by Rex Burns
Wager drove into a gas station that had the glass box of a telephone booth on one corner, and dialed a number from his notebook. A sleepy voice answered.
“Miss Dahl? This is Detective Wager.”
“I don’t feel like talking.”
“A couple questions.” He didn’t give her time to say no. “Do you know if Pitkin ever met Rebecca Crowell after she stopped working for him?” He waited. “Miss Dahl?”
“I … don’t think he did. Maybe he did.”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“I thought once I smelled her perfume on him. But I didn’t ask.”
“You recognized the perfume she used?”
“We worked in the same office for five months.”
Wager could recognize some of his fellow officers’ scents, lotions, and lack thereof. “How long ago was this?”
Her voice had a shrug in it. “A few months. I really don’t remember.”
“Why didn’t you want to ask him about her?”
“What difference would it have made?”
“I mean, didn’t you care that he might have seen her?”
“Yes. But I knew it made no difference. He meets his end of the bargain, and I meet mine. Anything else is irrelevant.”
“And you’re content with that?”
“You are goddamned right I am, Detective Wager.” The line clicked dead.
CHAPTER 10
HE WANTED TO use his own telephone to chase down the numbers in Rebecca Crowell’s appointment book. For one thing, the homicide office was too small to hold more than one shift, and, for another, he had no desire to listen to Ross. But before he could get started, his telephone rang.
“Gabe, the morgue people tell me they got an I.D. on that decap victim.”
“That’s right, Gargan. It came in earlier this morning.”
“All right! What have you got for me?”
“I still don’t know that much about her. Her name’s Rebecca Jean Crowell.” He spelled the last name. “She’s unmarried, came from Kansas City, Kansas; she lived in Denver for a couple of years, and seems to have been a self-employed model.”
Gargan’s voice grew to the size of headlines: “Oh, yeah? A model? Any pictures?”
“They’re all being held for evidence.”
“Aw, shit on that noise, Wager!”
“They’re evidence, Gargan. They’re locked up.”
“Yeah. Old buddy. Is she a registered model? Does she have an agent?”
“I’m trying to find out.”
“I’ll see what I can do. And if I find anything, Wager, I’ll be real sure to let you know.”
In the circle of the buzzing receiver, Wager could see Gargan the Gumshoe, hat on the back of his head, cigarette smoke in one eye, nimbly outwitting the police in the relentless pursuit of truth and the public’s right to know. Propping open Crowell’s book, Wager dialed the listing office of the telephone company to find addresses for the numbers on the dated pages. A recording told him that it was very sorry but the office was closed after five and would be open at 8 A.M. every working day. He muttered “Caca” and called the police laboratory for their report on the Crowell apartment.
“The team got back just before quitting time, Detective Wager. They got some prints and hair samples and some stuff in the vacuum bags that we haven’t run through testing yet. That’s all.”
“They didn’t find her purse?”
“No. They did bring in some papers from the coffee-table drawer, but nobody’s gone through them yet. If you want a look, they’ll be here. As for everything else, we’re working on it now and we should be finished by the time we go off duty.”
“Is Baird still on the graveyard shift?”
“Right.”
“Then leave the report with him. I’ll see him later.”
“Right.”
Next, he looked up High Country Profiles in the white pages and checked it with the list in the back of Crowell’s appointment book. It was there, and Wager dialed it. He was surprised to hear a man answer after a single ring: “High Country.”
“This is Detective Gabriel Wager, Denver Police. Who am I talking to, please?”
Wager could have counted to ten before the voice came back, slower, slightly higher in pitch. “Who?”
“Detective Wager. Denver Police Department. Can I have your name, please?”
“Bennett. Phil Bennett. This is High Country Profiles, man. What number you calling?”
Wager told him. “Do you know a Rebecca Jean Crowell, Mr. Bennett?”
“Crowell? It doesn’t pull my chain. But let me eyeball the list. Give me your number and I’ll buzz you back.”
