Speak for the Dead (9 page)

Wager thought it was too high anyway; but maybe Miller’s goldfish ate a lot. “Did you ever talk with Miss Crowell about her friends or acquaintances?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t work here then.”

“Can I see the doc for a couple minutes?”

“I’ll find out if he’s finished with his patient yet.” She came back in a moment. “He’s casting a mold. It’ll be about five minutes.”

In the long silence, Wager watched the fish dart and pause among the slender grass and streams of bubbles rising from ceramic divers and sunken ships. Rebecca Crowell had paid a lot of money to have pretty teeth. On a typist’s income of $425 a month: rent, transportation, clothes, taxes, night school, food—and one hell of a lot of money for pretty teeth. There had to be extra income from somewhere. How does a pretty girl make a few extra bucks?

“You wanted to see me?” Miller was wiping his hands again.

“Did Miss Crowell ever talk about herself? About her plans?”

“Lord—it’s been a long time.” Miller rubbed his forehead with the well-scrubbed fingers. “She never said much, but I don’t remember that she was shy. More, that she just didn’t talk about herself.”

“Did she ever mention going to night school?”

“Not that I remember.”

“How about friends? Did she mention any names?”

“None that I remember. Most patients talk about their teeth—that’s why they’re here. Sorry.”

The Petroleum Building’s small lobby opened from a busy corner of Sixteenth Street, an easy walk to the state capitol for oilmen and legislators. Wager found the Rocky Mountain Tax & Title Service on the directory and pushed the elevator button for floor seven. The company’s quiet offices were marked by a frosted-glass door and large gilt letters.

“Yes, sir?” This receptionist also had her hair pulled back into a ponytail, but it was blond. And instead of an efficient uniform, she wore a soft brown sweater that, in its own way, was just as efficient.

“I’m Detective Wager, Denver Police. I’m trying to get some information on a Miss Rebecca Jean Crowell, who works here—or who used to work here.”

“Rebecca? Why? What’s happened?”

He’d never found an easy way to say it. “She’s a homicide victim.”

“Rebecca? Oh, God!” Her hands jumped to her mouth, scattering a pile of legal documents from the typing stand. “My God!”

“What’s the matter?” A tall man in his mid-forties poked his head through an inner doorway. “What’s wrong, Lisa?”

“This … this is a policeman. He says Rebecca’s been killed!”

Wager showed his badge. “I understand Miss Crowell worked here?”

“She used to,” said the man. “She quit about six months ago.” His gray eyes stared at Wager. “You’re certain it was Rebecca?”

“The dental records gave positive identification.”

“Good Lord. How … what happened?”

“She was stabbed to death.”

“Good Lord!”

The blonde, blinking back tears, scrabbled at the spilled documents; both Wager and the man quickly bent to help her.

“Did you get the one who did it?” he asked.

“Not yet. We’re trying to find him. Maybe you can give me some information about her.”

“Certainly! Anything.”

The tall man’s name was Pitkin, William N., part owner and executive director of Rocky Mountain Title. Residence: 5958 Radcliffe Avenue, Cherry Hills Village, an area that had few hills and was nothing like a village; it was an incorporated enclave of very expensive homes on the south side of Denver. He had moved to Colorado from New York almost twenty years ago, and had known Miss Crowell only during the time she’d worked there.

The blonde was Lisa Dahl, 7011 F, Hampden West. It wasn’t until she stood clutching the wad of legal sheets that Wager saw how large the woman was. Not badly proportioned, just big. She stacked the papers and then fumbled in a bottom file drawer for the employee records.

Pitkin cleared his throat and read from the folder she handed him. “Rebecca started work here in late April, 1974. Her first paycheck was for the week of April 25th.”

Wager moved around to read over Pitkin’s shoulder.

“She was very good. The next year she was promoted from typist to secretary.”

“Can you tell me what her salary was?”

“Why, yes—ah, she began at four hundred and twenty-five dollars a month, and was raised to five twenty-five in December, 1974, then to six hundred and fifty in June, 1975, when she was promoted to administrative secretary.”

Which helped explain the lump-sum settlement of the orthodontist’s bill. “That’s a good raise in a little over a year.”

“She was a very good worker,” said Pitkin. “Excellent, in fact.”

