Strip Search (18 page)

“He was one of your snitches?” Axton muttered as they stood at the coffee machine and poured cups for the three of them.

“He called yesterday to tell me he had something important. I think it was about Sheldon and Williams.” He did not like to think it was about himself.

Rosalyn Shiddel took cream and sugar in her coffee and Axton measured it out. “And he was shot in the back of the head with a small-caliber weapon.”

“And then dumped.”

“Yeah. The autopsy’ll tell us for sure—but, yeah, I’ll bet he was.”

Wager followed Axton back to the desk where the woman sat wadding a Kleenex in one hand and tugging at a strand of lank hair with the other. She smiled briefly when Axton set her coffee on the glass top, then she looked down at her Kleenex again.

“Can you tell us about last night, Miss Shiddel? About where you were and where Doc went and anything he might have said?”

She couldn’t give them much information. She was home all evening watching television, and Doc went out about ten. He never told her much about what he did. That was part of the arrangement, and it was okay with her because Doc had always been good to her. Some of the men she’d been with were either wimps or real bastards, you know? They either hung onto you like a wet dishcloth so you couldn’t even take a—go to the bathroom—by yourself, or they’d treat you like dirt, like you were a servant or a dog or something. But not Doc. So she never asked.

“Did he tell you anything at all?”

“No. He said he was going out on business. He said he’d see me later.”

“But he didn’t hint what kind of business or where?”

No. Doc did that a lot—went out on business, and she believed him. He never came back stinking of other women, and she could tell when the business, whatever it was, went well, because he’d get sort of hyper excited. He was that way anyhow, excited, but when it went well, he really got off.

“Was he hyper last night?”

“Kind of, before he left. He tried half-a-dozen times to call this guy Gabe, but there was never any answer.” She looked up, remembering. “He called.”

“Who?” asked Max.

“This guy Gabe. He called, I don’t know, maybe midnight or one o’clock, and wanted to talk to him.”

Axton glanced at Wager, who nodded slightly. “Did Doc ever have any friends or acquaintances over to the house?” asked Max.

He did have a few, but she remembered only their first names. The last time they had visitors was a couple weeks ago. “Doc liked to stay private—he used the phone a lot for his business calls, but we didn’t see many people.” Yes, she answered to another question, he did have some favorite places to go. He liked Sandy’s, that place over on Kalamath near Colfax. They went there a lot, and sometimes had dinner at the Ravioli Palace on Gaylord. Doc really liked Italian food. And movies. They went all the time. They’d spend maybe an hour looking at the ads in the paper and drink some wine and talk it over, maybe share a joint because it mellowed him out; they really didn’t get high, you know, just a little buzz-on. That’s what Doc used to call it, “a buzz-on.” The phrase broke her down in whining sobs and Wager and Axton stepped back to give her time to herself.

“What the hell were you doing calling him at one in the morning, Gabe?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

Axton, watching the woman, said, “Can’t beat that for an alibi, I guess.” Then, “Are you maybe up to a little extracurricular activity?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’ve been your partner long enough to know I can’t talk you out of it.”

That went without saying, so Wager said nothing.

“If you get in a squeeze, call me.”

“I can handle it.”

It was Max’s turn to say “Maybe.”

They questioned Rosalyn Shiddel for another hour, including times out for spasms of tears. The worst came when they asked for a photograph of Doc. She didn’t have one, she said. She’d wanted one, but Doc didn’t like pictures, and now she never would have one, and that’s what broke her up.

Then they drove her back to the small house that sat like a knickknack between the tall apartment buildings. She told them that Doc never mentioned any relatives, and the only property he had was the furniture. He always had enough money for rent and food, but she didn’t think he had a bank account. There were a lot of things she didn’t know, including what would happen to her now. Neither Wager nor Axton could advise her on that, beyond telling her to get a lawyer—maybe the common-law statutes covered her. They left her standing on the other side of the rusty screen door, barefoot again and with a fresh Kleenex wadded in her hand. Neither man wanted to look back as they left. When they reached the car, Wager said, “How about some lunch?”

“Italian food?”

“Right.”

She was still staring through the screen as they pulled away.

