Speak for the Dead (12 page)

“Twice. Once a little while after she quit, once a few months ago.”

“Did she call you?”

“No, she wouldn’t do that. I called her. I guess I wanted to know if it had really been that businesslike.”

“Had it?”

“In a nice way. But yes, it sure was.” Pitkin may have laughed.

“How long ago did you last see her?”

“I can’t recall for certain. Three months? Last June or July? I really can’t tell you.”

In the girl’s appointment book, the dates had been in June and August. Wager was very careful with the next question. “Did Lisa Dahl know?”

“No.”

“You’re that certain?”

“Yes. She would have said something. She’s the kind of woman who couldn’t keep quiet about something like that. And, as I said, I encourage openness.”

“Is it possible that Crowell told her?”

Again Pitkin shook his head. “Lisa would have said something. While she’s not jealous of my wife, I’m certain she’d be very bitter if I had another friend. As I told you, she’s very emotional.”

Wager ordered a last round and waited while Rosie cleared his dishes and quickly told him that her oldest daughter was just starting college. She was going to be a teacher, Rosie said proudly.

“When you saw Crowell those two times, did she ask you for money?”

“No. In fact, one time she bought the dinner. She’d made some money modeling.”

“Did you go to a restaurant? Do you remember its name?”

“The Chanticleer. I—ah—go there a lot with friends.”

“Have you ever been to the Botanic Gardens?”

“Where? Botanic Gardens?” The puzzlement seemed genuine.

Wager nodded.

“No. That’s one of those places you think about visiting but never get around to.”

“You don’t like plants much?”

The puzzled look slowly cleared. “Ah—Rebecca’s jungle! She really did like plants—had pet names for them, kept them snipped and washed or whatever plant lovers do. The only thing I could figure out was that they were there when she wanted them, and when she didn’t, they didn’t bother her. Rebecca would like that about them.”

“You didn’t argue over them?”

“Plants? How in God’s name can anyone argue over plants? It was her apartment to fix up any way she wanted to.”

Wager had seen no plants at Rocky Mountain Title—not even near the secretary’s desk where, in most offices, they would be found. But Lisa Dahl’s apartment had a few.

“Does Miss Dahl like plants, too?”

“Not like Rebecca. Or she can’t grow them as well.”

“How about telling me where you were on October 19th.”

“Lisa told me you asked her that, too. You have her quite worried. The answer’s the same—I was at work all day, and then with her. All night. I arranged an overnight business trip.”

“You’re certain that was the night of October 19th?”

“Positive. That’s our anniversary—Lisa’s and mine. We celebrated.”

Wager wondered how Pitkin could keep all the anniversaries separate.

Like all cops, Wager had grown a good nose for smelling lies; and though Pitkin wanted to lie every now and then, Wager could swear he had told the truth. It was as if Pitkin wanted to show complete honesty about his “friends” because he wanted Wager to believe him guiltless in the Crowell murder. But his only alibi was Miss Dahl, and two people could have done the murder; or, given Lisa Dahl’s size, either one of the two. Because he was her only alibi, too. But why murder the girl? Rebecca Crowell wasn’t Pitkin’s first mistress or his last; nor did the man show the kind of jealousy that led to murder. And if he was being blackmailed by one woman, would he turn so soon to another who might do the same thing? It just didn’t fit. Unless Pitkin had something else to gain … perhaps by covering for Lisa Dahl… . Maybe the fear that if Miss Dahl was arrested, the whole tangle of Pitkin’s affairs would be pulled into the newspapers.

Wager drove into a gas station that had the glass box of a telephone booth on one corner, and dialed a number from his notebook. A sleepy voice answered.

“Miss Dahl? This is Detective Wager.”

“I don’t feel like talking.”

“A couple questions.” He didn’t give her time to say no. “Do you know if Pitkin ever met Rebecca Crowell after she stopped working for him?” He waited. “Miss Dahl?”

“I … don’t think he did. Maybe he did.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“I thought once I smelled her perfume on him. But I didn’t ask.”

“You recognized the perfume she used?”

“We worked in the same office for five months.”

Wager could recognize some of his fellow officers’ scents, lotions, and lack thereof. “How long ago was this?”

Her voice had a shrug in it. “A few months. I really don’t remember.”

