by Rex Burns
“I might be. What is it you want?”
“I’d like to ask some questions about a tenant of yours.”
“Them Willcoxes? Is it them Willcoxes again? I told them last time I didn’t have to put up with them bringing the police in here. If that’s the kind of people they are, they can just move across the street. They don’t care who they rent to over there!”
“It’s about Rebecca Jean Crowell, ma’am.”
“Crowell? Crowell? She don’t live here no more.”
“Can you tell me when she did live here?”
“Maybe. Why you want to know? What’s she gone and done?”
“She may be the victim of a homicide, lady. I want to find out.”
The eye bulged to show a pale blue iris in a yellow and bloodshot ball. “Victim? Does that mean dead?”
“Yes.” Wager clenched the corners of his mouth up into what he hoped was a friendly smile. He was tired, he was hungry, he did not want to waste time getting a duces tecum warrant that would give him the legal right to search the landlady’s records. “I want you to help us out. I want to know how long she lived here and where she might have moved.”
“What you want and what you get’s two different things. What’s your name?”
“Wager.”
“You just wait a minute, Wager. I’m calling the police to see if you’re telling true.”
“That’s a smart thing to do, lady.”
“You think I don’t know that?” The door shut, the wet black nose at Wager’s knee giving a snort of quick pain.
Two or three minutes later it cracked open again, the white nose poking out further than the black nose this time. “She lived here from May of 1974 to November of 1975.”
“Do you know where she moved to?”
“No. They come and go. It ain’t my business as long as they pay their rent and have decent ways.”
“Did you forward any mail to her?”
“Not that I recollect. She didn’t get much, anyway.”
“Did she have many visitors?”
“Not that I know of. And that means none. I keep an eye on what goes on in my house, mister, and I don’t let rooms to hussies.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you know where she worked?”
“I know she paid her rent in advance each and every month. That’s all. I ain’t nosy like you are, young man.”
Wager forced another smile, hoping it didn’t look the way it felt. “Can’t you tell me anything about her?”
“Like what?”
“Where she came from. If she had next of kin in town. What she did on weekends—her hobbies—that kind of thing.”
“She worked days. She said she went to some kind of school or other at night. She stayed pretty much to herself and she stayed quiet. The way I like them. Like I said, I ain’t nosy. You got all you want?”
No, but that was all she was going to give him. He finished writing. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The door thumped shut.
Wager pulled in to the already crowded lot of a Cowboy Bob’s Chuckwagon, finally able to have breakfast—or supper—a little after nine. At ten, he used the pay telephone in a leatherette corner of the diner to call the office of Crowell’s dentist. They were open; he could come over any time before five. He hung up and turned to the Crowell listings in the telephone book’s white pages. No “Rebecca,” no “R. J.” If she had an unlisted number, it would take half a day’s paperwork to run it down.
The dentist’s receptionist, wearing a crisp white uniform whose tidiness flattened breast and hip, said “Good morning” as he entered a softly lit room. A large fish tank filled one wall, and small tables beside thick chairs held National Geographic, U.S. News World Report, Jack and Jill; from somewhere came the kind of music that was full of violins and half-familiar melody. It was a hell of a lot richer dentist’s office than any he had ever gone to.
“I’m Detective Wager. I called a few minutes ago.”
“You got here fast!” Her dark ponytail swung as she pressed a button on a white intercom. “I’ll tell Dr. Miller you’re here.”
Wager looked at the pictures in half of a National Geographic before the dentist came out wiping his hands. He was as short as Wager and his lank gray hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. “You’re from the police?”
He showed his badge. “Yes, sir.”
Dr. Miller glanced at it and nodded briskly. “All right, Marie. He can see the records.” He was gone again.
At the bottom of the small stack of papers inside Rebecca Crowell’s folder lay an application for credit dated September, 1974. Wager began copying the personal information from the little blocks filled in by precise, erect letters in dark blue ink. It was not the kind of handwriting which indicated the applicant imagined that within two years a cop would be reading it, that the cop would be trying to find out who she was and who killed her. Hell, how many of us knew where we’d be two years from now?
The listed residence was the Tremont address, and, as Baird said, it was not updated. But she did state her place of work and her bank—Dr. Miller didn’t give easy credit without hard questions: Rocky Mountain Tax & Title Service, Petroleum Building, Room 785. Job title: typist. Bank account in Central of Denver, also located downtown. Income: $425 per month, no major outstanding debts. She owned a car—a 1970 Mustang, no license listed. And, Wager knew, she had not applied for a Colorado driver’s license—which was not unusual if she was new to the state. A lot of newcomers forgot about getting a new license until the old one expired. The block for parent or guardian was blank, but an emergency address listed a Mr. and Mrs. F. G. Crowell, 810 Kiowa Avenue, Kansas City, Kansas. Wager copied it and put off thinking of that for a while. Total cost of the dental work contracted for: $1,800. Payments were arranged at $500 for the first payment, $35 a month thereafter. It surprised him that no interest was charged. Little check marks showed that during the first year of treatment, she paid the stipulated amount; then she began paying $50 a month for eight months. The last payment, three months after her final checkup, was a lump sum of $580—which was pretty good on a typist’s salary. “Miller doesn’t charge interest on his credit deals?”
The receptionist smiled to show a thin silver wire across teeth that were, to Wager’s eyes, perfectly straight. “Most orthodontists don’t—it would put the price too high for many clients.”
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.