The Ravioli Palace had a glass awning that hung brightly like half an umbrella on the blank face of a yellow stucco building. The long, well-lit room was half-filled already, and from the noisy kitchen floated the aroma and heat of sauces and baking meats. A smiling waitress in a black nylon dress with a white ruffle down the front led them to a table and pulled a pencil from her graying hair.

“You want a drink before you order?”

Wager had a coffee; Axton a 7-Up. The menu, a mimeographed sheet clipped inside a plastic folder, said at the top,
If You Don’t Like Garlic, Go Home
, and the food, when it came, lived up to the warning.

It finally occurred to Max. “You didn’t even know what he looked like!”

“We only talked on the phone.”

“How long was he in your stable?”

“Six years.”

“And you never met the guy? That’s really something.”

It was nothing. People that you’d never met died every day. And having met someone never kept them from dying. And nobody you ever met would keep you from dying either, when the time came. Life was made up of goodbyes, his mother used to say, so you should act kindly toward others, as if you expected to say goodbye. She’d believed that last part, and tried to live up to it. But the meaning had changed a bit for Wager: you expected goodbyes, and when they came, you accepted them and went about your business. And Doc knew the risks. Even if Wager had sort of talked him into it.

When the waitress began clearing the dishes, Wager showed her Doc’s driver’s license with its small color photograph and asked her if she knew the man.

“Sure, I know him. Him and”—she dredged up the name—”Rosalyn! They always have a pizza half-and-half: anchovies and pepperoni.”

“Were they here last night?”

She hesitated. “Are you friends of his?” She smiled nervously. “I mean, it’s not my business; I don’t really know him except he comes in here all the time. Anchovies and pepperoni, every time.”

Axton showed his badge. “He was shot last night and we’re trying to trace his movements.”

“Oh, my! Shot!”

“Was he here?”

“No. Oh, my, isn’t that too bad!”

“Did he ever come here with anyone else?” Wager asked.

She fiddled with the pencil sticking out of her hair. “Before Rosalyn, he had another girl. I can’t remember her name, though.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, my—a year and a half? A long time, anyway. Was Doc hurt bad?”

“He was killed.”

“Oh, my. Poor Rosalyn.” She studied her order book for a few moments as if looking for words. Finally she asked, “Do you folks want dessert?”

Axton drove across the sun-softened tar streets toward Kalamath and Sandy’s. It was one of those August afternoons when the clouds were already piling up over the mountains west of town and promised to boil into towering thunderheads that would sail east across the prairies toward Kansas and Nebraska and, eventually, the sprawling green land of tree-lined farms that was the Mississippi valley. Later in the day, toward evening, you would see the clouds disappear over the eastern horizon, their tops glimmering white like distant sails, their feet under the curve of the earth, and a blue haze where rain and hail and wind pounded down. Then the radio would broadcast warnings about severe thunderstorms and tornado sightings, and, here and there on the gullied prairies, small streams would explode with yellow boiling water and the foamy debris that jammed culverts and washed out bridges and sent slices of Colorado clay roiling eastward toward the giant rivers. But here in Denver, just inside the formation of the storms, the streets were scorched and dusty and the odor of an occasional lawn sprinkler steamed off the glittering surface with the smell of summer. It was, Wager thought, like one of the old sayings vaguely remembered from childhood, one of the many he’d half-forgotten—something about the rain falling on some, while the sun shone on others, and only El Buen Dios could say why.

Doc was about Wager’s age, maybe a little older. Maybe, like Wager, he had hopped barefoot and yelping across the summer heat of dirt streets before they were tarred and paved. Maybe, like Wager, he had sought the relief of some neighbor’s cool sprinkler winking diamonds of water in the sun.

Max slowed and turned onto Kalamath, the shade of the remaining trees forming a tunnel of coolness down which bicyclists weaved past parked cars, and kids on skateboards thumped noisily over the concrete slabs of sidewalk. Here and there, joggers sprinted past, running as if all eyes were on them. Wager looked at the lean, tanned legs of a girl running through the mottled shade and half-wondered if Doc had found pleasure in such a sight. There were a lot of things about Doc he would never know, and he had no reason at all to get maudlin over the man’s death. Snitches died every day in every way, and sooner or later everyone joined them. There was no reason for Wager to feel diminished. But he did.

