Parts Unknown

by Rex Burns

  “Want me to give them a call?” Bunch was reading over my shoulder.

  “You try her brother. I’ll talk to the others in person.” References tended to be a bit franker that way than over the telephone, where an interviewer couldn’t see their eyes.

  I called and made appointments with each of the local references and then telephoned Schute in New York and explained the difficulties. “The place he’s holed up is an isolated farm. We have some photographs of him, but nothing incriminating.”

  “You can’t put a twenty-four-hour surveillance on the farm?”

  “Not without being spotted—it’s open prairie all around. No concealment for a longtime station. Our best bet right now is random surveillance, and even that’s tough as long as he stays on that farm.”

  “What about luring him off?”

  “We’re looking at that angle, but we haven’t come up with anything yet.”

  “I see.” The line hummed and buzzed with other voices at the edge of hearing. “I’d like to get something substantial as soon as possible. As I told you, we’re facing the statute of limitations on this one.”

  His next sentence would express regret that Security Underwriters would have to try another detective agency. I interrupted that line of thought: “We’re also looking at Ace Roofing. Taylor hasn’t shown up there yet, but if he does, there’s no problem with surveillance.”

  “I see. All right, try that. But we need results. And we need them soon.”

  “We’ll keep you informed, Mr. Schute.”

  I hung up and Bunch looked at me with raised eyebrows. “We’re not sitting on Ace Roofing, Dev.”

  “We will be.” I started looking through our collection of telephone directories for the roofing company. “And we’ve got a dog to snatch too,” I reminded him.

  “I told you I was working on that!”

  Bunch took his turn with the telephone. His voice was a background rumble for my search. After a while, I found the roofing company listed in the White Pages of a rural telephone book that held numbers for half a dozen small towns, including Erie. The only address listed was a familiar rural route number.

  “Okay, Dev—I got the information on Mrs. Chiquichano’s brother.” Bunch held a notebook flipped over a forefinger. “Alonso Hernandes, naturalized American citizen originally from El Salvador. He rents at seven-three-nine G Avenue, apartment three B, Coronado, California. Is employed by the Hotel Del Coronado as a grounds keeper and maintenance man. Has worked there for the last nine years. Never declared bankruptcy, good credit rating. Recently paid off a 1984 Oldsmobile Cutlass at Weepin’ Willy’s Used Cars. Single with no outstanding debts or credit card accounts, and has a current savings account of fourteen hundred forty-two dollars and thirty-seven cents plus a checking account of four twenty-one eighty-eight. The car and his household goods are his total listed assets. Neighbors say he’s quiet and polite.”

  That last bit of information told me Bunch had been talking to Retail Credit, another bureau we subscribed to; they liked to provide more personal notes, including neighborhood gossip, on the subject. “No investments in his sister’s business?”

  “No investments at all, according to Retail. Looks like one of these marginal wage earners who puts a little aside each month and prays that nothing big goes wrong.”

  “Just like us.” He certainly didn’t look like the brother of a relatively well-off slumlord and labor broker. And definitely not one she could have borrowed money from to get her start.

  Bunch limped for the door. “I’m on my way to Broomfield for that debugging estimate. Anything you want me to do?”

  I pulled a standard contract from the drawer and handed it to him. “Try to get a signature. If you can’t, be sure to tell him about our expertise in industrial security.”

  “I know the pitch.” The door closed behind him and I heard his uneven tread go down the iron stairs.

  Ace Roofing was next. I dialed the number and a woman answered with the company name. Making my voice sound older and more cautious, I told her I was interested in having some roofing work done, but wanted to see some of the outfit’s work first. “They on a job now? I want to see the work, not just talk to people about how good they are.”

  “Yeah? Well, wait a minute—let me look at the book.”

  The phone clicked into silence and then the voice came back. “They’re on a flat-roof job over in Lafayette right now—the Adams Machine Shop building. It’s on Chester Street, the three-hundred block there.”

  I thanked her and left a note telling Bunch where I’d be. But my first stop was nearby in the 2700 block of California Avenue in downtown Denver: the R and W Realty offices. It was one of those old mansions that had been refurbished into business suites, and a series of ornate brass shingles were screwed beside the doorway—a couple of law offices, a graphics and design firm, an insurance agency, and R and W Realty. A receptionist smiled hello as I introduced myself and asked for Rebecca White.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  It wasn’t even that long. The young woman set down the phone and smiled again. “Upstairs to your left, please.”

  The stairs, illuminated by a multicolored skylight over the well, provided a major architectural effect. A series of short landings rose past the law offices and turned to face the realtor’s door. A smaller brass sign said PLEASE COME IN.

  There was only one person in the office, which had a large desk and filing cabinets at one end, and at the other a living room set cozily arranged around a large coffee table near sunny windows. “Miss White?”

  “Mrs. What can I do for you, Mr. Kirk?”

