Free One Grave Too Many by Ron Goulart

least.”
    “Okay, I’ll check on Jordan Crossen, too.”
    Gary took a step back from the pit. “What was in that damn hole anyway, Easy? Money or somebody’s body?”
    “Both,” said Easy.

CHAPTER 16
    T HE FAT MAN IN the candy-stripe sport jacket was reaching into his sample case. “Take these home for yourself then, young lady.” He held out a handful of boxes of recording tape.
    The slim Negro receptionist refused. “We’re happy with the tape we’re using now.”
    “So it wouldn’t hurt to take a freeby?”
    The black girl noticed Gary Marks and Easy. She stood up behind her white desk, grinning. “Welcome back, Gary.”
    “Hi, Marlis.”
    The tape man held his fistful of boxes out toward the approaching men. “Mr. Gary Marks, is it? Here are some samples courtesy of the Ichijiku Company of Japan. We’re new, but …”
    “Is Sandy in?” Gary asked the girl.
    She shook her head, poking a finger into her afro. She shrugged. “I don’t know where he is.”
    “Here you go,” the tape man said to Easy, “try these samples. At Ichijiku we like to say, we’re new but …”
    “Thank you very much.” Taking the boxes of tape, Easy put a hand on the man’s candy-striped arm. “We’ll run some field tests on this and be in touch with you.” He helped him shut his sample case, aimed him at the door and gave a light shove.
    “What about Sandy?” asked Gary.
    “He’s not here,” replied Marlis. “I got in around half past nine and he wasn’t here and there’s no message any place in the office and the answering service hasn’t heard from him.”
    “Nearly noon. You call his house in Ninguno Canyon?”
    “Was going to when the Japanese tape man came barrelassing in.”
    “Call now.” Gary rested both hands on the edge of the white desk.
    Easy sat on a black chair next to a trophy.
    After a moment the black girl hung up the desk phone. “Busy signal.”
    “Funny,” said Gary. “He’s not the kind of guy to wander off and not tell us.”
    “We’ve got the Kane taping at two.”
    “Well, I’m up to handling that if he’s not here by then. Where is it, Norliss Recording?”
    “Yeah, Studio … Studio 3. Two o’clock.”
    “Try his house once more.”
    Marlis punched out the number again. “Busy.”
    Gary, with his slight limp, walked over and sat next to Easy. “You don’t think … I mean, there’d be no reason for anyone to grab Sandy the way they did me. Would there?”
    “What’s his address?”
    “26 La Paloma Lane, over in Ninguno Canyon. You know where that …?”
    “Yeah.” Easy rose. “Ill drive over.”
    Gary was looking at the silver cup which rested on the white pedestal next to the chair. “This is the first award we won. Second place in the humorous 20-second spot division. That was for one of our Soy Poppos series. Pretty good, for the time. Sort of a Doyle-Dane fee to it. Maybe I better come along, huh?”
    “Stay here,” Easy told him. “And if Feller shows keep him here until I can talk to him.”
    “There’s got to be somebody at his house. Otherwise we wouldn’t get a busy signal,” said Gary, going toward the door with Easy. “Maybe he’s just got a touch of something. Sandy usually isn’t sick, though.”
    Easy opened the white door and went out.
    There were too many cars around. Three parked in front of the low shingle house, two more parked on its short gravel driveway and one parked right out on the lawn.
    There was also a bald man in a wrinkled blue suit standing on the grass and taking pictures of the Feller house. “Officer,” he called toward the open front door, “would you stick your head out a little bit more so I can get you in this next one?”
    The uniformed cop obliged.
    “That’s terrific, officer, only don’t smile like that. Look serious, look official. That’s nice, very nice.”
    Easy cut across the grass and walked along the red brick path toward the front steps.
    “Go away,” said the young cop.
    “What’s