Killing Zone (37 page)
Authors: Rex Burns
“It’s OK—it’s basically fine. She’s just getting old. There’s all sorts of crap when you get old.” He cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you, too, I think I got a job lined up. The counselor here says he can get me work as a janitor in a electronics plant up around Brighton. It’s a start, man.”
“That’s fine. Just don’t use it for casing hits.”
“No way, man. I’m not even thinking like that anymore. That kind of shit does not even cross my mind!”
“Glad to hear it. Anything I can do to help out?”
“No—I don’t think so. I mean, maybe, you know, if somebody wants a character witness for me … You know, like you did with the judge.”
“I’ll be glad to. Just let me know who to write or who to talk with when the time comes.”
“Thanks, Gabe—come on around sometime. Be good seeing you, and Mother’d be real happy to meet you.”
“I’ll do that, Stovepipe. Welcome back.” Wager hung up, certain that wasn’t the last he’d hear from the man but hoping that when he did hear, it would be good news. With luck, Stovepipe would make it. Some ex-cons did. It was in the man’s favor that he wasn’t an addict, and maybe he could turn things around for himself. One of the few drawbacks of working homicide was that most of the people Wager was called on to help couldn’t say thank you. And the people he ran across after their discharge from Canon City were usually on their way back to jail for another murder. It would be nice to know one ex-con who was changed for the better.
McMillan Realty’s office secretary had a perky, friendly voice that made buying and selling houses sound like fun. She told him that the realtor who handled the property in that block of Wyandot was Sandy Ebert but she was out of the office right now. Would Detective Wager care to leave a message?
“I need to know who owns the house.” He explained about the fire. “Is there any way I can get in touch with Miss Ebert?”
“Oh, that’s awful! Just a moment, Officer. I can look at the file for you.” Her voice came back to tell him that one Gail Weil had bought the house almost two months earlier.
“Do you know if she lived there or if she rented it?”
“No, sir. All I’ve got is a file copy of the sales contract.”
“Can you tell me what bank she borrowed from?”
“Sure. Citizen’s Bank of Denver. Their mortgage and loan office handled it.”
He thanked the secretary and asked her to give his message to Sandy Ebert. Then he called the bank’s mortgage and loan desk and headed for the elevator down to the garage.
The loan application not only listed references and a next of kin but also told him that Gail Weil’s current home address wasn’t where the fire had taken place.
“She told me she was buying it as an investment property, Detective Wager.” The loan officer was a short woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her long, dark hair made her seem even shorter. “It was a VA foreclosure and needed some work, but she thought it would make a good lease property.”
“You don’t know who she might have rented it to?”
“No. She makes the payments, and they’ve been on time.” She added, “Of course, there’ve only been a couple.”
“Have you called to tell her about the fire yet?”
“I called the insurance company right after I heard from you. I suppose they’re the ones to call the property owner.” A small, relieved smile. “The policy covers the market value of the property. We require that as a condition of the loan.”
“Borrow your phone?” The dark-haired woman nodded, and Wager dialed the number on the loan application. After three rings, Gail Weil answered, and Wager mentally crossed her name off the list of possible victims. He told her about the fire and asked if he could come by.
“Fire? My property—it burned down?”
“I understand your insurance company’s already been notified. Will you be at home in the next half hour, ma’am?”
“My new house? The one I just bought?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you going to be at home?”
“My God! How did it start? Who did it?”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes, ma’am.”
“My God—that’s my property! How—”
Wager hung up and thanked the loan officer. Gail Weil was waiting for him when he pulled to the curb in front of her house. On Ivanhoe a block north of busy Colfax, it was one of those English brick cottages with steeply pitched roof and arched front door that were supposed to remind people of a castle. What it reminded Wager of was a Sinclair gas station that used to be near his home when he was a kid. In fact, Ms. Weil looked like a pump jockey. She wore a tan jumpsuit with short sleeves, and her graying straight hair was combed back from the forehead and cropped at her neck. She didn’t glance at Wager’s badge case when he introduced himself.
