Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River Read Online Free PDF Page A

time,” Harry said.
    “Well, whatever the hell you do, don’t trust Mike Kilborn.”
    “You don’t have to worry. I wasn’t counting on trusting anybody in this town.”
    Davenport wasn’t offended by this. “I know what you mean, Callahan,” he said. “I know just what you mean.”

C H A P T E R

T h r e e
    S luggish gray clouds hung close to the summit of the mountains. The uncertain meteorological conditions failed to daunt Turk from proceeding with his scheduled air surveillance. He chose Davenport to accompany the first group of detectives in the air, but there was really little for Davenport to do because of the persistent cloud cover.
    It wasn’t until shortly after noontime that the sun dispelled the gloom sufficiently for the landscape to become fully visible.
    Then Turk elected to conduct the tour. Standing by the side of the Sikorsky, he resembled a master of ceremonies patiently awaiting the arrival of his guests.
    The first to show up was a man from the sheriff’s office who carried a gun and an explanation for his unexpected presence.
    “Wardell thinks you might run into trouble,” said the man, “so he felt I ought to come along for the ride.”
    “What kind of trouble?” Turk was a man who did not appreciate learning things second-hand.
    The man shrugged. “I don’t know. Wardell didn’t confide in me. I expect that one of his informers turned up with some bad news. It happens that way sometimes.”
    “Trouble!” Turk repeated, openly scornful of the idea. “Well, come along then if you must. What’s your name?”
    “Henry Beller.”
    Turk glanced at the rifle in his hands. “You know how to use that thing?”
    “As well as the next man.”
    This seemed to satisfy the narcotics investigator.
    Presently Turk’s other guests arrived, including the pilot, a man whose diminutive size suggested that under other circumstances he could have been a jockey.
    Harry, characteristically, was the last to show.
    Turk glared at him. “I am surprised you came.”
    Harry resisted making the comment Turk expected from him.
    The two detectives, in addition to Harry, who had chosen to accept Turk’s personal aerial tour were from San Jose and Palm Springs. It was difficult for Harry to determine whether they’d been shipped north because of their vast experience and expertise in ferreting out murderers or because they were so near retirement age that their departments could easily do without their services for a prolonged period of time.
    One of them, the one from Palm Springs, made it pretty clear to Harry which explanation was the more likely when he said, in a voice too soft for Turk to hear, “I don’t know what kind of energy you’re planning on putting into this case, but I’m not looking to bust my ass on this one. I want to be alive and well to collect my pension. You understand what I am saying?”
    Harry understood all right.
    Above the mountain that the mapmakers called Lunar and Turk called Alpha, the helicopter hovered for several minutes while Turk pointed out the ground where some of the finest marijuana in the state of California was awaiting harvesting.
    “How can you tell it’s marijuana from up here?” asked the detective from San Jose who strained to distinguish the illegal crop in the checkerboard patterns of the landscape.
    Turk prided himself on his familiarity with his territory and with the acuity of his eyesight in such things. “You can tell because it doesn’t look right. It’s not natural. It wouldn’t be growing here by itself. You develop an instinct for what belongs and what doesn’t.”
    This explanation was not going to prove at all helpful in aiding the detectives on their own. Harry had the impression that this was just how Turk wanted it. Turk was the man with the knowledge, this was his turf, and he had no intention of sharing either.
    “You got a question, Callahan?” Turk asked.
    “No. No question.”
    “And no answer either, I