Steve Demaree - Dekker 09 - Murder on a Blind Date (14 page)

I pulled
up in front of a small, frame house, and looked to make sure the house number
was right. I got off my horse, and headed for the bunkhouse,
Chester
, close behind. Luckily, he had
quit singing. A woman answered my knock. Suddenly, Bambi Fontaine didn't look
so bad. When I saw the woman who answered the door, I immediately thought of
the
Stonehenge
, kind of old and rough looking.
And not put together all that well. An unlit cigarette dangled from her mouth.

"Are
you Marge Shockley?"

"I
might be. Who wants to know?"

The
cigarette almost fell out of her mouth as she mumbled. She realized that and
stuck the cigarette in her pocket.

"Cy
Dekker, Special Agent for the Lexington Police Department."

"Is
this about the complaint I made against the water company?"

"No,
this is about a complaint that someone wasn't able to make. May we come
in?"

"I
suppose. Sorry, but I haven't had time to clean today."

She
removed clutter off a couple of chairs and Lou and I sat down.   

"Miss
Shockley, tell me what you know about the Just For You dating service."

"Oh,
are they finally getting what they deserve? It's about time someone shut down
that outfit. They fixed me up with a homeless guy and two criminal types and
then wouldn't give me my money back when I complained."

"And
then what did you do?"

"What
could I do? I called the Better Business Bureau and complained, but there was
nothing else I could do."

"Do
you know of anyone else who has used the service?"

"Only
those three guys they fixed me up with. I'd say by now that homeless guy has
moved on to another town, and the other two are back in jail."

"Any
idea how the homeless guy came up with the hundred dollars the service calls
for?"

"Oh,
they probably only charge the women. And they made me pay for my own flower.
Roses are expensive, but they didn't seem to care. And they were so slow in
fixing me up with the second and third guys that my rose died each time, so I
had to spring for three roses. And what did that get me? A rotten evening. Three
of them."

"That's
enough to make someone want to buy her own rosebush. And you didn't do anything
else except complain?"

The woman
sat there and told me "no," but I was sure she was lying. But she looked
more like the type who would drive by a house and throw a rock at a window than
one who would go out and murder some of Just For You's clientele. But then a
lot of murderers fall into the rock throwing category.

"Miss
Shockley, do the names John Ed Caudill, Roger Wilson, or Chris Carlisle mean
anything to you?"

"Were
those the three guys I met at that overpriced restaurant?"

"I
don't know. Were they?"

"Naw.
I don't think so. One of mine was Butch something or other. Do you know he
walked out before I'd finished eating? He didn't like it when I said something
about him taking his teeth out and cleaning them while I was still eating."

"Did
he really do that?"

"No.
He had his own teeth. Do you know how I know? Because most people who have
false teeth buy the whole set. They don't have a lot of gaps in the front. This
guy had some teeth missing. Probably had them knocked out in prison."

I wasn't
going to ask her if that too was a lie, that her date was missing some teeth, or
if she was using me for a sounding board for
America's Got Talent.
Instead
I asked her a few more questions, but couldn't get her to incriminate herself.

I knew
one thing Marge Shockley had lied about. She was nowhere near the thirty-nine
years she put on her application.

+++

Traffic was
somewhat better when we left Marge Shockley's house. But Lou wasn't.

"Cy,
did you forget to get her number? You don't know when you might be down here
and want a date."

"I
think I'll get a dog first."

Lou
chuckled while Bobby Vinton sang to us about
Mr. Lonely.
And yes, Lou
joined in and looked in my direction. I had missed my chance. Lou and Marge
Shockley would have made a fine couple.  Even though Lou still had all of his
teeth.

Luckily
it didn't take me long to get to Charles Hacker's place. I knew before I got
there that Hacker lived in an apartment. The number of his apartment told me
that the complex had more than one building. I saw that he was a mechanic, and
he listed his age as thirty-eight. Whoever was responsible used a syringe or a
needle and not a wrench, but that wasn't enough for me to leave Charles Hacker
off my list.

