Speak for the Dead (10 page)

“She didn’t say the woman’s name?”

“She did, but I really can’t remember. It was so long ago.”

“Did you know Rebecca’s address?”

“No.”

“You never went to visit her?”

“No.”

“I guess she was a pretty woman—being a model and all.”

Miss Dahl shrugged. “She was attractive, but not really pretty. She seemed to take a good picture.”

“You saw some?”

“She showed me a set of proofs once. They were part of the modeling course.”

“When was that?”

“A little while after I started working. Perhaps six or eight weeks.”

“So she planned for a long time to be a model?”

“She said that was the only thing she really wanted. She was that way—when she wanted something, she worked very hard for it.”

“Those modeling schools are pretty expensive, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. I suppose they charge what they can get.”

“Did she have any other income that you know of?”

“No. Maybe from her parents. Maybe she had money from them.”

Wager took the last sip of coffee from the cup whose handle was too small for his fingers. “Mr. Pitkin seemed surprised that she quit so suddenly.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“But you weren’t surprised by it?”

“Not really. Rebecca was that way, too.”

“What way?”

“When she didn’t want something any more, she dropped it. A lot of people are that way.”

“Did she ever tell you anything about her personal life? Did she have many friends?”

“I don’t think so. She knew some people, I suppose; she went to some parties and sometimes went skiing. We talked about skiing, and I think she belonged to a ski club. But she didn’t say much about herself. She was very independent—sometimes I almost envied her. I think she preferred to listen to me instead.”

“Why’s that?”

“My divorce. It was just starting when I began work. I … I needed someone to talk to. Most of my friends are in California. Rebecca was a good listener—she sympathized but not enough to … lose perspective. It’s strange how sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone like that rather than to a good friend.”

“Did Rebecca have any boyfriends?”

“None that I know of.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He stared down at the little swirl of dried coffee on the bottom of his cup. “Not even William Pitkin?”

This time her eyes told him what she denied: “No!”

“Miss Dahl,” said Wager softly, “I’m too goddamned tired to waste any more time. Rebecca was stabbed with a butcher knife and whoever did it liked his work. Pitkin didn’t tell me all he knew about her, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

A sudden quivering intake of breath; Wager hoped she wasn’t going to cry—he was weary enough now so that everything was an effort, especially a crying woman. But it wasn’t tears that had shaken her. “Not Bill—he wouldn’t… . You don’t think that Bill—?”

“No,” lied Wager. “But I do want to know everything about the victim. I want to know so I can find who did kill her.”

She suddenly stood and walked the three or four steps across the living room, her fingers tangled together in front of her heavy chest. Now the tears had really started, the deep kind that came silently, and Wager knew they weren’t just for Rebecca.

“She and Bill were … lovers. When I first started working there.”

“Pitkin was married?”

“Yes.” She looked down at her twisted fingers. “He still is.”

Wager tried to keep his voice neutral, to mask the pull of a weariness that went far beyond fatigue. “Tell me about it.”

Her voice grew thin and sounded as flat as Wager felt. “I’m not certain. They broke up a few months before she left. She didn’t say why and I didn’t ask.”

“Did Pitkin give her money?”

“Yes.” She said bitterly, “That seems to be his usual arrangement.”

“Are you and him lovers, Miss Dahl?”

“Yes.”

“Was that before or after Rebecca left?”

The sloping shoulders of the bathrobe bobbed once. “Before. But they weren’t seeing each other any more. Bill and I had lunch a few times, a drink or two; it just happened.” Sudden anger narrowed her eyes. “It doesn’t make any difference to anyone except us! We’re two people who need each other that way, and that’s all it will ever be! I’m not asking for anything more—I’ve tried being married and it was a hell of a lot worse than this!”

“Did Rebecca leave because of you and Pitkin?”

“No! She left because she wanted to be a model. That’s all she ever wanted. And I wish you would leave!”

“Was Pitkin at work all day on October 19th?”

She stared at Wager and her face drained to a pale yellow. “You said you didn’t suspect him.”

“It has to be asked.”

“That was a Tuesday—we were both there.”

“Did you go out to lunch with him?”

