Speak for the Dead (11 page)

Maybe it was that thought, maybe it was the hour; whichever, the weariness suddenly fell on him like a heavy blanket, and he wanted to get out of the hot, close air of the stale apartment. Choosing one of the full-face poses in a black evening dress, he slipped another note for the lab people into the plastic envelope: “I took this one for I.D. use, Wager.” On the back of the stiff photograph, a stamped credit read, “High Country Profiles, 1608 North Sheridan.” Each of the other photographs bore the same credit.

He set the spring lock on the apartment door as he left, and paused at the mailbox. Using the tiny wire tool he brought with him from the narc squad, Wager gently twisted open the mailbox catch. Doyle would not like to know about that tool, but—and Wager smiled to himself—this was out of the bulldog’s jurisdiction: it was a federal crime. Three envelopes: one addressed to occupant, one a bill from Neusteter’s, the third an oil company bill—which brought into focus something at the edge of his mind: the parking slot for Apartment 16 was vacant. He radioed the Traffic Division requesting any up-to-date numbers for the Ford registered in the Crowell name. He thought the reply would take longer, but it came before he was halfway back to his apartment.

“We list the vehicle as a 1970 Ford Mustang. The ‘76 Colorado license is AR-3753. No warrants.”

“Can you put that on a ten-ninety-nine?” He shouldn’t say it was stolen, but that was one way to find out where it was.

“Ten-four.”

T
HE TELEPHONE DREDGED
him out of one of those heavy sleeps that gum the eyes shut and push the mind somewhere deep into a muffled rush of sound. His room held the remaining gray of early dusk, and the illuminated clock by his bed said 4:45. He knocked the receiver to the rug, groped, and finally pulled it to him by the cord.

“Wager.”

“Is this Detective Wager of the Denver Police Department?”

He wondered dimly why telephone operators always had that clipped, nasal voice. “Yes.”

“Go ahead, please.”

A second voice came on, male, elderly, hesitant. “Is this Detective Wager?”

“Yes, yes, it is.”

“I’m calling about my daughter Rebecca Crowell. They said you maybe could tell me something about what happened to her?”

It took Wager a deep breath or two. “I can’t tell you much, Mr. Crowell, because I don’t know much yet. They did tell you she was a homicide victim?”

“They told me. I thought maybe you could tell me how … why …”

“She was stabbed, sir. We don’t know yet who did it.” The remnants of sleep were gone now. “Did she ever write you about any friends or acquaintances she had here?”

“Not that I recollect.” A hand covered the mouthpiece and Wager could imagine him repeating the question to his wife. Their living room would be dark—perhaps a small light by the telephone—and the wife would have a handkerchief wadded in her hand. “No. She wrote regular—once a week, just as regular. But she only asked about folks … school friends and such… .” The voice trembled and pulled away.

“Mr. Crowell? Can I ask you another question, Mr. Crowell?”

“Yes. Go ahead—I’m here.”

“Did you send her money?”

“Money? No. Rebecca was independent. She wouldn’t be beholden. She kept saying she was doing fine. We thought she was doing fine.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll find out what mortuary she’s been sent to and ask them to contact you about arrangements and such.” And the undertaker could tell the parents about the closed coffin, too. “I’m sorry about her death, sir.”

“I just don’t understand… . Her mother and me, we just … It just seems …”

Wager finished the sentence in his mind: unfair. “Yes, sir. As soon as I find out anything, we’ll let you know.” He didn’t want to sound so official, but it came out that way. Words were never enough. Nor gestures. Nothing was ever enough. And anyway, when you got to the bottom of it all, the only reality was silence.

Still in bed, he called the morgue for the name of the mortuary, then dialed that number and gave Mr. Crowell’s address to the hushed voice that said, “Thank you, Officer.”

He made a pot of coffee, perking it once and boiling it for the hard taste he liked. With a steaming cup under his nose, he telephoned the Rocky Mountain Title office before they closed. “Mr. Pitkin? This is Detective Wager. I want to talk to you again.”

The line hummed for a long moment. “Lisa called me.”

“Then you know what it’s about.”

“Excuse me.” The voice said “Be right with you” to someone. “I may know. But I may not want to.”