I pulled
up in front of the address listed on the application. In front of me stood a
red brick building that looked like it might have been built in the 1940s.
There was room on the street for us to park, so I decided to park out front and
walk around the building. A lot of apartment complexes don't have parking for
visitors. Lou and I got out and walked up the driveway to the back of the
building. I could feel my shoes hitting the asphalt. I could see my breath
ahead of me. I was thankful I wore a sweater under my coat. We got to the back
and found three more buildings, all of them slightly newer than the one out
front. One stood off to my right, another to my left. The third was straight in
front of me, but at least one hundred feet from where I stood. The apartments
in the building facing the street had entrances off an inside hallway. The ones
in the back each had their own entrance off a concrete walkway. Each apartment
had a number on the door, but it was getting dark, so I had to walk up close to
the door of the apartment closest to me to see in which building we might find
Hacker's apartment. I looked at the number of the first apartment, then counted
the number of apartments in the building. If they were numbered correctly,
Charles Hacker lived in an apartment on the second floor of that building. The
metal stairs shook as Lou and I mounted them. I used the railing to make sure I
didn't fall. If Lou fell I would call an ambulance as soon as I arrived at The
Cheesecake Factory.

I walked
along the second floor walkway, wishing I had more light. I finally arrived at
a door, squinted to see the number, and knocked.

"Who
are you, and what do you want?"

The voice
didn't come from inside the apartment, nor did it come from Lou, who knew who I
was and what I wanted. The voice came from someone a few feet behind Lou. I had
heard someone park as we fumbled in the dark looking at apartment numbers, but
I didn't notice the guy had gotten out and followed us up the stairs.

"I
said, who are you and what do you want?"

"It's
none of your business unless you're Charles Hacker."

"Then
it's my business. What are you doing at my apartment door?"

"I'm
Cy Dekker, Special Investigator for the Lexington Police Department."

"I
didn't hit that woman. She fell down. And if she says I hit her she's a
liar."

"Mr.
Hacker, maybe we should talk inside."

"Maybe
I don't want to talk to you."

"Maybe
we can talk downtown."

"Oh,
all right," he said, and then mumbled, "I wish I had come five
minutes later," as he unlocked the door and motioned us inside.

The
apartment was small, an efficiency. You could tell when you left the living
room and entered the kitchen, because the carpet ended at the living room. At
least it wasn't shag carpet. The kitchen was big enough for a stove,
refrigerator, sink, and a small table with four chairs. To the right of the
kitchen was a door that led to a bedroom, with a bathroom off to the left.

"You
all have a seat. Let's get this over with. I've worked hard today and I'm
tired."

"I
understand you're a mechanic, Mr. Hacker," I said as I took a seat on one
end of the couch. Lou sat on the other end. Hacker sat in the only chair that
was in the living room.

"How
did she know that? I never told her."

"I'm
not sure which she you're talking about."

"Forget
about it. Why are you here?"

"Do
you ever date, Mr. Hacker?"

"I
thought you said this doesn't have anything to do with her. Make up your
mind."

"Just
answer my question."

"Sometimes.
Sometimes I meet some woman down at The Loose Hinge. It's a bar in the
neighborhood, down the street and around the corner. Sometimes I go down there
for a drink. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

"Not
unless you have too many, or you do something you shouldn't."

"Well,
I don't and I didn't."

"Meet
women anywhere else?"

"Oh,
a couple of times I've met a lady or two in the laundromat. It's in the
basement of the building over there" he said pointing to the building
across the way. "They have washers and dryers for us here, but we still
have to pay to use them. Sometimes I run into a woman who looks good and is a
cut above some of the others here. Why are you so interested in my dating? I
ain't done nothing wrong."

"I'm
not saying you have. Have you ever heard of a dating service called Just For
You?"

"Oh,
so that's why you're here. Those people said I threatened them, didn't
they?"

"Well,
let's just say that we heard you didn't have a pleasant experience there. What
caused you to contact them?"