“Why didn’t you want to ask him about her?”

“What difference would it have made?”

“I mean, didn’t you care that he might have seen her?”

“Yes. But I knew it made no difference. He meets his end of the bargain, and I meet mine. Anything else is irrelevant.”

“And you’re content with that?”

“You are goddamned right I am, Detective Wager.” The line clicked dead.

H
E WANTED TO
use his own telephone to chase down the numbers in Rebecca Crowell’s appointment book. For one thing, the homicide office was too small to hold more than one shift, and, for another, he had no desire to listen to Ross. But before he could get started, his telephone rang.

“Gabe, the morgue people tell me they got an I.D. on that decap victim.”

“That’s right, Gargan. It came in earlier this morning.”

“All right! What have you got for me?”

“I still don’t know that much about her. Her name’s Rebecca Jean Crowell.” He spelled the last name. “She’s unmarried, came from Kansas City, Kansas; she lived in Denver for a couple of years, and seems to have been a self-employed model.”

Gargan’s voice grew to the size of headlines: “Oh, yeah? A model? Any pictures?”

“They’re all being held for evidence.”

“Aw, shit on that noise, Wager!”

“They’re evidence, Gargan. They’re locked up.”

“Yeah. Old buddy. Is she a registered model? Does she have an agent?”

“I’m trying to find out.”

“I’ll see what I can do. And if I find anything, Wager, I’ll be real sure to let you know.”

In the circle of the buzzing receiver, Wager could see Gargan the Gumshoe, hat on the back of his head, cigarette smoke in one eye, nimbly outwitting the police in the relentless pursuit of truth and the public’s right to know. Propping open Crowell’s book, Wager dialed the listing office of the telephone company to find addresses for the numbers on the dated pages. A recording told him that it was very sorry but the office was closed after five and would be open at 8
A.M.
every working day. He muttered “
Caca
” and called the police laboratory for their report on the Crowell apartment.

“The team got back just before quitting time, Detective Wager. They got some prints and hair samples and some stuff in the vacuum bags that we haven’t run through testing yet. That’s all.”

“They didn’t find her purse?”

“No. They did bring in some papers from the coffee-table drawer, but nobody’s gone through them yet. If you want a look, they’ll be here. As for everything else, we’re working on it now and we should be finished by the time we go off duty.”

“Is Baird still on the graveyard shift?”

“Right.”

“Then leave the report with him. I’ll see him later.”

“Right.”

Next, he looked up High Country Profiles in the white pages and checked it with the list in the back of Crowell’s appointment book. It was there, and Wager dialed it. He was surprised to hear a man answer after a single ring: “High Country.”

“This is Detective Gabriel Wager, Denver Police. Who am I talking to, please?”

Wager could have counted to ten before the voice came back, slower, slightly higher in pitch. “Who?”

“Detective Wager. Denver Police Department. Can I have your name, please?”

“Bennett. Phil Bennett. This is High Country Profiles, man. What number you calling?”

Wager told him. “Do you know a Rebecca Jean Crowell, Mr. Bennett?”

“Crowell? It doesn’t pull my chain. But let me eyeball the list. Give me your number and I’ll buzz you back.”

“I can wait.”

“Maybe you can, baby, but I can’t. I’m in the darkroom, processing. Give me your number, man, and I’ll call back.”

“Will you be there for the next half-hour? I’ll come over.”

“… All right. My place is around on the side of the building. Ring the night bell—the receptionist cut out for the day.”

After he hung up, Wager read back through the men’s names in the appointment book. A “Phil” appeared almost a dozen times, beginning in April and then with increasing frequency. But not on October 19th.

Through the hazy twilight of autumn, Wager saw a dim sign for High Country Profiles over a brick building that squatted by itself just off busy North Sheridan Avenue. The structure held two offices: the dark one in front repaired electronic instruments; the back—reached by an ill-lit walk leading down the building’s north wall—was the photography studio. The night bell had a small sign: “Ring After 5
P.M.”
Wager pressed it.

A click and a buzz; a voice from somewhere over a wire said, “Come in and sit down—be right there.”

