Speak for the Dead (17 page)

“Maybe I should have given her another drink,” said Roberts. “But I’m not sure it would help.”

“Do they drink before a show?” asked Wager.

“I usually give them just one. To relax them.” She showed Wager her taut smile. “Provided they’re of age, of course.”

“Would Miss Crowell drink?”

“Yes.” Her attention was on the girls. “There—that’s a good turn. If only she’d remember to show the clothes instead of herself.” Roberts waited until the girl with long hair glided near the table: “Cindy, dear!”

“Yes, Jeri”

“Take a moment to hold the dress out. Let the customers see the fabric.”

“All right.” She poised at a conventioneers’ table and lifted one side of the dress.

“Did Crowell work on the morning of Tuesday, October 19th?”

Roberts frowned. “Jesus, that was nine days ago. Who can remember? We do a few morning shows—call the secretary tomorrow. She’ll have a record of anything Rebecca was paid for.”

“Are these three girls in the Famous Faces School?”

“Only Cindy.”

“Are they all full-time models?”

“Julie is.” Roberts nodded toward the blonde. “And she works her tail off at it. She has herself and a daughter to support. Ann’s a part-timer—she’s replacing Tommie, uh, Rebecca. Cindy—well—when she gets better, I’ll use her on some better shows.”

“Did any of them work with Crowell?”

“Julie and Cindy.”

“Can I talk with them after the show?”

“I’ll ask.”

He finished his beer and waited; the three wafted away as rapidly as they arrived. Roberts and her friend seemed to be in no hurry.

“Are they all through now?”

“They’re changing. They’ll be here to pick up their checks. In this business, you don’t write the checks until after a show. Too many part-timers fall through at the last minute.”

“But you pay them promptly, Jeri,” said the friend. “That’s more than a lot of others do.”

“Right. I pay them promptly.”

Five minutes later, the blonde strode up. From the change of clothes and manner, Wager almost didn’t recognize her. “Did it go all right?” she asked.

“Very good, Julie, dear, except you took too long between the second and third showings. Honey, twelve minutes is simply too long. You lose your audience.”

“Don’t blame me. Ann and I were ready—it was Cindy’s hair.”

“I understand, honey, and I’ll ask her again to cut it.” She signed a check. “Do you have time to talk to Detective Wager, here? He’d like to ask you some questions about poor Tommie.”

The blonde studied him a long moment. “My daughter’s waiting for me in the lobby. Can we talk there?”

“Sure.”

“We’ll have one more drink,” said Roberts. “I’ll ask Cindy to wait with us.”

He followed the blonde into the hard glare of the lobby and away from the ears of the desk clerk, who stood wearily in the same spot. Wager saw that the model wasn’t as young as she seemed in the dim light; the lines in her neck and beside her mouth said she was in her late twenties or early thirties. Still, she was one very good-looking woman, and those lines made her more interesting than a smooth, younger face. If Wager let himself, or had the time, he could wish she were half a foot shorter.

A ten-year-old girl with pale hair cropped like Mommy’s sat perched on a plastic sofa guarding a scarred make-up kit. “This is my daughter.” The girl stood and held out her hand like a small adult. Wager shook it, “Pleased to meet you, miss.”

“Shall I wait over there, Mother?”

“We’ll only be a few minutes, dear.”

“Does your daughter come to all the shows?”

“Usually. For one thing, it saves baby-sitting money.”

“And for another?”

Julie’s smile was only half humorous. “She protects me from the customers.”

“Do you need protection?”

He didn’t mean that the way it sounded, and she had enough self-assurance not to be insulted. “Some of the men aren’t interested in clothes.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Often enough. You wanted to talk about Tommie. What did you want to ask?”

“Let’s start with how well you knew her.”

“Not very. We worked the same shows for several months. I didn’t even know her real name.”

“Did she ever meet any friends at these shows? Or leave with anyone she met?”

“Not that I know of. Jeri doesn’t like that.”

