Strip Search (29 page)

“Oh, Jesus—”

“But she …”

“Whitey killed three people, Sybil. And he had a woman phone me and set me up to be wasted.”

“It wasn’t me! I don’t even know your number!”

“Nguyen knew my number. It was probably somebody at the Cinnamon Club—somebody Whitey could ask for a little favor.”

“Not me—really!”

“But like I said, he’s got drops all over the strip. It could have been any of them. I think that; he’ll think that.”

The pale blur of her face hung unmoving.

Wager leaned past the taut figure to press the elevator button. “So no hard feelings. Let’s just go upstairs and talk about it.”

S
YBIL DID NOT
know all of it. She knew the money was good and the work was easy, and she knew better than to ask questions. She’d had an idea—one she didn’t let settle into clear belief—that Shelly had worked for the man and somehow crossed him, and was killed for it. She, Sybil, wasn’t going to be that dumb.

“It’s not being dumb, Sybil; it’s being smart—smart enough to know when the game’s over so you can still get out while you’re not wearing stitches.”

She thought about that while her roommate rattled loudly in the kitchen and stuck her head across the divider to ask sourly if Wager wanted coffee, too. Later, he figured that domestic touch was what swayed Sybil his way, because when they were all sitting around the low table with their cups steaming under their noses, she finally began to talk.

“He comes in, I don’t know, once a week—sometimes every other week. He brings money and hands it to me. It’s wrapped with one of those paper bands that says how much. It’s usually a couple thousand dollars, sometimes even more. I take it back to Berg and he writes out a receipt and gives me a hundred. Then I take the receipt back to him when I bring him his drink. I leave it on the table with the napkin, and that’s it—that’s all I know about it.”

“A money-laundering scheme? Is that what it is?”

“I don’t know. I get a hundred every time I do it. That’s all I know. It’s all I want to know.”

“Annette Sheldon was doing it before you were?”

“I—I guess so. That’s something I didn’t ask.”

But she had been making a lot more money than Sybil. “Did Berg ever say anything about her?”

“Once he, ah, told me to keep my mouth shut because this man is very hard on people he doesn’t like. He never mentioned Shelly’s name, but we both knew who he meant.”

“Did he tell you she got greedy? Maybe skimmed a little?”

“No. But that would be dumb. The money has that wrapper with the amount on it, and he gets a receipt from Berg.”

“What about Angela Williams?”

“I’ve never heard the name.”

Two thousand dollars at each drop—five regular drops every week or so … ten thousand a week … Walking the streets with ten thousand or more in his pockets … no wonder he practiced all those maneuvers. “Where’d the money come from?”

“I don’t know. And I never asked.”

“What’s the man’s name?”

“I don’t know that either.”

He believed her. And he believed that was all she would be able to tell him. Draining his cup, he reminded her not to tell anyone she had talked to him. “This time, I’d know how he found out, Syb. And neither one of us would take it kindly.” He thanked Madame Butterfly for the coffee, and then sat for a few minutes in the dark of his silent car while he turned over Sybil’s information.

Now he had the motive. Figure—what?—half a million a year gross, maybe three hundred thousand after expenses. And somehow laundered so that the tax showed up as paid and then the money could be used like anybody’s savings account—buy a little real estate, a few stocks and bonds, salt it away at a good honest interest rate. Or lend it out again through Clinton. A good setup. Conveniently local, small enough so that it doesn’t attract Mafia interest, but still almost as profitable as working for the federal government….It would be worth killing for, if you thought you could get away with it. Whitey thought he could. And so far he was right.

Maybe Annette went with him willingly—”Come on, I want you to meet somebody.”

Doc went out of the Cinnamon Club with a pistol at his back, and he tried to leave a message with those two bums. Maybe he even tried to ask them for help, but their eyes were glued to that bill he held out and they never even looked at his whispering mouth or sweating, scared face.

Angela Williams? There was still no connection between her and Whitey, but that would come. Wager felt as certain about that as he felt the grainy weariness that burned under his lids when he rubbed his tired eyes. That one would fall into place, too.