  She was a tall, intense brunette with that wiry thinness that comes from a combination of genes and ceaseless activity. I wasn’t surprised to see, framed in random patterns on the wall, photographs of Mrs. White and a bicycle standing against various backdrops of mountains, European villages, famous landmarks. On the desk was a chrome trophy sporting another bicycle and the legend “Amateur Time Trials Second Place Winner.” “Mrs. Camelia Chiquichano cited you as a reference on a loan application, and I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about her.”

  “This is a bit unusual, isn’t it? Aren’t these verifications usually done with a phone call?”

  “I happened to be in the neighborhood. Are you the R in R and W Realty?”

  “The R and the W—it’s a bit more impressive if clients think a realtor doesn’t work alone. Especially a woman.”

  “She listed you as her employer on a recent home loan application.”

  “Yes. She cleans all the offices in this building.” She added, “Which I own.”

  “Has she worked with you a long time?”

  “Six, perhaps seven years. She’s put together an apparently very successful janitorial business, and I’ve been happy to recommend her services to acquaintances. In fact, the last person I referred to her said she couldn’t take him—she has too much business now. It’s a real success story.”

  “The cleaning crew are women? Spanish-speaking women?”

  “Yes, and they’re very hardworking. I get the impression that Mrs. Chiquichano is a demanding employer.”

  Something of a slave driver, in fact. “And,” I guessed, “you also helped her in a real estate transaction?”

  “Why, yes, I did. I specialize in urban properties, particularly sleepers—those that are undervalued and can be enhanced with a little sweat equity. Mrs. Chiquichano mentioned several times that she was looking for a suitable investment property, and when this deal came up, I brought it to her attention.”

  That was the kind of opening I’d been looking for. I told her about my adventures with my half of Mrs. Ottoboni’s duplex; she told me about the tribulations and triumphs—especially the triumphs—of what she called her “urban pioneers”: young couples, usually childless, who moved from the suburbs back into the city to buy and spruce up cheap older homes in run-down neighborhoods. We ended up talking over coffee arou
nd the low table spread with copies of Better Homes and Gardens and Denver Real Estate. Her motions were quick and nervous, but not random, and I suspected she had won the battle against cigarettes through a tremendous effort.

  “So you found Mrs. Chiquichano’s home for her too?”

  “No. Only the investment property—an apartment building over in Swansea. It was a good deal all around; the sellers were thinking of tearing down the building because it had deteriorated so much, and Mrs. Chiquichano was looking for a property she could improve and still profit from. Fortunately, I was able to put the deal together. It’s so difficult to find low-income rentals anymore, that things worked out quite well.”

  “She had no trouble with the loan approval?”

  “None at all—she put one third down in cash.”

  “That much?”

  Mrs. White smiled slightly. “Not all women are helpless and impoverished, Mr. Kirk.”

  “And many women are very good business people, I agree. I’m just surprised that someone who immigrated ten or fifteen years ago, with no apparent marketable skills, would have saved up enough capital to invest in an apartment house.”

  “Well, apparently she was very frugal for a number of years. And frankly, it wasn’t all that much—twenty thousand. As I said, the property was very run-down and the neighborhood is almost totally zoned for industry now. In fact, I think that was the last R-two zoning left in that block.”

  “Wasn’t the land worth more than the building?”

  “It could have been, except no one was interested in buying a lot that small, and the owners were tired of paying taxes. Plus, they faced a condemnation order on the building.”

  “What did she put up for collateral?”

  “It wasn’t needed. There’s a city program of loan guarantees for investors willing to develop low-income housing. I helped her qualify for the program.”

  “When was this?”

  “About four years ago.”

  “Do the rentals have price ceilings?”

  “Of course. One seventy-five a month for a single, up to a maximum of two fifty a month for large families. I understand there are no vacancies.”

  “Do you know who handled her home purchase?”

  “That was an owner-sold property. We talked it over and I gave her some advice on how to arrange the financing, but essentially it went through the lending company and that was it.”

  “Did she put down one third on that, too?”

  “I advised against that—the interest there is tax deductible. I told her she would come out ahead with a low down payment on a thirty-year fixed rate. I don’t know whether she took my advice or not.”

  “How much did the house cost?”

  “Somewhere in the one nineties; I can’t remember exactly.”

  “She was able to afford that?”

  “She said she could handle the payments, and as far as I know, she has. You’ll have to verify that with the loan company, not with me.”

  I thanked Mrs. White and headed for my next stop, the Associated Medical Pavilion on Downing Street. The name had echoed familiarly, and I stood a minute or two staring at the bronze letters mounted on a heavy wooden sign. But the connection wouldn’t come. The building showed busy Downing a windowless brick wall and some bushes, but the sidewalk leading down the front revealed brick, glass, and chrome. The main entry was halfway down the facade, recessed for shade from the summer sun and open to the low winter sun for warmth and coziness. A series of concrete benches lined the walk, separated by carefully tended grass and flowers, and I wondered if Mrs. Chiquichano had the lawn care franchise as well. A receptionist learned that I was neither patient nor drug salesman and frowned as she glanced down an appointment book crowded with names in every fifteen-minute slot.

  “I called earlier and made an appointment with Dr. Matheney,” I reminded her.

  She looked in another book. “Oh, yes. Just a moment, please.”

