Killing Zone (29 page)

“He wouldn’t do that. He didn’t!”

“You saw nothing like that in the company books?”

“No. And it would be hard to do—the books are a simple credit and debit system. Income in one column, expenses in the other, and each item noted. I set it up that way when I came in so we could tell what pieces were selling well and which ones weren’t. It’s as much a running inventory as an accounting sheet.” She shook her head again. “There’s no way to bring in any extra money without selling an item.”

“What about false sales?”

She thought a moment, diverted from the idea of Green as a crooked politician by the challenge of an accounting problem. “It would be too easy to spot—the invoices: stock numbers and delivery sheets. Just cross-check the invoices with the income record.”

“Can you tell me anything at all about his real estate investments?”

“Not much, no. He mentioned them a time or two—he had a lot in Arvada he was going to sell, but it fell through, I think.” She remembered something and it pushed her chin out a bit: “He did tell me once he was worried about being an investor in a group that intended to apply to his committee for a zoning variance, so he bought out of it. He didn’t want any hint of conflict of interest. Does that sound like a man who would sell votes, Officer? I don’t think it does. I know Horace would not do something like that.”

“Did he need money?”

“No. I don’t think so. He never said so.”

And nothing Wager had seen so far indicated the man was living beyond his means, but that was a step that would have to come later: subpoenas for bank records, financial statements, property records—all the documents of one’s financial life that needed probable cause to be opened to investigation. And it was a step he couldn’t take by himself. “Miss Andersen, you say you and Green made love regularly in the afternoons between five and six.”

“ … Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“What?”

“Where did you go to make love, Miss Andersen? It’s too far to drive down here. Did you stay at the store?”

“No. The first time … No.”

“Where did you go?”

“He had an apartment.” Even in the room’s silence, it was hard to hear her answers.

“Address?”

“Centennial Towers. Number ten-fifty-one.”

That was a large residential complex in lower downtown, one of those clusters of high rises that formed its own courtyard and had commercial space on the first two floors and apartments with individual balconies all the way up to the thirtieth. “Did he rent it for you and him?”

“No. He had it before we met. He said he used it to get away from the telephones—it was his refuge, he said.” She added, “He needed someplace like that, some place where he could just lie down and listen to nothing but quietness.” Her eyes met Wager’s. “A lot of times we didn’t make love. He just slept. We held each other, we talked, he would rest for a little while.”

“But not on Wednesday?”

“No.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We …” She hesitated, then lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “We made love. I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”

Wager wasn’t, either, but he knew he wanted to understand this man who was a mixture of saint and sinner as well as a victim of someone’s hatred or fear. “Was it like the other times? Was there anything different about him?”

She watched the light hairs on her arm flip in a gold blur as her fingers ran slowly up her flesh. “He seemed … wounded.”

“Wounded? Where?”

“Not that way—physically. Mentally. It was as if I reassured him in some way. As if I returned something to him. He was very yearning and … tender …” A small sound of irritation. “I don’t know exactly—he didn’t say anything was bothering him. But when we left, he seemed more at peace.”

“He was worried?”

“He didn’t tell me what it was; he never liked to bring his troubles there, he said. But something was bothering him. I didn’t want to ask what it was.”

Wager gave her a few moments, but she said nothing more. “Did you eat supper there?”

Sonja Andersen was reliving that last day. Wager could see it in the wetness that hovered at the edge of her eyelids. “No.”

“Did he ever go there with anyone else?”

“He gave parties there two or three times a year for jobbers or big buyers—he could write most of it off as a business expense that way.”

Tax-supported fun and games. Why not? That was the meaning of free enterprise. “Did he ever take other women there?”

The blond ponytail wagged no. “He told me I was the only one who knew about it. It was our space. Only the two of us.”

Wager wanted to be certain. “His wife didn’t know about it? Or his aide, Julia Wilfong?”

“They never telephoned him there. No one did.” She added, more to herself than to him, “I should cancel the lease, shouldn’t I? There’s no reason for her to find out about it now.”