Wager swallowed a mouthful of burning coffee. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—that’s true. But, Pitkin, I can fix it so you have to talk in open court.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes. With the law.”

“Listen, can I call you back? It’s hellish around here without a secretary.”

“Does your office close at five?”

“It sure will today.”

“Then you meet me at the Frontier around five-thirty. You know where it’s at?”

Pitkin was surprised. “Sure. Down on Curtis Street.”

“I’ll be in the back room. Five-thirty.”

The rambling, many-roomed tavern was, of course, crowded at this time of the afternoon. As Wager picked his way through the elbows and chairs jamming the main lounge, Red, the bartender, jerked his head with a hurried “How’s by you, Gabe,” and filled the counter’s service space with a forest of beer mugs. Wager saw familiar faces either in uniform or plainclothes scattered through the dim room; and he also caught sliding glimpses of a few other faces that were occasionally seen in station houses. The crowd had spilled into the back room, but he cornered a seat at his favorite booth near the noisy kitchen window. Rosie trotted past with a tray of empty dishes and gave him a quick smile. “Be with you in a minute, Gabe.”

He had started a second beer before Pitkin stood frowning in the dim light of the doorway. Wager wagged an arm and the man came over, a tall figure moving with nervous quickness. “Sit down. I’m glad you made it. It saves trouble for both of us.”

Pitkin glanced at the crowded tables. “This is a strange place to be—ah—interrogated.”

“Who’s interrogating anybody? I’m just asking for a little help with a homicide victim.”

“I’m here because I have no choice.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Wager gestured to Rosie. “I’m having something to eat. How about you?”

“I eat later. At home.”

But he did have a martini—very dry, made with Bombay gin. Wager waited until Pitkin had a long sip. “So Rebecca Crowell was your mistress.”

“Friend. The word’s ‘friend’ now.”

Wager cut into the floured tortilla wrapping of a large burrito. “All right—’friend.’ And your new friend is Miss Dahl.”

A slight twist of Pitkin’s thin lips. “She was until this afternoon. I’m not sure how we feel about it now.”

“You’re married?”

“Of course. And very happily. Does that surprise you?”

Some things still surprised Wager, but not that. “Did your wife find out about Miss Crowell?”

“No. And I hope she doesn’t. It would hurt her.” He gazed levelly at Wager.

“I’m interested in homicide, not adultery. And you’d better give me the truth from now on.”

“I thought this wasn’t an interrogation?”

Wager smiled. “You’re not under oath, you haven’t been warned of your rights. What you tell me can’t be brought into court.” Maybe. He folded the little green notebook flat at a page and peered at it. “You said this afternoon you didn’t know she moved from the Tremont address.”

“I—ah—lied.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is how many other things you lied about.” He gestured for refills. “Let’s you start all over again.”

Pitkin rolled the martini’s olive around in his mouth before chewing it. Then he shrugged. “It’s nothing unusual. A couple of months after she started working for me, we went to bed. It was nice, so we did it some more.”

“A lot?”

“Once or twice a month. That was as much as we wanted.” Again that little twist of the lips. “It wasn’t a greatly passionate affair—I guess you could call it functional. We were functional friends.”

“Did she want you to divorce your wife and marry her?”

“Oh, no. She never mentioned that. Rebecca had her own plans, and marriage wasn’t in them.”

“Plans like what?”

“She thought she could be a model.”

“Couldn’t she?”

“I … No, I don’t really think she could. Not a good one. She was photogenic; you’ve probably seen some of her proofs. But the kind of”—he groped for the word with one of the few gestures Wager had seen him use—”life, or warmth, or sensuality—whatever it is—that a top model projects, she just didn’t have it.”

“Do you know a lot about models?”

“I’ve known a few.”

“Friends?” Wager tried not to sound impressed, but Pitkin heard it.

“Of course.” He smiled.

“At the same time that Crowell was your friend?”

“No.”

Wager wondered if Pitkin was just interested in having an extra woman around, rather than liking any quality of a particular woman. “Did Rebecca Crowell have any other ‘friends’ while she was with you?”

“Not that I know of. Though I could scarcely object if she did. Besides, neither of us was jealous of the other. It really wasn’t that kind of relationship.”