It was the same line of questions, the same reaching for more of Crowell’s life, for the last names to the entries in her appointment book, for some link to the conservatory. The result was the same, too: Tommie Lee worked harder than most, had few if any friends, had only one thing on her mind—to be a top model. “I never saw her anywhere except at work; I try to spend as much time as I can with my daughter.” Julie’s glance went once more to the little girl, who sat drumming her heels against the plastic couch and watching Wager with eyes almost as distant and level as her mother’s.

He didn’t have to be told twice. “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

He returned to the dark lounge to make out Cindy seated close between Jeri Roberts and her friend. The two older women took turns speaking, and Cindy, clutching a pink glass filled with fruit slices and bushy leaves, nodded seriously.

“This is Detective Wager, Cindy, dear. He wants to ask you some questions about poor Tommie.”

“Oh, that was so awful!”

“Can we go someplace else to talk? It’s too noisy in here.” And there were questions he wanted to ask without Roberts hearing.

“Well, Jeri’s going to give me a ride home. I hate to keep her waiting.”

“I’ll give you a ride,” said Wager.

“Well, I don’t know… . What do you think, Jeri?”

Jeri Roberts looked hard at Wager and it crossed his mind that the woman might be a lesbian. A jealous one. “I’m sure Detective Wager will get you home safely. Here’s your check, dear.” She carved her name on the piece of paper.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Cindy asked.

“Of course not, dear.”

“This is business.” Wager smiled. “Strictly.”

Or almost. He opened the door to the unmarked sedan. “I could use a cup of coffee. You want a drink or something?”

“I should get right home!”

Wager shrugged. “There are better places to talk than a police car.”

She stood still. “This doesn’t look much like a police car.”

“There’s the radio, miss.” He leaned over and turned it on. “Handcuffs in the glove compartment, night stick on the door. I don’t carry a shotgun.” He keyed the microphone to show her he was real. “X-eighty-five. Give me a ten-thirty-six.”

The correct time came back: “Twenty-thirty-two.”

The girl finally managed a smile. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”

Wager tried to remember some of the questions he’d been asked when, as a patrolman, he gave civilians a ride as part of the Citizen Awareness Program.

“This here’s the channel selector.” He flipped the switch. “It covers the four sectors of the City and County of Denver.” He saw that the girl didn’t give one small damn about frequencies, transmission ranges, codes, or security channels. But his talk put her at ease, and getting information was as much a matter of trade as of simply asking questions.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Well, maybe not coffee. But something.”

He pulled in to the parking lot of one of the half-dozen high-rise motels that faced across Quebec Street to the distant red dots that rode the towers and ramps of the air terminal. This lounge had more lights than the Jetliner but was furnished in the same smooth blankness designed for ease of cleaning. Except that here someone had cleaned.

Wager had coffee; Cindy ordered a margarita and tried to look old enough to know how to hold the glass. She had just turned nineteen, had been with Jeri for almost six months, just loved modeling more than anything else in the world, and loved working for Jeri because she learned so much.

“Were you a good friend of Rebecca’s?”

“It sounds funny to hear Tommie called that. But she didn’t really have what I’d call friends. I mean she was nice, and all. A lot of times after shows, Jeri buys us girls a drink to unwind with; sometimes it’s just awful uptight, especially if there’s a lot of buyers in the audience. Anyway, Tommie was real nice and had a good time and all, but …” Cindy’s blue eyes rounded as she tried to come up with the right word.

“She didn’t go out of her way to make friends?” suggested Wager.

“That’s right! It was like she was just visiting and had her mind on where she was going instead of where she was.”

“Did she get along with Jeri?”

“Oh, yes! A lot of people think Jeri’s—well—hard. But she’s not. Not when you really know her. She’s real nice, and she’s done a lot for me, and she did a lot for Tommie, even if …” The blue eyes widened again.

“If what?”

“Well, they didn’t really have an argument; I mean, Jeri was angry, but it wasn’t like they were fighting.” She was unsure how much more to say.

Wager guessed. “This was when Tommie wanted to go to New York or San Francisco?”

“Oh, you already know about it!” A slight giggle. “I forget you’re a detective—you really don’t look like one. That’s why I was kind of afraid to get in the car with you. I always thought detectives were—well, kind of taller.”

“Tell me about Tommie and Jeri,” said Wager.