  She lifted a phone to talk to someone, and I listened to the muted background music and tried to pick out the melody among the curlicues of tinkling notes. The scattering of patients leafed through magazines and politely ignored one another.

  A series of bronze plates on the waiting room wall named the doctors and their specialties, most of which seemed to deal with allergies and internal medicine. Matheney’s name was listed under Immunology and Surgery. I guessed that as in many medical groups, the doctors here had private patients and were also on call at nearby Warner Memorial. Those private cases too complex to be handled at the clinic were transferred to the hospital and its more extensive care facilities. It was a familiar symbiotic arrangement and one that seemed very profitable as well. The building itself had been designed for its purpose as a clinic, with—I found out shortly—smaller waiting areas near the office of each specialist, looked after by each doctor’s nurse. Examining rooms emphasized comfort and privacy, hallways stressed womblike security and warmth, and the doctors’ offices, if they were all like Matheney’s, breathed a sigh of order, competence, and wealth. The patient knew he was getting the best.

  “Mr. Kirk! How may I help you today?”

  Morris Matheney was very tall, with an Abe Lincoln beard and large horn-rimmed glasses that magnified eyes as brown and soft as a collie’s. His hair swept back from brow and temples in a billowing gray puff that increased his height. His hand, when he shook mine, was strong and hairless and so polished by scrubbing that its skin looked like a taut surgical glove. I explained about Mrs. Chiquichano while he listened with fingers laced and thumbs against his lips.

  “Yes. I remember her. She provided janitorial services for the clinic.”

  “Did? She doesn’t work here anymore?”

  “We recently found it more economical to share the hospital’s janitorial crew. The use of beds has declined enough so the hospital subcontracts some of its routine services to various nearby clinics. The janitorial service is one.”

  “But you were willing to be a reference on her home loan application?”

  “Of course. And would be again. She and her workers did a fine job, and I was quite sorry not to renew her contract. Unfortunately, the hospital had certain union obligations with its staff, and it was just easier all around to make the change. I think Mrs. Chiquichano will be an excellent credit risk. I found her to be very meticulous and thorough.”

  “I see. How long did she work for you, doctor?”

  “I believe it was two years. I don’t remember the exact dates.”

  “Do you know who her other customers are?”

  “No. I had no reason to ask.”

  “Not even for references when you hired her?”

  “I’d rather judge a person’s worth by their work for me, not by what someone else—who may be far less demanding—says about them. If her work had not been highly satisfactory, I would have fired her.”

  Hire and fire—now I remembered where I’d heard of the Associated Medical Pavilion. “You do the health tests on Mrs. Chiquichano’s employees too?”

  “I beg pardon?”

  “TB tests—blood tests. Felix Frentanes … and Nestor Calamaro. Doesn’t your group provide the screening tests for the people who work at the Apple Valley Turkeys plant?”

  Matheney’s fingers tugged at his chin whiskers. “Our lab does a lot of industrial screenings. Immunology is one of our areas of specialty, after all.”

  “And Mrs. Chiquichano brought them here for the tests?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Kirk. She may have—especially if she was working here at the time. But that kind of scheduling is taken care of by one of the secretaries, so I couldn’t tell you if Mrs. Chiquichano arranged it or not.”

  That was it: straight answers to straight questions, and nothing more to ask. I thanked the good doctor and wound my way back through color-coded halls with a sense of letdown. Whatever I had expected to discover, it wasn’t here.

  The drive up to Lafayette took about thirty minutes, but w
ith the top down and the September sun cooled by the wind, it was a pleasant ride. The Healey enjoyed the curving country roads that branched off the freeways, and so did I. Lafayette was one of the faster-growing towns in the area, serving as a bedroom community for both Boulder and Denver, and support businesses had begun bringing people and money into what had been a village as small as Erie. Surrounding housing developments rose and fell with the prairie and looked naked and sun baked on the grassy ridges, but the old part of town had settled under tall trees.

  That’s where the machine shop was, on a street that was still predominantly residential but unzoned. A familiar blue pickup truck with a tar-bucket trailer sat in front of the cinder-block building, and a pair of tar-stained ladders leaned against the walls. At the foot of one, a deeply tanned and shirtless man ladled melted tar from a portable heater into a bucket and hauled it up to the roof by a pulley at the ladder’s top. On the flat roof, another bronzed man, heavier, carried the buckets away. Neither was Taylor, but noise and gestures indicated more workers out of sight somewhere in the center of the roofs expanse.

  I drove past slowly and then circled the block to get a good look at the building. Through my telephoto lens, the bearded faces zoomed close, and I shot a couple of stills, hoping that the men hidden beyond the eave would come forward into focus. But they didn’t, and I drove to another angle, cruising along a rutted dirt alley crowded with rusty oil drums used as trash cans. From this spot I could make out another shape busy on the roof, but couldn’t get a clear picture of it through the heavy leaves. Parking, I walked down the alley and tried half a dozen shots. Maybe dark room magic could bring out what I couldn’t see. And maybe if I swung around to come down the other end of the alley, I’d have a clearer view of the workman.