She thought back. “No. He had a business lunch that day. But he was back before a two-o’clock appointment.”

“Do you know if he went home that night?”

“I know he did not.”

“He didn’t?”

“He was with me.”

“At night? Late?”

“All night. Here.”

Wager could no longer tell if she lied.

T
HE DISPATCHER’S CALL
reached him in the apartment tower’s parking lot; the unlisted number from Crowell’s employment record was located at 5400 East Jewell, Building G, Apartment 16. Wager thought it was a complex less than half a mile away, and when he reached the address, he was right; it was one of a series of red brick buildings lining the Valley Freeway, all three stories high and sitting like military barracks—the kind that’s always seen but never noticed. He wound past aging but tenacious little homes filling in around newer commercial sites that had sprung up on the residential streets pinched off between Colorado Boulevard and the Valley Freeway. Finally, he located the alley leading to Building G. It seemed that expensive apartments had a street number for each unit, while cheaper ones had a single number for the whole complex. All the units in this complex were 5400 East Jewell.

Among the line of mailboxes recessed into the wall beside the entry was one labeled in familiar erect letters, “Crowell, R. J.” The glimmer of three or four envelopes showed through slots in the scratched brass lid. Just inside the entry, a sign pointed down to the “Garden Level” apartments, numbers 1-19. The tunnel-like hallway was carpeted and dimly lit by widely spaced wall lamps; a square of frosted light and a red exit sign gleamed at the far end. The lifeless air smelled of a curious mixture of new glue and old dust; from some vague direction among the thin walls came the rhythmic thump of a stereo’s loud bass, and beneath that the blurred rattle of daytime television. No one answered his knock; even the silence felt stale. He went back to the car to radio a request to the police lab.

“This is X-eighty-five—I’ve got an apartment I’d like you to look at.” He told them the address.

“Is it an emergency?”

“No. But it’s the residence of a homicide victim. I’d like fingerprints, vacuum samples—the complete survey.”

“It’ll probably take a couple hours before we can get there.”

That meant they wouldn’t complete a sweep of the apartment until five or so. “Ten-four.” He went in search of the complex’s manager.

“Yes? Want to look at a unit?” Wager was surprised that the man was only in his twenties. A thin six two, he wore gold-rimmed glasses and had the start of a sand-colored goatee over the bony point of his chin.

“Number G-16.” G-16, E-20, X-85—Wager began to feel as if he were calling a goddamned bingo game. He flashed his badge. “Can you tell me the name of that apartment’s renter?”

The young man glanced at the badge and looked up the information without any crap about subpoenas or rights to privacy. “Rebecca J. Crowell. She got a discount because she signed a year’s lease. In fact, it was up on Monday, October 25th, the day before yesterday.”

“Her rent was paid on time?” He knew what the answer would be.

“Yep.”

“She’s been identified as a homicide victim. I’d like to see the apartment.”

The fuzzy jaw sagged. “Homicide? Here?”

It took place somewhere. “I’d like to see.”

“My gosh! Just a minute.” He flipped a recording switch on his telephone and grabbed a heavy ring of keys from the peg above a desk. “You don’t need any kind of papers for this, do you?”

Wager didn’t think so; anyway, the renter wouldn’t complain. “No.”

The manager led him down a short cut of narrow back walks past trash dumpers overflowing behind board screens. “It’s just over here. Man, it’s hard to believe something like that happening around here!”

“Why?”

“We got nice folks here. Young couples, people just getting started.” The narrow head shook from side to side. “It’s really hard to believe.”

“Did you know Miss Crowell?”

“I had to fix her plumbing once.” Wager looked at him and the man’s face turned bright red beneath its fuzz. “Not like that, man! I mean her apartment. We got nice people living here, or I wouldn’t work here.”

Wager waited until the manager unlocked the door. “Don’t come in—I want it undisturbed for the lab people. Don’t open this door for anybody but more cops.”

“Sure.” The gold-rimmed glasses peeked this way and that, trying to see past Wager. “Anything else you want, I’m in the next building over.”

“Thanks.”

