‘You go right on looking man,’ Buck said. ‘I’ll just scram.’
Frost gripped the lean wrist and wrenched up the shirtsleeve. He didn’t have to see the puncture marks, he could feel them. This youth was a vein shooter.
Buck tried to jerk free, but Frost easily held his wrist.
‘Want to make a hundred bucks?’ Frost said.
Buck became tense.
‘You wouldn’t be kidding, man?’
‘When did you last have a fix?’
Buck mumbled something, and again tried to break Frost’s hold.
‘Listen, Buck, I want you to look around among your friends. I am looking for a girl with red hair: she’s special. If she’s here, she can’t have been here longer than three hours. She might even have come and gone. If you spot her, don’t do anything, just come back here and tell me. If you spot her, you get a hundred bucks. If you don’t spot her, you get fifty. Okay?’
‘A girl with red hair?’
‘That’s it. You can’t mistake her. It’s a special red: not tinted: natural. She’s around twenty years of age: good body.’
Buck got to his feet as Frost released his wrist.
‘A hundred bucks, man?’
‘Yep.’ Frost took out his billfold and showed the youth a hundred dollar bill. ‘All yours if you spot her.’
‘You wait right here, man. Don’t you move away.’
‘I’ll be here, and Buck, if you spot her, just keep going. Just come here and tell me.’
‘Okay, man.’
Frost watched the black youth walk quickly and unsteadily towards the campfires. He watched him moving around. A girl went up to him, but Buck shoved her aside. He finally disappeared into the smoke and the gloom.
Suppose this black youth got some of his friends and tried to jump him, Frost thought. He had shown Buck he had a wallet of money.
Crouching, he moved back until he reached the shelter of a long line of mango trees. He loosened his gun in its holster, then leaning against a tree trunk, sure he was hidden, but could still see the campfires, he waited.
It was a long wait, then just when he was deciding he wasn’t going to see Buck again, and as the hands of his watch moved to 23.15, he saw Buck coming at a jog-trot, and alone.
Buck paused by the shrub and looked wildly around. Frost could see sweat pouring down his black skin, lit by the moonlight.
‘Okay, Buck,’ he called softly. ‘I’m right over here.’
Buck shambled towards him and paused before him, panting.
‘You’re going to give me that bread, man?’ he gasped. ‘If I don’t get a fix soon, I’m going to blow my cork.’
‘Did you find her?’
‘Yeah, man, but she’s gone. She’s with Big Chet. He took her to his pad.’
‘Who’s Big Chet?’
‘Man, he’s mean. He runs this freak-out. He’s real mean!’
‘Where’s his pad, Buck?’
‘At the far end of the bay. He has a cabin. Give me that hundred, man!’
‘How do I know if you’re on the beam, Buck. Maybe it’s some other girl.’
‘I talked with my friends. Big Chet picked this babe off the highway. She calls herself Gina. She’s got red hair.’
This satisfied Frost.
‘How do I get to the pad, Buck?’
‘Right along the beach. It’s around half a mile. You can’t miss it.’
‘Can I get there by car?’
‘Sure... take the next turning off the highway: brings you right to it.’
Frost gave him the hundred dollar bill.
‘Thanks, man,’ Buck said, started away, then paused. ‘You watch it with Big Chet. Don’t tell him who told you,’ and he went off in a frantic, shambling run.
Frost hurried back to the Lamborghini. He drove to the highway and took the next turning down to the beach. He turned off the car’s headlights and the engine, and coasted down the narrow, sandy track until he was in sight of the sea again.
Leaving the car he walked the next hundred yards. To his left he could see the campfires. To his right, he saw a small wooden cabin, half hidden under the shade of palm trees. The dim Light of an oil lamp showed in a window.
Drawing his gun, he moved silently across the sand until he reached the cabin.
The only sound that came to him was distant guitar music, distant voices and the sea breaking on the beach.
Edging forward, he looked into the lighted room. What he saw there, made him stiffen.
Gina, naked, sat in a broken down armchair. Her hands rested on her knees. There were bloodstains on her hands and on her thighs. Her eyes were blank. She looked like a horrifying waxwork, but he could see by the uneven rise and fall of her breasts, she was alive.
Lit by the smoking oil lamp was the prone figure of a big man, sprawled in death at Gina’s feet. He was wearing a grimy sweatshirt and tattered jeans.
Growing out of his chest was the handle of a knife.
Eight
Gun in hand, Frost moved cautiously into the cabin.
The thick smell of dirt, bodies and marijuana smoke was stomach turning. He bent over the body. He guessed this was Big Chet: no longer mean, and as dead as a floater, hauled in from the sea.
The knife had been driven in with such violence, the blade had sealed the wound. There was little bleeding, but the handle of the knife showed blood.
Frost then turned to Gina who sat motionless, her big eyes wide and fixed, her breasts moving as she breathed in spasms.
‘Gina!’
No response.
He passed his hand before her eyes, but they remained fixed. He touched her shoulder... hot and dry.
One hell of a situation, he thought, and his cop trained mind went into immediate action. What to do? This was murder!
He looked around the squalid cabin. A battered looking telephone stood on a pile of much thumbed Playboy magazines. He knew he couldn’t handle this situation alone.
He called the Ace of Spades. When Umney came on the line, Frost said, ‘I’ve found her, but there’s real trouble. Silk and Mitch around?’
‘They’ve just come in. What trouble?’
‘I’m down at Paddler’s Creek. I want you three here fast!’ Frost snapped. ‘Bring trenching tools. We have something to bury!’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Umney demanded, alarm in his voice.
‘You’ll see! Get moving. You know Twin Oakes motel?’
‘Yeah, but...’
‘Take the second turning on your left as you come up the highway before Twin Oakes, then come down to the beach. I’ll be waiting for you. I want you three here fast, and don’t forget the trenching tools!’ Frost hung up.
He went over to Gina and stood looking at her. Apart from her breathing, she could be dead. Again he passed his hand before her eyes, again no response.
He went out of the cabin, and stood breathing in the hot humid air, feeling sweat on his face.
As he stood staring at the moonlit beach, he thought of what Grandi had promised. Five million dollars! This was something Silk, Goble and Umney would not know about! But suppose she died? She looked bad enough to die. The crazy little bitch must have gone on a trip. This big, dead slob must have given her L.S.D. She had flipped her lid and had stabbed the bastard.
He returned to the cabin, hunted around and found a filthy rag which he soaked from a trickle of water from a tap. He washed the blood off her thighs and her hands. She remained like a waxwork. Then he looked around and found at the end of a dirty, sagging bed, her clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, panties and sandals.
He went to her and dragged her out of the chair. She flopped like a sawdust doll with escaping sawdust, against him. Somehow, he managed to get her into the jeans. Twice she slipped out of his sweating hands and sprawled on the floor. Twice, cursing, he dragged her up, and finally zipped up the jeans. He was now worried sick. She still remained like a waxwork. He got the T-shirt on her, then dropped her back into the chair.