“I can wait.”
“Maybe you can, baby, but I can’t. I’m in the darkroom, processing. Give me your number, man, and I’ll call back.”
“Will you be there for the next half-hour? I’ll come over.”
“… All right. My place is around on the side of the building. Ring the night bell—the receptionist cut out for the day.”
After he hung up, Wager read back through the men’s names in the appointment book. A “Phil” appeared almost a dozen times, beginning in April and then with increasing frequency. But not on October 19th.
Through the hazy twilight of autumn, Wager saw a dim sign for High Country Profiles over a brick building that squatted by itself just off busy North Sheridan Avenue. The structure held two offices: the dark one in front repaired electronic instruments; the back—reached by an ill-lit walk leading down the building’s north wall—was the photography studio. The night bell had a small sign: “Ring After 5 P.M.” Wager pressed it.
A click and a buzz; a voice from somewhere over a wire said, “Come in and sit down—be right there.”
Wager ignored the fake-leather chair and looked around the small reception room lit by a single fluorescent ceiling light. The empty desk took up most of the space, but on the walls were large samples: a model’s face framed in a scarlet shawl and staring back open-mouthed; a back-lighted female figure, nude, whose slender legs thrust into the light like a hosiery advertisement; a woman’s giant profile, hair spread across a pillow. She had her mouth open, too. Between the pictures were a few awards for excellence in something or other that Wager had just started to read when he heard a curtain slide along a metal rod. A man bustled out of the hallway from the rear, rubbing a paper towel in his palms.
“You’re the cop?” Bennett was a few inches taller than Wager, just under six feet; he wore an open shirt beneath a black lab apron and seemed to be in his mid-thirties. A closely trimmed black beard showed no gray, and his straight glossy hair lay sculpted around his ears and neck and had that solid look produced by hair spray. The narrow beard and cap of hair made Wager think of the Sheriff of Nottingham. “You should have laid your number on me, man—you blew a trip. I don’t have any Crowells for customers.” He picked up a loose-leaf account book from the receptionist’s desk; a divider said “Ca-Cz.” “Look for yourself, man.”
Wager held out the photograph, face down. “Isn’t this your stamp?”
“Hey, far out!” Bennett turned it over. “But, man, that’s Tommie Lee!”
“Who?”
“Tommie Lee—a model. I do her photos and tapes.” He turned the pages of the ledger. “Here.” A sheet titled “Lee, Tommie” held a short series of entries followed by a credit and debit column. He looked up at Wager, pale eyes wide. “You’re here for a reason, man. Lay it on me.”
“Miss Crowell—Lee—has been killed.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Bennett stared at Wager, then down at the picture of the smiling girl. “That’s heavy. How’d it happen?”
“She was stabbed.”
Bennett gazed at the face. “Poor Tommie. Who did it, man?”
“I’m trying to find out. I want to ask you a few questions about her.”
“Sure. Anything. When did all this go down?”
“A week ago yesterday.”
“That long ago? I didn’t read about … But you called her something else, didn’t you?” He groped for a package of cigarettes and offered one to Wager. “I never knew her real name.”
Wager didn’t smoke. “How well did you know her?”
“She was a customer. I knew her like I know most of the customers.”
“But only as Tommie Lee?”
A deep breath through the cigarette. “A lot of the girls use professional labels. Especially if their real name doesn’t grab you. And maybe there’s something psychological about it. Like, they can pose better if it’s not their everyday self. You know what I mean?”
“How long was she a customer?”
He jabbed out the cigarette and pointed to the top entry on her account. “April 16th was her first session.” A faint ding came from the back of the shop. “My negatives are cooked. Come on—we can rap while I work.”
Wager followed him into an alcove blocked off by a heavy curtain; Bennett pulled it to, and in the sudden blackness Wager heard a doorknob click. A hand guided his arm. “Just in here—the inner sanctum. Give your eyes a couple minutes, man.” The door shut and gradually Wager’s eyes felt rather than saw the red glow of the darkroom light. The photographer, oddly pale in the redness, carefully pulled wet strips of celluloid from a tray. The nervousness was gone, and through the dimness Bennett moved quickly and surely.