“There’s not much: a little while ago, Tommie asked for the names of some people to see in New York, and Jeri said she would be better off staying in Denver, but Tommie said she was going even if Jeri wouldn’t give her some contacts.”

“That made Jeri mad?”

“More, disgusted.”

“What about Tommie?”

“What about her?”

“Was she mad, too?”

“No. I don’t think Tommie ever got mad, not even when something went wrong at a show. She just got kind of thoughtful.”

“Do things go wrong a lot?”

“Oh, let me tell you! And always when a number’s ready to go out. Like tonight, my hair just wouldn’t stay up; I guess I washed it too close to the show. Jeri was awful about it. She gets mad awful easy.”

“Why don’t you cut your hair?”

“I don’t want to! Jeri says I should, but I don’t want to.”

It had only been a question, not a challenge. Wager got back to Crowell. “How long ago did she and Jeri have their argument?”

Cindy thought a moment. “Three weeks—at the time of The Denver’s Christmas preview.”

“Did you hear it?”

“No. Jeri told us about it after the show. She was upset because she didn’t think Tommie was ready for New York.”

“Do you want to go there?”

“You bet! That’s the only place if you’re a model, and Jeri says if I keep working as hard as I have been, maybe in a year or so I can go.” She took a tiny sip at the salt-crusted rim of the glass. “She knows some real important people there who can get me started, but she doesn’t want to waste their time by sending somebody who’s not ready.”

“Would Tommie have done all right there?”

“Well …” A person shouldn’t talk unfriendly of the dead. “Jeri said she would have a hard time.”

“But she was going anyway.”

“I think around January. I remember she said her lease was up so she could go anytime.” Another tiny sip. “I remember now, she was going home after Christmas shows and then go to New York from there. I forget where she said home was.”

“She didn’t talk much about home?”

“No, I guess we really didn’t talk much about anything but modeling.”

Wager refilled his cup from the small silver coffeepot warming over a candle. By now, the facts were familiar, but he was getting something else, something that couldn’t be called fact but may have been more important. He groped for a way to move closer to the thing he was after. “Did you ever see Tommie date anybody from a show?”

“Jeri would be furious!”

“Even customers?”

“That’s different—that’s not really a date. It’s just business.”

“Did she ever go out with the same person a lot?”

“Oh, no. The sales staff only comes through town two or three times a year.”

“Did you ever go out with her and one of these customers?”

“A few times, but I don’t know that much about the business yet.” She giggled slightly. “And sometimes I get asked for my I.D.”

“You’ve never had any trouble with any of the men?”

“Only one.” Cindy stared at the table and her shoulders hunched into a slight shudder.

“What happened?”

It took another sip. “He kept talking about how models knew more about their own bodies than any other women, and how this made them more sensuous. He said they liked to pose, and that every model he knew had to get relief from all the ‘sensuous energy’ they stored up.” Another shudder. “Then he wanted me to go up to his room and see the pictures of the models he used in San Francisco.”

“Did Tommie ever go out with this man?”

“No. I told Jeri what happened and she said it was the first and last time she’d accept any business from him. She’s really sensitive about the agency’s reputation.”

“Do you like working at places like the Jetliner?”

Cindy studied the question. “I don’t think anybody really likes it; it’s dark and nobody can see the numbers. But Jeri’s always there to make sure nothing happens, and she says it’s good training. A model has to handle all sorts of situations, she says.”

“So the truck drivers don’t upset you?”

“They used to. I mean, some of the things they say show they think models are—well, not nice.”

“But you don’t mind now?”

“You get used to it. And Jeri says that most of them don’t mean anything by it. Every now and then somebody gets obnoxious, but most of the men are shy—they don’t really know what to say to a model.” That small giggle. “Like you.”

Wager had never called himself shy—he had nothing to be shy about; he just had good manners was all. He asked very politely, “Would you like another?”

“Oh, no. I shouldn’t have had this one—it’s all calories and salt. But I don’t have another show for a week.” She pushed at the damp foot of the glass. “I think Jeri was really angry about my hair. But I really don’t want to cut it.”

“Don’t a lot of models have long hair?”