“It’s in the account books?”

“Under fixed expenses. Rent.”

Wager rose and paused to look at the scarlet dots of color tumbling down among the greenness of a plant hanging in the sunlight of a shallow bay window. It was the same kind of plant that his mother used to have in her kitchen window and for some reason he remembered its name: bleeding heart. “Thank you, Miss Andersen. We may have to take a look at the books later. They may be subpoenaed.” He explained, “You won’t want to remove them or alter them in any way.”

She didn’t answer or stand. On his back, as he closed the door behind him, he could feel her large gray eyes, empty of everything except sadness.

1004 Hours

He radioed for a telephone warrant, hoping that a bailiff could find a judge on duty, and get it signed before he reached Centennial Towers. It should be routine, but a lot depended on which judge and what he’d had for breakfast. That was the way of the court many times: Judges expected the police to obey every rule of evidence courts invented, but when it came to providing their help in obeying, a lot of judges were a lot less dedicated. Some cops saw that hypocrisy as anti-police feeling, but Wager didn’t think that was it. To him, it came from arrogance; a judge had the power to tell the law “Do as I say” and that made most of them resent being told the same thing, such as “Sign a warrant.” If they were subject to orders, then they weren’t any better than the people they ordered, and once they got on the bench, damned few of them could stomach that idea.

The apartment hideaway was something he should have discovered earlier, and he felt a little self-contempt for not thinking of it sooner. What he was thinking of now, of course, was Green’s missing dinner: It could explain the gap between taking Sonie Andersen back to the furniture store and showing up at the Vitaco reception. It could also be the place he went after he left the reception—he, and whoever went there to meet him.

Parking downtown on a Sunday morning was no problem, and he pulled into the last of an empty row of parking meters that picketed Larimer Street in front of the yellow brick of the apartment towers. A large brass sign said Centennial Square and led under a bricked archway toward the splash of a fountain and a scattering of concrete benches and large planters holding young trees. The inside door to the apartment lobby was locked, but the column of names and buzzers listed apartment 5 as the manager’s. Wager pressed the button, and a few seconds later a voice said, “Can I help you?”

“Police. Would you come to the front entry, please.”

“Just a minute.”

While he waited Wager ran his finger down the names behind the slotted windows. Apartment 1051 was blank.

The manager, a short man with stiff, iron-gray hair and a mustache that struggled to look impressive, peered at Wager’s identification through the inner doors. Then he unlocked them. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

“I need to look at apartment ten-fifty-one. A warrant’s on the way.”

“An arrest?”

“No. It belongs to a homicide victim. Horace Green. You know him?”

“Ten-fifty-one … Ten-fifty—” The manager blinked. “Black fellow? Tall?”

Wager nodded. “You didn’t know him by name?”

The man held the elevator door for Wager and then followed him in and pushed number 10. “No—that’s a corporate rental. We have a lot of those,” he explained. “Business rents an apartment instead of using hotel rooms, to put up visiting firemen. Better tax break. Had a lot of oil companies did it, but that fell off. Now they’re coming back, though.” He added, “Thank God.”

“Embassy Furniture.”

“That’s right—it sure is! Embassy Furniture. And he used it for a few parties, I remember, because sometimes I’d let people in.” The elevator stopped and he held the doors again for Wager. “It gets pretty busy around here some evenings—if there’s a lot of parties, I watch the door to keep things from jamming up there, you understand.”

“Did you ever see him use it at other times?”

“I’d see him around now and then. But it’s hard to say—the residents have underground parking and their own elevator up from the garage. They don’t have to come through the lobby.”

The hallway was a short one in both directions, quiet, with the feel of thick walls and softened only a little by a couple of small pictures and an end table holding paper flowers. He followed the manager around the corner to the door of the apartment. The man pressed a security code into a panel and then opened the lock with a passkey. “You sure you have a warrant for this?”

“I phoned it in.”

“OK—I want to cooperate with the police, of course. But I got to be sure, you understand.”