“Do you own this place, Mr. Bennett?”
“Me and my brother. But he’s just an investor. He doesn’t work here.”
“What all do you do?”
“Everything, man. Still and motion shots, art and layout, audio work, even the copy if some dude doesn’t have his own.” He finished hanging the last strip of 35-millimeter film and turned to Wager, his face blank in the red glow. “I offer a full range of advertising technology, but photography’s the main line. The audio end of the business is starting to move, though; I’m getting a lot of radio spot work.”
“Was Miss Crowell one of your models?”
“‘Miss Crowell!’ That really sounds weird. No—I don’t exactly have my own models. That bag is for agents. If I get an assignment where a body’s needed right then, I might call one of the girls. Or a voice—a lot of times customers need a special voice, so I’ll get somebody I’ve heard. Most of the time, the customers provide their own people through agencies.”
“And that’s how you met Miss Crowell?”
“No. She came in for some portfolio work. That’s a major line—I’m the best in town for portfolio work.”
“What’s that?”
“Jesus, where’ve you been, man? Every model needs a portfolio for her agent to show. You know, a lot of different poses, profile shots, face-ons, the whole bit. The agent’s got to show his customer that his model can demonstrate a product.”
“It sounds like a lot of work—a lot of time.”
“You better believe it! And a portfolio has to be updated every couple years. Even if a girl’s working a lot, her agent can use only a few finished shots for the portfolio. They need a variety of poses—not everybody wants the same thing.”
“Did Miss Crowell have many jobs?”
“She was starting to get a few.” The pink blur of face moved from side to side. “With good training, she could have made it all the way, man.”
“I thought she already had lessons.”
“Shit. Those sons of bitches didn’t teach her a thing about posing. I must of thrown away nine out of ten pictures at our first session. In fact, I remember I asked her if she was really serious about this modeling trip—I couldn’t figure anybody that bad would be that serious about it, you know?”
“What happened when you said that?”
“She didn’t like to hear it. Most of these broads think they’re Margaux Hemingway or somebody, and no modeling school wants to tell them different. But Tommie didn’t get pissed—she just said, ‘You tell me what you want and I’ll do it.’ And, by God, she did!”
“So she got better?”
“It took a hell of a lot of work. And a hell of a lot of money.”
“Why so much?”
“Figure it out: the cost of materials plus studio time. I run a business, man, not a charity.”
“Did she pay cash for it?”
“Sure. The most I give on margin is ninety days, but she always paid when due. That’s why I put in a little extra. That, and she was getting good. She was really starting to groove it. God, it’s too bad.”
“She had an appointment with you last Friday and didn’t show up. Did you try to call her?”
“If a broad misses, I don’t call them; they call me. Like, I’m too busy, you know? It’s their loss, not mine.” The cap of hair bobbed once.
“Did she miss any other times?”
Bennett thought back, drawing his hand down the band of whiskers. “Not one time, man. A lot of the girls get last-minute jobs—that’s the business—so they might miss a session. But Tommie wasn’t working that much, and she never missed one.”
Business. That led to another question. “Did you ever date her?”
“Date? I took her out a time or two for drinks. I do that with most of the girls.”
“You’re married?”
“Hell, no. Who needs to be married these days?”
“You mean with all the models around?”
“No, man. I keep things strictly professional. I don’t mess with the customers. Like, some photogs take what they can get—fringe benefits, say. But they don’t last long in this business. Either the customers pay in trade instead of cash, or the good models drop you. Top models don’t have to put up with that kind of stuff, man. I’ve seen it happen.”
“But you do go out with them.”
“That’s rap time—we talk to each other, get into each other’s vibes a little. That helps in front of the camera; if I know a little about them, I can help them unlax.”