"Well,
I have to admit that a hundred dollars is a right smart amount of money, and
money doesn't grow on trees, at least not where I work. But they promised me up
to three women, and I figured that maybe one of them might be better than what
I'd been dating. So I sent them the money. All they sent me was three uppity
women. One of them had the nerve to say, 'Is that all you're going to eat?' I
couldn't afford to order that stuff she was ordering. She even ordered an
appetizer. Didn't share any of it with me, either. And she weren't nothing but
a receptionist in a doctor's office. A receptionist. Probably makes less than I
do, but she put on airs that night."

"Did
you ever see her again?"

"Nope.
Them other two, neither. I've found better women at The Loose Hinge. But then
I'm working on one who lives here. Washes her clothes on Friday night. That
means she don't date on Friday night. I plan to pop down there this Friday, see
if I can get her to go somewhere with me. Not The Loose Hinge, and I can't
afford to take her to The Cheesecake Factory, although she's a pretty little
thing. She belongs there before that receptionist does."

"What
do you know about garbage being dumped in the Comstocks' front yard?"

"I
don't know what you're talking about."

"Comstock
says he has a video of you dumping garbage in his yard."

Hacker
cringed, but still denied it, so I moved on, since I hadn't seen the video.

I
mentioned some of the names of the deceased to Hacker, but he didn't give
anything away with nervous hands or eye movements. Since whoever murdered them
murdered them in their own homes, I would think he would recognize their names
if he heard them. But Hacker definitely had a temper. He would stay on my list.
I was wanting to take people off my list. Really, what I wanted was to get rid
of the list and head back home to my recliner.   

I asked
Hacker a few more questions, then told him that would be all for now, but we
might be back. He grunted some kind of response. I suspected he would stay out
later for a few nights, just in case we came back.

Lou and I
left and I decided not to try to race him back to the van. I looked at my watch
and decided we had enough time to question one more person. I was curious about
the receptionist Hacker talked about. Not only did she work in a doctor's
office and have access to some things that might put someone out of their
misery, but she could give me her observations about Charles Hacker. Maybe this
receptionist was one of the lucky ones.

I started
the van, turned on the inside light, and looked over the list. I scrolled down
until I found Charles Hacker and the three women he dated. The receptionist's
name was Emily French. As far as I knew no one had murdered her. I had an
address for her. She lived four songs away from Hacker. I turned the light off,
so I wouldn't see Lou squirming in the seat, and took off. I could still hear
him singing off key in the dark.

Somewhere
between ten to fifteen minutes later, or three songs from British Invasion
groups and one from an American group later, I pulled up in front of a duplex.
Emily French lived on the right. Lou and I knew the drill. We got out and
walked up and knocked on the door. Seconds later a porch light came on,
followed by the door being opened, with the chain still intact. Emily French,
or whoever stood on the other side of that door, had at least one eye.

"Yes?"

"Are
you Emily French?"

"What
is this about?"

"I'm
Cy Dekker, Special Investigator for the Lexington Police Department. I need to
ask you some questions, provided you are Emily French."

"Have
you got some identification?"

I took
out the credentials Eve Sanchez had given me and pressed them up against the
door, hoping she could read them. She took a few seconds and looked at them,
and then me. I guess I passed inspection because she took off the chain and
opened the door.

"Please
come in. It's just that you can't be too careful these days."

"I
agree."

"Can
you excuse me a minute? I have something on the stove."

"If
it would be better for you, we can talk in the kitchen."

"No,
I'll just cut it off. It's only soup. I can reheat it."

She was
back in ten seconds.

"Oh,
I'm sorry. Please have a seat."

Lou took
a chair. I sat on the couch. She sat on a chair with a floral pattern and a
cornflower blue background that matched the one Lou sat in. Hers was near the
door. Maybe that was just in case we weren't who we said we were and she felt
the need to escape. And I wouldn't have paid any attention to what kind of a
chair she was sitting in or known its particular color if Jennifer hadn't been
educating me lately. I can't say I feel any better knowing this, but I think
Jennifer does.

"What
can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Do
you know a man named Charles Hacker?"