The heavy sun came back as they reached a block where the sheltering trees had been sliced down to make the street wider. Ahead, the glittering swirl of windshields and hot metal marked busy Colfax, and now the homes were mixed with old-fashioned small apartment buildings and occasional two- and three-unit businesses. Max turned the car into a narrow drive leading past a chipped corner that bore a scarred sign,
PARKING IN REAR.

“Ever been here?” he asked as they walked to the entry of the small tavern. The two large windows in front were half-blanked out, and above the blue enamel a painter had scrolled in long-faded gold, Sandy’s Bar.

“No.” But he knew what to expect—one of the few remaining neighborhood taverns. There were a few booths and a lot of tables, and a long, dark bar whose carved pillars rose up to the ceiling, holding a mirror and surrounded by shelves of bottles, most so high out of reach that they were probably never used. Wager suspected that a lot of the brightly labeled containers were empty, anyway. At arm’s level were the bourbons and scotches and ryes that most of the single men ordered when they spent the evenings watching the television set mounted up in the corner. The ladies tended to drink gin and vodka, and customers of both sexes believed they had a true friend in the bartender.

Maybe they did; he looked like everybody’s friend, a round face with a quiet smile and a fringe of white hair over his ears. He moved placidly behind the counter, chatting with a middle-aged man and woman who nursed a couple bottles of Miller’s. There was no jukebox, the television set was off, and not one fern sprouted anywhere. The only sound was of quiet voices and the hum of two large fans on the ceiling. Wager understood why Doc liked the place.

“Help you gents?”

Wager opened his badge case. “We’re investigating a homicide, a man who came in here a lot.”

“Oh?”

“Lewis Rowe. Also known as Doc.”

The man’s scraggly eyebrows lifted. “Thin guy? Kind of nervous? Always telling jokes?”

Wager showed the bartender Doc’s driver’s license. “Is this him?”

The bartender settled a pair of bifocals across his fleshy nose and tipped his head back to peer through the lower half. “That’s Doc. Well, I’ll be darned.” He called to the couple sitting at the cool end of the bar, glancing their way. “Fella here says Doc’s been killed.”

“Killed?” The woman wagged her head. “Isn’t that just awful!”

“How’d it happen?” asked the man.

That’s what they were trying to find out. Wager asked, “Was he in here last night?”

The bartender tugged thoughtfully at an earlobe. He had gray hairs sprouting there, too, as if the baldness on top had forced the hair out in other directions. “Yeah—I believe he was.” He called down the bar again. “Doc was in here last night, wasn’t he?”

“Sure was.” The woman had one of those quacking voices that seemed to be pressed flat somewhere in her throat. “Sat right there at that table. Talked about going to the greyhound races tomorrow with Rosalyn. Poor woman.”

“Was he with anyone?”

“No,” said the bartender. “Doc usually came in just with his wife or by himself. He was a real nice fella, real friendly. It sure is a shame.”

“What time did he leave?”

“Oh, gosh, let’s see—Friday night’s a busy night—let’s see. …”

“It was a little after eleven,” came the quacking voice. “You just turned on ‘Benny Hill’ and Doc said he wanted to watch it but he couldn’t. He had to meet somebody, he said.”

Axton was standing closer to the woman. “Did he say who?”

She shook her head.

“Or where?” Wager asked.

“Yes, he did say where—we joked about that. He said he had to meet this man, and I said it wasn’t a man, not at that place, and that’s why he came in without his wife. We always joked like that, you know.”

“What place?”

“The Cinnamon Club. That topless-bottomless place over on Colfax. Doc had to be at the Cinnamon Club to meet this man about something, but he didn’t say what.”

They sat in the car in the small parking lot behind the tavern and did more thinking than talking. You looked for patterns. In a series of possibly related crimes, you always looked for a pattern. That’s what the idea of a modus operandi was all about. If something worked once for a criminal—burglary, rape, even murder—chances were he’d do it the same way again. A learned technique could be polished with repetition, leaving more time to guard against witnesses or evidence. It was the same thing that led animals down familiar paths at the same time every day: they knew what to look for each time, had an idea how a victim would behave, were more aware of any threatening change in the pattern or the menace of a larger predator. And now Wager was a predator, looking for the worn path, the warm spoor, the gently rising blade of grass.