Wager was very tired now, at that state when the mind wearily slides off the point it tries to focus on and wanders among loosely related thoughts. He closed the door and just stood looking around the boxy apartment. It was like so many others in so many other complexes: nude cubicles designed for quick turnover and easy painting, little squares that swallowed up any attempt to make them personal. Rebecca had tried plants and pictures, but they only looked temporary. The walls were almost covered with prints, some of which Wager even recognized: a Spanish city on an elongated hill and lit by yellow and brown light; a blue-green pond filled with lily pads that looked fuzzy; a dark painting of unconnected lines that seemed to be a man changing into a guitar or vice versa. On the wide ledge at the windows that started two-thirds of the way up the wall sat a long row of large plants: lacy fern shoots dangling down, split-leaf philodendrons springing out on thick stems, fat purple-leaved plants that Wager remembered from his mother’s living room, elongated leaves pointing up in a spray of sharp tips. Wager had that strange feeling of seeing all this for the second time, and then he realized it was the plants—they reminded him of Lisa Dahl’s apartment. And of the Botanic Gardens.

Wandering without touching anything, he worked his way to the bathroom to gently flip the light switch. It was clean, and only when he saw that did he realize he had been holding his breath.

He peered at the sink, the tiles, the tub. The lab people would have to make certain, of course, but Wager scraped the blade of his pocketknife in the crack around the bathtub drain. There were none of the crusty black flakes of old blood. No stains anywhere else; no pale, freshly cleaned spots on rug or tiles. The butchering had not taken place here. Careful not to move anything until the lab people had their chance, he looked through the closets and dressing table in the space between bath and bedroom. Shoes—some thirty pairs, it looked like—stood toe against the wall beneath a closet bar crowded with dresses arranged by color. A woman would know better than he what that meant, but Wager vaguely remembered the way his ex-wife hung her clothes—the most used near the open end, the least used gradually slipping down the bar into forgotten space. In this closet, with its careful arrangement of dresses and shoes, there seemed to be no forgotten space.

After wrapping a handkerchief around his fingers, he opened the small refrigerator; a half-gallon of skim milk that smelled sour, wilted vegetables, a few packages of lean meat, eggs; cans of orange juice in the freezer. In none of the cabinets did he find alcohol; her last drink—like her last everything—took place somewhere else. At last, in the wire tray under the telephone stand, he found what all this neatness and order had told his subconscious to look for: an appointment book.

The few names in it were first names, men and women; but the page for October 19th was blank. He thumbed through the other dates; at the back was a short list of names and telephone numbers. One of them was Bill—he cross-checked “Pitkin” and “Rocky Mountain Tax & Title” in the telephone book. The number was for Pitkin’s home telephone, and his name appeared twice in her calendar—early in June and in mid-August. Wager wondered if the other men’s names were the same relationship. Some entries were more cryptic: “A.I., 7:30”; “E’s, 6-8.” Beginning in mid-February, the cryptic entries became more frequent, going up into mid-November—appointments that she would not be keeping now. One set of initials, “A.I.,” appeared every Thursday at the same time through December 22nd. Someone, somewhere, had not met her last Thursday, would not meet her again (tomorrow); and five other appointments had been missed since she was killed. Yet no one had filed a missing-persons report. Whoever she had appointments with—men?—couldn’t complain when she didn’t show up.

He left a note in the wire tray for the lab people’s record: “One appointment book, Wager.” Slipping it into his pocket, he opened the drawers of her precisely arranged bureau. In the top right one he found a loose-leaf notebook filled with clear plastic envelopes. The first twenty or so contained pictures of Rebecca Crowell and, despite Lisa Dahl’s statement, Wager thought she was very pretty indeed. The remaining envelopes were empty.

Some of the plastic sheets of photographs were a series of twenty or so small pictures. All were black-and-white and taken against an empty background that had the shadowless clarity of studio work. On other pages, color and black-and-white enlargements of particular poses ranged from evening gowns to bathing suits. Some were awkward and tense—even Wager could see that in the strained smile or the unnatural twist of body or fingers. But most were graceful, all showed a very pretty girl apparently enjoying the camera; none of them looked like the thing that had been found in the Botanic Gardens.