“Do you know if she had any other income?”

“No, I don’t.”

Wager might have caught something in the voice, but he wasn’t sure. “No idea at all? You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m certain!”

Miss Dahl went to stand by the window and stare into the busy street below, dabbing occasionally at her eyes with a tissue.

“Did she have any particular friends? A boyfriend, maybe?”

“Not that I know of. She didn’t talk much about her private life. She was a very good administrative secretary and didn’t bring her home life into the office. Wouldn’t you say, Lisa?”

“What? Oh, yes. She didn’t speak much about herself.”

Pitkin studied the blonde’s face a moment. “Why don’t you take the day off—I can handle things.”

“You’re sure? I mean—it’s such a shock… .”

The tall man smiled gently, the flat planes of his thin cheeks folding in two deep lines beside his mouth. “Certainly.”

They watched her grope her way into the hall.

“Perhaps I should see her home.” Pitkin looked after the closed door.

“She probably wants to be alone,” said Wager. At least he wanted her that way for a while. “Did Miss Crowell ever talk of going to night school?”

Pitkin gave it a moment. “I don’t remember. I don’t think so.”

“Can you tell me the date she quit working here?”

“Yes … ah … she was paid through May 31, 1976. She had two weeks vacation which she took as additional salary.”

“What reason did she give for quitting?”

“Only that she had another job.”

“But you don’t know anything about that?”

“No. As I said, she didn’t talk much about herself. She always knew what she wanted and went ahead and did it without a great deal of talk. And then, I really didn’t want to ask.”

“Why?”

“She was a very good employee, and I always thought we treated her quite well. I thought she liked it here. She was in line for another raise in two months.”

“You took it personally that she quit?”

“I suppose you could say that. It’s a small office, and we’re more like friends around here. Besides, she was very experienced, and I was leaving more and more of the routine administration to her. I even hired Lisa—Miss Dahl—to take over the correspondence.”

“Did she leave suddenly?”

“She gave two weeks’ notice. Exactly.” He looked down at the page and said, as much to himself as to Wager, “But she saved her vacation time for a full year, didn’t she?”

“Do you have her address at the time she quit?”

“Yes—it’s here: 2418 Tremont. Apartment 3.”

Again that tiny echo of doubt. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, but look for yourself, Detective.”

Wager did. Half hidden by Pitkin’s pointing finger was a telephone number penciled by a different hand: 753-4719. “Did you know that she moved from the Tremont address in 1975?”

“Really?”

“She never mentioned moving?”

“No.”

Wager glanced over the words and phrases jotted in his green notebook, fragments that he would complete after he left Pitkin and had a few minutes of silence for thought. And he gave Pitkin a few seconds of silence for thought, too. “There’s nothing at all you can tell me about her private life?”

“I’ve said that. And I’m getting tired of repeating it.”

Wager smiled. “Thanks for your time.”

In his car, he radioed the dispatcher for a closed frequency; the name of a deceased person wasn’t broadcast on an open police band if the family had not yet been notified. The dispatcher came back on the secure channel: “Go ahead, X-eighty-five.”

“I’ve located the next of kin of a homicide victim, Rebecca Jean Crowell.” He spelled the last name. “Her parents live in Kansas City, Kansas.” After reading their full name and address, he asked, “Will the red cross handle it?” That would be a damn sight better than a sudden telephone call from some cop out in Denver.

“If they can’t, we’ll get a local law agency to. You’re the officer of record?”

In the Marine Corps, it had been part of a regional recruiter’s job to bring the bad news to parents or spouse; now it was often a service of the local police. Wager thought that somehow there should be more difference between civilian dying and military dying. But the only real difference was that many of the civilians didn’t have a fighting chance. “Yes.”

“Are you on duty now?”

“For a little while. Then they can call me at home.”

“Ten-four.”

The next transmission was for information from the telephone company; it took less time when a request went to them from police headquarters than from an officer in the field. The police dispatcher repeated the Crowell number back to Wager. “That’s an unlisted number?”

“It could be; the victim’s name wasn’t in the telephone book.”

“O.K. We’ll be back with it.”