"Him!
You bet I know him!"

"How
did you know his last name was Hacker? Just For You doesn't tell their clients
their date's last name."

"He
came here one night, drinking. Called me the Queen of Sheba, told me to open
up. I recognized him from what you called a date I had with him a week earlier.
I called the police on him, but he had left before they got here. I didn't know
his last name, just that his first name was Charles. But a policeman came in,
and I told them where I met him. He called that dating service and demanded
that they tell him the man's last name and address. They went to see him, but
he wasn't home. They found him the next night. He denied coming here, but they
warned him never to come around again. So far he hasn't. At least not when I've
been home. And the outside of my place hasn't been damaged."

"Do
you have any idea how he knew who you are and where you live?"

"My
guess is he followed me home that night. I never thought to check to see if the
creep was following me."

"Was
he your first date with the service?"

"Yes,
and the only one. The day after he was here I received a card fixing me up with
someone else. I went to The Cheesecake Factory three nights later, but I didn't
wear a rose. I got there and had just started to walk in the door when I
noticed this Charles guy sitting there wearing a flower. I heard him tell a
woman wearing a rose that his name was Dave. Luckily he didn't see me. I walked
out and haven't been back since."

"Did 
you let the dating service know about this?"

"No,
I just chalked it up to experience and decided to look for a man somewhere else."

I asked
her a few more questions, but she seemed like she was telling the truth, so I
let it go. One thing that convinced me she was telling the truth was that my
stomach growled. My stomach is never wrong about what time I should eat.

We left,
but I had to satisfy my curiosity. I started the van, turned on the dome light,
and looked over the information we had on each of Just For You's clients. Emily
French was Charles Hacker's third date. He must have spent another hundred
dollars and used a different name for number four. He never told us that he
re-upped under an assumed name. I wondered what else he didn't tell us. Somehow
I couldn't see how the dating service could have put Charles and Emily together
in the first place. Maybe they weren't picky as long as they got their money.  Or
Charles lied about some things on his application, which was more likely.     

+++

I think
Lou was weak from hunger, because he behaved on the ride to The Cheesecake
Factory. By the time we got there we were later than the typical crowd, plus
the fact that it was a weeknight meant we had only a ten minute wait. During
those ten minutes I refrained from looking over at the case that held all the
different cheesecakes. The old Cy would have been over there slobbering all over
the case until they had cut a couple of pieces of cheesecake for him to consume
before dinner. But I had turned over a new leaf. Well, so much for botany.

On the
way to our table I noticed a woman seated at a booth wearing a white rose.
Seated across from her was a man wearing a white carnation. I didn't recognize
either one of them, but both of them seemed to be having a good time.

Neither
Lou nor I had memorized the menu, so I convinced him to turn the page and point
at some item. I had already convinced myself that there was nothing bad at The
Cheesecake Factory.

I'm not
sure whether this was humorous or not, but after Lou and I had ordered and were
waiting for our food I heard a familiar voice.

"I
think he's more your type."

I looked
up and there stood Bambi Fontaine. I felt sorry for her. She stood there only a
second, but it was long enough for me to see that she wasn't wearing a white
rose. She walked off, disgusted. As she walked away, a light went off in my
head. Whether or not Bambi was the murderer, if whoever it was was someone who
had used the dating service, or knew someone who used the service, he or she could
come anytime and look for someone wearing a white rose or carnation. Then all
they had to do was follow that person when they left, and the potential victim
would have no idea that they were being followed. After all, the victim may
never have noticed the person in the restaurant. The murderer could have been
someone who waited with the masses, but never got on the waiting list. He or she
merely waited until the victim left. As I thought of that I wondered if that
revelation increased or decreased my list of potential suspects.

Lou and I
enjoyed a nice dinner and dessert, but both of us were tired after such a long
and busy day. I came up with an idea and bounced it off Lou who thought it had
merit, as we drove to the Hilton Suites, the closest place to spend the night
to where we were. Maybe it cost more than most places, but the extra ten
minutes of sleep was worth it.