behind a desk. She was attractive, well groomed and seemingly very efficient. I say that because her desk had just one single piece of paper sitting squarely in the middle and a name plaque on the edge which announced her to be Julia. The only other items on the desk were a telephone and an inter office call box. The paper looked blank and appeared to have been set there more as a prop or decoration than for any other purpose.

May I help you? she asked in a slightly throaty and musical voice. The sound added another dimension to her decorative presence.

I might have stopped to pass the time and flirt under different circumstances but today my mind was preoccupied and so I said, I’m here to see the Chief. My name is Toby Grant. Her smile was dazzling. You know the type, probably captain of the varsity smile team in school. I was an immediate fan.

Oh, yes, sir. He’s expecting you. Please go right in. She flashed me another smile, lighting my path, but her words had a solemn quality. There was sadness there in spite of her perky exterior.

I walked through the inner door. The office was small and sparse for a Chief of Police. A little ‘L’ shaped model tucked away in the corner. I visualized the outside of the building and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why this room was shaped like that. There was a desk that looked like World War I surplus and a couple of chairs of the same vintage. The rest of the room contained two beat up file cabinets, shelves with no books, and a ceiling fan with one blade drooping. The floor was hardwood, in bad need of a coat of something, and the windows were frosted to let in the light but keep the view out. I hadn’t seen the view yet, so maybe it was better that way. The paint was a nondescript color of green, which I supposed was to make the place look large and airy. It didn’t work.

***

Chapter 3

Sitting at his desk, Justin looked up when I walked in. He was a pitiful sight. His face was pale and slack. His eyes, which always had a sparkle, were now dull and listless. He looked twenty years older.

Toby, thanks for coming, he murmured, standing and letting me take him in a bear-hug. When I stepped away, his smile was pained and eyes downcast. Trembling slightly, he motioned me to a chair. His motions were listless, as if his arms were very heavy. I wondered if he had had any sleep last night.

I’m so sorry to hear about Rita. Though we never met I felt like I knew her. The words sounded weak and stupid, but he accepted them with a sort of subdued resignation. Is there anything I can do? I was the champion of platitudes that day.

Thanks, he said, looking down at the desk. I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. He was holding back the tears with tremendous effort. I had never seen him in this condition and it unnerved me. I had seen him in stark terror, laying in a few inches of grass facing death, with bullets and shells hitting all around. I had seen him sickened by the stench and sight of the appalling carnage of the battlefield, and I’d seen his face crying in agony as he dragged the mutilated and lifeless body of a buddy to an aid station. But I had never seen him in such a pitiful state as this.

Look man, why don’t you go home and try to get some sleep?

I can’t…I’m better off here keeping busy. I can’t stand being there alone… I thought I might move into a hotel or maybe the YMCA for a while so I won’t have to sleep in that place. He didn’t try to mask the sadness when he heaved a giant sigh and his shoulders sagged.

We sat quietly for a moment. All sorts of questions were burning in my brain. Finally, I broke the silence. Come on pal, check out of here and let’s go have a drink somewhere. He sat still for a long moment and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me. Then he nodded his head in resignation and slowly rose. He pushed a button on the box on his desk. Julia, are those reporters still out there?

No sir. I think they just left.

Good, I don’t want to see them right now. As we passed through the office he spoke briefly to her and we left. She was standoffish. Maybe she was afraid to get close or maybe it was sympathy. Whatever she felt, she had a lot of time to feel it. There didn’t seem to be much for her to do. I wondered