He started the Trans Am and headed slowly back to his apartment through the empty streets. As he passed avenues sloping down toward the South Platte river valley, he noted that the night wind had blown Denver’s smog clear and left patterns of lights sprawling all the way to the dark where the mountains lay; there, lights spread in bands and patches up their flanks to blend with the dim stars. Nearer, the streetlights were the sharp blue or pink of vapor bulbs, and, here and there, the softer yellows of curtained windows dotted the blackness. But even as he watched those narrow wedges swing past the car’s windows, he wondered what to do next. He knew the man’s stops and routes; if the man did not run, Wager could pick him up. But what would that get him besides a laugh when the man was let go for lack of evidence? Wager wanted the man for homicide, not for laundering money; and there was a good chance he could not get him for either. Berg? Lean on Berg until he broke? No tie between the owner of the Cinnamon Club and the murders … Still, Sybil said Berg knew something. If he was squeezed hard enough, he might let something out—there had to be ways to get to him without Whitey knowing.

He was still sketching out various means to pressure Berg as he unlocked his apartment door; in the semi dark of his living room, the telephone answering machine’s Alert light was a little crimson diamond. Wager, turning on the lamp, pressed the Rewind and Play buttons. The first few seconds of the tape were blank, the sign of a caller who had hung up when he heard the recording. Then came a half-familiar voice: “Wager—this is Moffett. We got that Lazlo dude and a half-dozen street people, too. Thanks for the help.” Now Little Ray wouldn’t have to worry about the profit margin on his merchandise, not for a few years, at least. He let the tape run farther and then a tense voice, pinched by the tape’s distortion, cut in at mid-sentence—the speaker had not waited for the sound of the beep—”…neth Sheldon. I got to see you. As soon as possible. Call me at the shop anytime. I’ll be there. It’s important.”

He pressed Stop and then ran the tape back and listened again to the anxious voice. Sheldon. Why would the man who almost chased him out of his shop suddenly be so eager to see him?

Wager checked his watch: two fifty-five. The man said anytime, and it was worth a phone call to see what he wanted. Locating the number for the Nickelodeon Vending Repairs, Wager dialed it, waiting through rings that seemed abnormally long. Halfway through the fifth, it broke off, and, after a breath or two, a soft voice said, “Hello?”

“Sheldon?”

“Yeah—who’s this?”

“Detective Wager. I just got your message. What’s it about?”

“Not over the phone. I can’t talk over the phone. You got to come here.”

“There? Right now?”

“Yes. How long’s it going to take you to get here?”

“Half an hour, forty-five minutes. What the hell is it that can’t wait until morning?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone! And … and if I leave the shop, he’ll follow me. …”

“Who?”

“The guy you’re after. The white-haired guy you’re after!”

Wager didn’t know if the tiny buzz filling the silence was in the wires or in his mind. He said slowly, “All right. I’ll be there.”

“Come to the back door—you know, the alley. And come alone!”

“Sure, Sheldon. I’m on my way now.”

But when he set the receiver on its cradle, he did not move. Instead, he asked himself a few questions: Where did Sheldon get Wager’s unlisted number? How did he know Wager was after Whitey? And exactly why might he want Wager to come alone to a dark alley? I can lead you to Whitey—just meet me in the dark alone. It almost worked last time, why not try again? Sheldon … there was some connection … Annette, and now her husband … But maybe this time Whitey would be on the receiving end; maybe this time Wager, dragging his thumb along the small scar on his cheek, did not intend to let somebody drive him into ungoverned terror.

He picked up the receiver and dialed Max’s number. A promise was a promise, even at three in the morning.

It rattled half a ring and Max, a cop even in his sleep, was wide awake by the time he said “Hello.”

“It’s Gabe. I’ve been invited to another dark alley. Want to go with me?”

“Where do I meet you?”

“I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

It was less than that—vacant intersections and empty streets allowed him to shoot the Trans Am across town without stopping. But Max was already waiting, a figure seated on the porch steps of his large old house, caught in the sweep of headlights as Wager pulled into the driveway. Wordless, he got in; Wager backed out and shoved the car through the gears as he worked his way toward the north side and Sheldon’s shop.

“Hope I didn’t wake up Polly.”

“No. She’s used to it.”