“Did you ever see Green with anyone?”

“The black man?” He nodded. “Came here sometimes with a blond woman. Saw them in the elevator once or twice. Before that, a black woman.” He pushed the door open and stood aside for Wager. “It’s not my business what people do in the privacy of their own homes, you understand.”

“Did he bring many women here?”

“I don’t think so. Three, maybe four, I guess. I guess whoever he was going with at the time. What I mean is, he didn’t mix them up, you understand—he’d have one for a while and then some time would pass and I might see him with another.”

“The blonde was the last one?”

“As far as I know.”

The room had the musty odor of unopened windows and trapped summer heat, despite the air conditioning. A half-bath to the left of the entry, a closet to the right, and then widening into a living room that, had the blinds been opened, would have been full of light from the two corner windows and the patio doors that led to a balcony. Dining area with the kitchen beyond, also opening to the patio; two bedrooms linked by the master bath.

“Don’t look like he used it much,” said the manager. “Nice furniture, though.”

A show room. That’s what struck Wager when he glanced over the apartment—each piece of furniture seemed to have its own location, as if Green had carefully selected the best from his store to display in the apartment. Wager started going through the drawers. “What’s the rent on a unit like this?”

“Eleven hundred. That includes water and heat, parking, recreation and health facilities. It’s one of the less-expensive units. Phone’s extra, of course, and electricity.”

Good thing most of the cost went to the taxpayers, Wager thought; even a successful furniture dealer felt eleven hundred a month. “Do you have any list of people who visited?”

“No, sir. When residents have guests, generally they buzz themselves through. Unless, like I say, there’s a lot of parties and it gets real crowded. Then I help out at the door. Usually, people buzz themselves through.”

The drawers in the living room furniture were empty except for an unused telephone book; the closets held a few shirts, an extra suit and shoes, a raincoat. Nothing in the pockets. The dresser drawers had a few pairs of shorts and another shirt still in its laundry wrapper; the bathroom had shaving gear, toothbrush—two of those—a bottle of aspirin, shampoo, a shower cap, a set of towels on the racks and one in the closet, with some extra sheets. Some cleaning items. The refrigerator was empty of everything except a couple of bottles of mix for drinks, a few beers, a partly used quart of milk. No frozen dinners, nothing to cook. The garbage pail was almost empty, too: a paper-bag liner held a wad of cellophane from something, a bottle top that matched the beer bottle lying beside it, and a cash-register receipt from a liquor store for $4.73 and dated 9 June—three days before Green’s death. Both beds were neatly made; the dishwasher contained some glasses, no plates, and a few pieces of silverware waiting to be washed.

“See what you’re looking for?”

“No.” Perhaps forensics would find something of interest, but Wager didn’t think so.

He slid back the patio doors and went out on the balcony. Ten floors below, the vacant streets of downtown held an occasional pedestrian or car; the Sunday tide of diners and boutique haunters had not yet begun. This apartment faced east, into the morning sun, and across the roofs of neighboring low rises he could see the steady glide of a distant jet sinking across Green’s district toward Stapleton. A set of plastic patio furniture and a small table were pulled back against the wall; a portable barbecue sat dusty in a corner.

“Did you ever hear Green and the blonde argue?”

“No. Just saw them going up or down in the elevator.”

“The woman Green went with before the blonde—how long ago was that?”

The mustache bristled out as the man puffed his lips in thought. “Long time. Two Christmases ago, maybe. It was a Christmastime, I remember. But two or three, I couldn’t say. After a while they all run together, you understand.”

“Not this last Christmas?”

“No—two, maybe three, Christmases ago.”

“Let’s go down to the garage and look around. Do you know what his car looks like?”

The manager didn’t, and Wager wasn’t able to show him because the car wasn’t there. The slot for 1051 was vacant and a slow tour in the chill air past the other stalls turned up nothing. Wager handed a business card to the manager. “Lock up the apartment and don’t let anyone else in unless it’s a policeman. If someone wants in, give me a call right away—any time.”