“I called the insurance company. They told me it was a total loss!”
“Yes, ma’am. It looked that way.”
“My God! I’ll never get my investment back!”
“You’ll want to talk to the insurance company and the bank about that, ma’am. Could you tell me—”
“I did! I told you that. All that man would tell me was that he’d get back to me. Wouldn’t tell me anything, and I can’t make heads or tails out of that policy, the way they put things in language a body can’t read!”
“Can you tell me—”
“I didn’t have a replacement clause. It was covered for the market value—I had to have market value when I used it for collateral. But I don’t know if that’s enough for replacement, and that insurance man wouldn’t tell me. …”
“Ma’am—Ms. Weil—I need your help. Somebody was killed in that fire.”
“Killed! Oh, my God! Killed? The insurance man didn’t say anything about that!” She clapped both hands to her cheeks and stared at Wager with wide eyes. “I’m not responsible for that—you can’t arrest me for that!”
“I’m not here to arrest you, lady. I just want to know who rented the place. I’m trying to identify the victim.”
Her mouth snapped shut, lips making a hollow click. “Name? Of the renter?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can you tell me who you rented it to and who lived there?”
“Marshall. Just a minute.” She left Wager standing on the small, unsheltered slab of concrete that served as a porch to the cottage. He heard drawers sliding and papers rustling. Then she came back and read from a legal-size sheet of paper marked with heavy type and a lot of blank spaces filled in by pen. “John Marshall. He rented it by himself, and as far as I know he lived there by himself too.”
“Does he list a previous address?”
“Oceanside, California. North Tremont Street—951.” She asked, “Is that who died? Mr. Marshall?”
Wager looked up from his notebook. “We’re not sure yet. Any next of kin listed?”
“His mother. He put her down as a reference: Elizabeth Marshall. Same address in Oceanside.”
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“Young, but not too young. Maybe thirty, more or less. Had kind of long brown hair but not real long. Not like a hippie, you know. He seemed nice enough, I guess.”
Wager found himself using the past tense too. “Did he have any facial hair?”
“No.”
“Wear glasses? Rings? Any jewelry?”
“Not that I recall. I didn’t really notice that.”
“Do you know the names of anyone who might have been living with him?”
“No. I told you, he rented it by himself.”
“The neighbors said several other people stayed there from time to time. He never mentioned any names?”
“No. But it was his house. To use, I mean. If he wanted people staying with him, that was up to him. That don’t break any laws, does it?”
“No, ma’am. Was he tall? Short? Fat? How would you describe him?”
“Taller than you. Maybe six feet. Kind of slender but not what you’d call skinny.”
“Did he put down his work address?”
She looked at the blanks on the lease agreement. “Crystal Pure Chemical Corp., 11589 San Bernardino Boulevard, Los Angeles.”
“Did he tell you anything about his work?”
“Said he was a salesman—an area rep, he called it.” She added. “Said he traveled a lot.”
“Did he pay by check or cash?”
“Cash. The damage deposit and three months’ rent. The next month’s not due yet.”
“Three months? You require three months’ rent up front?”
“No. That was the way he wanted it. Said he might be out of town when it was due and wanted to make sure it was covered.”
Wager nodded. “Anything else you can tell me about him?”
“No. No complaints. He just looked around the place and said it was fine and he’d take it.”
“Was it furnished?”
“Stove, refrigerator, washer and dryer. He said he’d get his own furniture.” She thought about that. “I don’t know if the appliances are covered in the insurance, either.”
“Did he say if he’d rent the furniture?”
“No. I didn’t ask.”
“And you didn’t go by the house to see how he was getting on?”
“No. His rent’s paid, and the house is his to use. I was a renter for a long time, and I never did like landlords coming by all the time and snooping. And then when something went wrong, they couldn’t be found.”
Wager thanked her. As he turned to go, she said, “I don’t have any liability for him. If anybody’s liable, it’s Marshall himself.”
“Sounds fine to me, ma’am.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1988 by Rex Raoul Stephen Sehler Burns
cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4532-4795-2
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
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AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