“Was Miss Crowell relaxed?”
“Not right off. I mean, that was her big problem, and this rip-off place she went to didn’t do a thing for her. I’d ask for a pose, and it was like she was reading it line by line. It was a real effort for her, she was trying so hard, like. That’s why we’d go out for a drink and shoot the shit awhile; when we came back, she could really get it on.”
“Do you know if she ever visited the Botanic Gardens?”
The pink glow of Bennett’s face turned aside as he thought. “She never said so. I don’t remember that she said so.”
“Did she talk about boyfriends or people she knew?”
The cap of hair glinted as he shook his head. “There’s not much time for talking when you work. Sometimes we rapped about her agent.”
“What about her agent?”
“Well, that was another thing the modeling school screwed her on. They handed out this crap about placing her with a top agency and then steered her to Jeri Roberts, who just happens to be a partner in the school, and who just happens to be lining up a stable of her own.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s a new agency. Jeri doesn’t have any ins. This town’s not the fashion center of the world, man, and there’s only so much action to go around. The established places have the big accounts pretty well sewed up.”
“What’s the agency’s name?”
“New Faces. As a matter of fact, Tommie was talking about getting out of her contract. She was getting a lot of free-lance calls and Jeri didn’t do a damn thing except take 10 percent off the top.” Bennett tested a corner of the film strips with his finger and then washed his hands in the large sink centered on the bench. “I got to print now. These are due first thing tomorrow, and when I print, I concentrate—alone.” He turned on a radio adjusted to the wailing of a rhythm-and-blues station.
“Do you know the name of the modeling school Miss Crowell went to?”
“Who doesn’t? Famous Faces. They should call it Two Faces.”
It was too late to go by
the conservatory, and neither the modeling school nor the agency answered Wager’s telephone call. The first number just rang; the second had an answering device with a throaty voice that thanked him very much for calling and asked him to leave his message at the sound of the beep. Wager did not leave a message; instead, he lay on his bed in the dark and tried to stifle his restless thoughts until the snap of the clock radio told him it was 10:30. He swung his feet to the floor and rubbed at eyes puffy from the effort to sleep. Pouring a cup of coffee from the pot that stood on its warming plate in the small kitchen, he once more leafed through the little notebook, half aware of the night’s silence beginning to settle over the broad, shallow bowl that cradled Denver and its wide belt of suburbs. Rebecca Jean Crowell—Tommie Lee. Like connecting the dots in one of those children’s games, gradually an outline, a shape without depth; then, from one angle and another, the slow sketching of shadows and highlights. Tommie Lee—Rebecca Jean Crowell. Wager gazed at the glossy photograph of the smiling girl as if the rigid mouth could speak, as if it could give its own perspective. But of course it couldn’t. It was, as the bulldog said, a much different kind of police work from the narcotics section. But Wager felt it was also a hell of a lot different from the collection of facts that Doyle or Ross or Devereaux asked for, too. Somehow he had to move beyond those empty facts into the life of the victim and breathe for her, walk for her; somehow he had to speak for the dead person. He stared a long time at the picture, the details from the little book clustering in different patterns and shapes in his mind. But if he had been asked what he was thinking of, he could honestly answer, “Nothing.” Because it was not thought, exactly, that filled his head in the silence of the apartment.
Finally aware that his cup was cold, he sighed and added fresh coffee, then carried the cup with him as he dressed. The clock radio’s pale green numbers told him that if he hurried, he had time for one stop before reporting to work.
The Cafe Chanticleer looked like something out of a World War I movie: a French-style farmhouse complete with a tall, narrow barn adjoining and, tilted beside the entry, a two-wheeled cart spilling dried hay. The host smiled through the candlelight and lifted a menu from the stack on the reception stand. “Oui, m’sieur? Table for one?” Here and there in small alcoves, couples talked quietly or sat silent over final plates and glasses; a faint shout of male laughter came from a distant banquet room.