Sure she was. Wager just hoped his partner hadn’t told her who called; she’d be clinging to the ceiling if she knew her husband was helping him on another one of his semiprivate expeditions. So would Bulldog Doyle, for that matter. But since Wager had his partner along, maybe the Bulldog would see them as a team.

“What do you think Sheldon’s connection is?” Max asked after Wager had filled him in.

Wager had thought a lot about that. But saying it aloud made the pieces click solidly, and he took his time. Besides, talking kept his mind away from that other question, the personal one, the one that had lain unbidden but like a heavy stone at the back of his mind ever since that night under the viaduct.

“It’s got to be part of the laundering. My guess is the vending repair service is a dummy corporation—Annette was getting a lot more money than Sybil. She had to be doing more than just transporting.”

“Well, that could explain how Sheldon knew you were after Whitey.”

“That, too. And a vending machine service is a natural expense for clubs and bars. Repairs, rental, stock—a bar could account for an extra couple thousand a week if IRS wanted to take a close look.”

“So Whitey brings in the hot cash and turns it over to the bar owner.” Max’s voice was a musing rumble. “The owner lists it as income, takes his cut, and then writes a check to Nickelodeon for vending machine service. And that goes on the books as a legitimate expense.”

“Maybe with a few refinements, but yeah. And then Nickelodeon covers its income with employees’ salaries, overhead, other expenses—all dummy—and hands most of it back to Whitey.”

“You think Annette Sheldon started taking a little more than she was supposed to?”

“That’s my guess. I figure that’s what Sheldon’s been trying to hide all this time.” Wager added, “But I can’t figure Angela Williams. Unless she learned something. Like Doc.”

“Well, we’ll sure as hell find out.” Max watched the streetlights flicker across the hood of the car as it sped down I-70 toward the Seabury district. “Jesus, where does that much money come from in the first place?”

“The usual: dope, prostitution, vigorish, gambling. What’s new is the laundry service. Clinton, maybe a few others, provided Whitey with the money; Whitey provided a weekly laundry service.”

Max grunted. “Whitey was with Clinton and Jimmy King just before Goddard was beaten to death. And wouldn’t it be nice to get Clinton, too!”

“Wouldn’t it though.”

“What’s the going rate for loan sharks?” Max asked.

“Last I heard, it was five percent a day.”

“That’s a lot of money—those nickels and dimes add up.”

The car tilted down a ramp that led them past the looming black curves of the Coliseum. In the distance, cramped by the bulk of the elevated highway above, a grimy yellow sign glowed in front of a truckers’ motel; Wager angled north two blocks to the row of small shops that held Sheldon’s store. When he was half a block away, he turned off his headlights and slowed to pass the front of the darkened windows. He was not surprised to find no light, no shape standing in the open waiting for them. There hadn’t been that other time, either.

Sunk out of sight below the window, Max said, “He told you to come to the back?”

“Yeah.”

The cramped voice panted, “I wish to hell you had a four-door.”

Wager turned the lights back on and swung toward the alley. Trash cans and telephone poles nudged the space as he steered toward the solid mass of the shops. Maybe a hundred yards down, a faint patch of light spread across the gravel, glittering on fragments of a bottle. Wager let the motor pull them forward slowly and quietly. He, too, sank farther down in his seat, hand resting on his pistol as he eased past the raised door and saw the single work lamp fill one corner of the room with a glow. The rest of the shop was dark.

“We’re going past now,” said Wager.

“See anybody?”

“Not a soul.” He turned off the dome light. “I’ll park a little way down the alley.” Letting the car coast to a stop, he killed the engine. Max already had his door open; Wager, looking back, studied the shop before he opened his. “I’ll cross the alley and go along the wall.”

“I’ll be behind you. Just take it easy, partner.”

“Not too close, Max. Give me plenty of room.”

“Right.”

He listened for a final few seconds and then shoved his door open to step through the night glow that gave the alley a faint shine like starlight. His hand brushed the gritty stucco of the wall as he carefully worked his way past black, grated windows and garbage cans toward the paleness of the raised garage door. Pausing at the frame, he listened. Nothing. It was as quiet and dark as that viaduct had been, and Wager felt his shoulders draw tight at the vision of that blinding rush coming toward him out of the black.