Wager ignored the fake-leather chair and looked around the small reception room lit by a single fluorescent ceiling light. The empty desk took up most of the space, but on the walls were large samples: a model’s face framed in a scarlet shawl and staring back open-mouthed; a back-lighted female figure, nude, whose slender legs thrust into the light like a hosiery advertisement; a woman’s giant profile, hair spread across a pillow. She had her mouth open, too. Between the pictures were a few awards for excellence in something or other that Wager had just started to read when he heard a curtain slide along a metal rod. A man bustled out of the hallway from the rear, rubbing a paper towel in his palms.

“You’re the cop?” Bennett was a few inches taller than Wager, just under six feet; he wore an open shirt beneath a black lab apron and seemed to be in his mid-thirties. A closely trimmed black beard showed no gray, and his straight glossy hair lay sculpted around his ears and neck and had that solid look produced by hair spray. The narrow beard and cap of hair made Wager think of the Sheriff of Nottingham. “You should have laid your number on me, man—you blew a trip. I don’t have any Crowells for customers.” He picked up a loose-leaf account book from the receptionist’s desk; a divider said “Ca-Cz.” “Look for yourself, man.”

Wager held out the photograph, face down. “Isn’t this your stamp?”

“Hey, far out!” Bennett turned it over. “But, man, that’s Tommie Lee!”

“Who?”

“Tommie Lee—a model. I do her photos and tapes.” He turned the pages of the ledger. “Here.” A sheet titled “Lee, Tommie” held a short series of entries followed by a credit and debit column. He looked up at Wager, pale eyes wide. “You’re here for a reason, man. Lay it on me.”

“Miss Crowell—Lee—has been killed.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Bennett stared at Wager, then down at the picture of the smiling girl. “That’s heavy. How’d it happen?”

“She was stabbed.”

Bennett gazed at the face. “Poor Tommie. Who did it, man?”

“I’m trying to find out. I want to ask you a few questions about her.”

“Sure. Anything. When did all this go down?”

“A week ago yesterday.”

“That long ago? I didn’t read about … But you called her something else, didn’t you?” He groped for a package of cigarettes and offered one to Wager. “I never knew her real name.”

Wager didn’t smoke. “How well did you know her?”

“She was a customer. I knew her like I know most of the customers.”

“But only as Tommie Lee?”

A deep breath through the cigarette. “A lot of the girls use professional labels. Especially if their real name doesn’t grab you. And maybe there’s something psychological about it. Like, they can pose better if it’s not their everyday self. You know what I mean?”

“How long was she a customer?”

He jabbed out the cigarette and pointed to the top entry on her account. “April 16th was her first session.” A faint ding came from the back of the shop. “My negatives are cooked. Come on—we can rap while I work.”

Wager followed him into an alcove blocked off by a heavy curtain; Bennett pulled it to, and in the sudden blackness Wager heard a doorknob click. A hand guided his arm. “Just in here—the inner sanctum. Give your eyes a couple minutes, man.” The door shut and gradually Wager’s eyes felt rather than saw the red glow of the darkroom light. The photographer, oddly pale in the redness, carefully pulled wet strips of celluloid from a tray. The nervousness was gone, and through the dimness Bennett moved quickly and surely.

“Do you own this place, Mr. Bennett?”

“Me and my brother. But he’s just an investor. He doesn’t work here.”

“What all do you do?”

“Everything, man. Still and motion shots, art and layout, audio work, even the copy if some dude doesn’t have his own.” He finished hanging the last strip of 35-millimeter film and turned to Wager, his face blank in the red glow. “I offer a full range of advertising technology, but photography’s the main line. The audio end of the business is starting to move, though; I’m getting a lot of radio spot work.”

“Was Miss Crowell one of your models?”

“‘Miss Crowell!’ That really sounds weird. No—I don’t exactly have my own models. That bag is for agents. If I get an assignment where a body’s needed right then, I might call one of the girls. Or a voice—a lot of times customers need a special voice, so I’ll get somebody I’ve heard. Most of the time, the customers provide their own people through agencies.”

“And that’s how you met Miss Crowell?”

“No. She came in for some portfolio work. That’s a major line—I’m the best in town for portfolio work.”

“What’s that?”

“Jesus, where’ve you been, man? Every model needs a portfolio for her agent to show. You know, a lot of different poses, profile shots, face-ons, the whole bit. The agent’s got to show his customer that his model can demonstrate a product.”