Wager suspected that argument was more often one of empty words than of real feeling. But coming from this man, it might be true; whatever Pitkin felt didn’t seem strong enough to cause jealousy. “You knew she left the Tremont address.”

“I wanted her to. But not for that dump she moved into. That was, I guess the only thing we ever argued about.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well, the first few times, we went to motels. But that’s … sordid. I wanted her to have her own apartment—with privacy. A nice place; I was willing to pay for it.”

“The Tremont place wasn’t private?”

“I never went there. Rebecca said the landlady was a real bitch.”

Wager went along with that. “Why didn’t you like the new one?”

“It was a dump. I gave her enough money for a nice apartment—I was thinking of something like Hampden West. Instead, she leased that Jewell Avenue place.”

Hampden West was Lisa Dahl’s address. Both she and Crowell had moved near the corner of town where Pitkin lived; apparently, the man didn’t like long commutes. “Do you remember the rents?”

“I gave her three hundred and twenty-five dollars a month; the place she rented was a hundred and forty.”

“Did you keep paying the three twenty-five after she took the cheaper place?”

“Certainly. I told her I’d pay that much rent if she moved out of the Tremont apartment.” The mouth twitched as he gazed past Wager’s shoulder at some memory. “After I saw the dump she rented, I was really teed off. As I said, it was the only time we had an argument. And then it wasn’t much.”

“How’s that?”

“All she said was ‘You told me you’d pay three hundred and twenty-five if I moved out; I never said I’d spend that much.’ She was right—and a deal’s a deal.”

Lisa Dahl probably had to sign a contract that said where she would live. “What did Crowell do with the extra money?”

“She paid her orthodontist bills and took some more modeling lessons. And she bought clothes. She thought of clothes as an investment.”

Given her raises, given an extra $185 a month, she might have squeezed all those payments out. Maybe. “Did she have any other income at all?”

“I gave her money now and then—as a gift. Christmas, birthdays … anniversaries—she wanted money instead of things.”

“How much?”

“Three or four hundred. A couple of times a year. Sometimes she got stuck at the end of the month and I’d help out. But don’t get the idea she was greedy—if I didn’t have it, I told her; if I did, I gave it. Hell, what’s money for?”

Wager leaned back in the booth and sipped at the beer. “Did she ever threaten to tell your wife?”

“Rebecca? No! She wasn’t a blackmailer, Detective Wager. In fact, sometimes when I wanted to give her money, she wouldn’t take it; if she didn’t need it, she wouldn’t take it. When she had enough, she’d pick up the check for dinner—it made her feel good.” Pitkin smiled again. “Equal.”

“You said it bothered you when she left.”

“It did. And I’m still a little upset. I suppose I shouldn’t be, though.”

“You had a businesslike arrangement. What bothered you?”

“I suppose that’s what upset me—it turned out to be too businesslike. We were always open with each other. I like that in my women. And she made no demands on my time or affections, had none of those dreams about marrying me someday. But it really was a shock to get a typed two-week notice on letterhead stationery! It was as if all along she had a goal that, when she reached it, would ‘terminate our contract.’ Maybe I got some of my own medicine, you think?”

“Did Lisa Dahl know of your arrangement with Crowell?”

“If she didn’t then, she did later. She asked me about it.”

“But that wasn’t until after Crowell quit the job?”

“Lisa and I became friends just before Rebecca left—when she and I weren’t seeing each other any more. I think Lisa told you that already.”

“And now you’ve got the same kind of business deal with Miss Dahl?”

Pitkin did not hesitate. “Yes. But Lisa is far more emotional. I’m afraid she still has romantic illusions.” He drained his glass. “Maybe it was too soon after her divorce. I think women don’t realize just how alone they really are after a divorce.”

Pitkin knew a hell of a lot more about the subject than Wager did; he probed once more in a different direction. “Did you ever see Crowell again after she quit?”

This time there was hesitation; Wager studied his suddenly restless eyes.

Finally, “Yes.”

“For sex?”

Pitkin wagged his head. “In a way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“We had sex, yes. But it was as much for old times’ sake as anything else. We had dinner and then went back to that damned apartment for a drink and a good-to-see-you-how-are-you talk. The sex was as much a part of the talk as … as the drinks were.”

“How many times did you see her?”