Miss Dahl’s apartment was in a multi-tower complex on Hampden Avenue, one of those newer streets that still had patches of undeveloped ranchland here and there beyond the shops and restaurants strung along each asphalt curb. Wager drove wearily in and out of parking lots until he found Building 7000. A concrete path curved through low shrubs up to the lobby that served a cluster of three towers. At mid-morning, it was empty of everyone except a man pushing a noisy vacuum cleaner over the red carpet. Large soft chairs and couches were scattered around, and from the fireplace came the musty odor of newly burned paper logs. Beyond a row of eight maroon leatherette doors with round ports was the recreation area—an indoor swimming pool, a pair of tennis courts sheltered by the towers, an assortment of other rooms labeled “Pike’s Peak,” or “Long’s Peak,” or “Navajo Peak.” Wager found the directory for Building 7000 and pressed the button beside “L. Dahl.” After two long rings, a voice answered dully from the chrome speaker, “Yes?”

“It’s Detective Wager, Miss Dahl. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I need more information.”

The speaker was silent a long moment. “I really don’t feel like seeing anyone.”

“I understand. But I’m pretty anxious to catch the person that killed Rebecca. Maybe you can help me out.”

“I see. Well. All right. Turn left off the elevator.”

The speaker clicked off, followed by a buzzer in the door whose brass plate spelled “Seven Thousand, Hampden West.” Wager pushed through and the buzzer stopped rattling.

He turned left when the elevator paused at the eleventh floor. A small sign on the beige wall pointed toward apartments E, F, G, and H. Lisa Dahl’s door was the second. She opened it almost immediately; her blond hair hung heavily over the shoulders of the terry-cloth bathrobe, and her eyes, wiped clean of make-up, were puffy from crying.

“I shouldn’t be so upset. Rebecca and I weren’t really that close. We worked together for six months or so. It’s really silly to be so upset.” Her eyes began to fill with tears again.

“It’s a natural feeling. It’s the shock.”

“I suppose that’s it. Excuse me.” She went into the small bathroom and Wager heard the whisk of tissue pulled from its box. “Would you like some coffee? I can make some.”

“I sure would.” It gave her something to do, and he did need the coffee; his legs felt clumsy and tired, and his eyes stung when he rubbed them.

Leaning against the open shelves separating the small kitchen from the living room, he looked around at the porcelain knickknacks; the healthy green plants hanging, propped, and lined up on shelves near the large window; the few books—
An Illustrated Survey of Great Music
;
Skiing the Rockies
;
Woman! Who She Is!
“You got a nice place—a swimming pool and everything.”

“What? Oh—thank you. It’s not worth the cost. I don’t use it often.”

“It does look pretty expensive.”

She didn’t answer.

He wandered to the curtained window beyond the plants and peeked out; a narrow balcony hung over the courtyard with its green Plexiglas pool and roof and open tennis courts. “How long have you been working for the title company?”

“A little less than a year. I started in January.”

“Is Denver your home?”

“No, California. I moved here with my husband. My ex-husband.”

Of late, everybody seemed to have an ex-something; maybe it was true that Denver had the highest divorce rate in the country. Wager got off that topic. “And you worked with Rebecca until she quit in May?”

“Yes.” She handed him a cup and saucer. “Cream or sugar?”

“No, thanks.” The woman’s broad hands quivered slightly, but her voice was stronger. Even in the flat slippers, she stood taller than Wager, and her heavy forearms were firm. Mid-twenties, he guessed, with the healthy regular features that California blondes seemed to grow. She lit a cigarette and, staring at the curtains, held the smoke down a long time.

“Your coffee’s real good,” he said.

She smiled slightly. “I’m all right now.”

And she seemed to be. “Do you have any idea why Rebecca quit?”

The hesitation was only slight. “She had a new job.”

“Where?”

“As a model. She’d gone to a modeling school at night and finally she began to get enough work to make a living.”

That explained the mannequin quality of the head, and Wager mentally kicked himself for not thinking of that. “Do you know who she worked for?”

“No—I believe it was a new agency. A woman who was just getting started. It wasn’t an established name; that’s how Rebecca got the job.”

“Why’s that?”

“Rebecca told me that Denver only has a couple of big agencies, and they’ve signed most of the models. This new agency needed people, and she thought it was her big chance.”