by Rex Burns
A ten-year-old girl with pale hair cropped like Mommy’s sat perched on a plastic sofa guarding a scarred make-up kit. “This is my daughter.” The girl stood and held out her hand like a small adult. Wager shook it, “Pleased to meet you, miss.”
“Shall I wait over there, Mother?”
“We’ll only be a few minutes, dear.”
“Does your daughter come to all the shows?”
“Usually. For one thing, it saves baby-sitting money.”
“And for another?”
Julie’s smile was only half humorous. “She protects me from the customers.”
“Do you need protection?”
He didn’t mean that the way it sounded, and she had enough self-assurance not to be insulted. “Some of the men aren’t interested in clothes.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Often enough. You wanted to talk about Tommie. What did you want to ask?”
“Let’s start with how well you knew her.”
“Not very. We worked the same shows for several months. I didn’t even know her real name.”
“Did she ever meet any friends at these shows? Or leave with anyone she met?”
“Not that I know of. Jeri doesn’t like that.”
It was the same line of questions, the same reaching for more of Crowell’s life, for the last names to the entries in her appointment book, for some link to the conservatory. The result was the same, too: Tommie Lee worked harder than most, had few if any friends, had only one thing on her mind—to be a top model. “I never saw her anywhere except at work; I try to spend as much time as I can with my daughter.” Julie’s glance went once more to the little girl, who sat drumming her heels against the plastic couch and watching Wager with eyes almost as distant and level as her mother’s.
He didn’t have to be told twice. “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”
He returned to the dark lounge to make out Cindy seated close between Jeri Roberts and her friend. The two older women took turns speaking, and Cindy, clutching a pink glass filled with fruit slices and bushy leaves, nodded seriously.
“This is Detective Wager, Cindy, dear. He wants to ask you some questions about poor Tommie.”
“Oh, that was so awful!”
“Can we go someplace else to talk? It’s too noisy in here.” And there were questions he wanted to ask without Roberts hearing.
“Well, Jeri’s going to give me a ride home. I hate to keep her waiting.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” said Wager.
“Well, I don’t know… . What do you think, Jeri?”
Jeri Roberts looked hard at Wager and it crossed his mind that the woman might be a lesbian. A jealous one. “I’m sure Detective Wager will get you home safely. Here’s your check, dear.” She carved her name on the piece of paper.
“You’re sure you don’t mind?” Cindy asked.
“Of course not, dear.”
“This is business.” Wager smiled. “Strictly.”
Or almost. He opened the door to the unmarked sedan. “I could use a cup of coffee. You want a drink or something?”
“I should get right home!”
Wager shrugged. “There are better places to talk than a police car.”
She stood still. “This doesn’t look much like a police car.”
“There’s the radio, miss.” He leaned over and turned it on. “Handcuffs in the glove compartment, night stick on the door. I don’t carry a shotgun.” He keyed the microphone to show her he was real. “X-eighty-five. Give me a ten-thirty-six.”
The correct time came back: “Twenty-thirty-two.”
The girl finally managed a smile. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”
Wager tried to remember some of the questions he’d been asked when, as a patrolman, he gave civilians a ride as part of the Citizen Awareness Program.
“This here’s the channel selector.” He flipped the switch. “It covers the four sectors of the City and County of Denver.” He saw that the girl didn’t give one small damn about frequencies, transmission ranges, codes, or security channels. But his talk put her at ease, and getting information was as much a matter of trade as of simply asking questions.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” he asked.
“Well, maybe not coffee. But something.”
He pulled in to the parking lot of one of the half-dozen high-rise motels that faced across Quebec Street to the distant red dots that rode the towers and ramps of the air terminal. This lounge had more lights than the Jetliner but was furnished in the same smooth blankness designed for ease of cleaning. Except that here someone had cleaned.
Wager had coffee; Cindy ordered a margarita and tried to look old enough to know how to hold the glass. She had just turned nineteen, had been with Jeri for almost six months, just loved modeling more than anything else in the world, and loved working for Jeri because she learned so much.
“Were you a good friend of Rebecca’s?”
“It sounds funny to hear Tommie called that. But she didn’t really have what I’d call friends. I mean she was nice, and all. A lot of times after shows, Jeri buys us girls a drink to unwind with; sometimes it’s just awful uptight, especially if there’s a lot of buyers in the audience. Anyway, Tommie was real nice and had a good time and all, but …” Cindy’s blue eyes rounded as she tried to come up with the right word.
“She didn’t go out of her way to make friends?” suggested Wager.
“That’s right! It was like she was just visiting and had her mind on where she was going instead of where she was.”
“Did she get along with Jeri?”
“Oh, yes! A lot of people think Jeri’s—well—hard. But she’s not. Not when you really know her. She’s real nice, and she’s done a lot for me, and she did a lot for Tommie, even if …” The blue eyes widened again.
“If what?”
“Well, they didn’t really have an argument; I mean, Jeri was angry, but it wasn’t like they were fighting.” She was unsure how much more to say.
Wager guessed. “This was when Tommie wanted to go to New York or San Francisco?”
“Oh, you already know about it!” A slight giggle. “I forget you’re a detective—you really don’t look like one. That’s why I was kind of afraid to get in the car with you. I always thought detectives were—well, kind of taller.”
“Tell me about Tommie and Jeri,” said Wager.
“There’s not much: a little while ago, Tommie asked for the names of some people to see in New York, and Jeri said she would be better off staying in Denver, but Tommie said she was going even if Jeri wouldn’t give her some contacts.”
“That made Jeri mad?”
“More, disgusted.”
“What about Tommie?”
“What about her?”
“Was she mad, too?”
“No. I don’t think Tommie ever got mad, not even when something went wrong at a show. She just got kind of thoughtful.”
“Do things go wrong a lot?”
“Oh, let me tell you! And always when a number’s ready to go out. Like tonight, my hair just wouldn’t stay up; I guess I washed it too close to the show. Jeri was awful about it. She gets mad awful easy.”
“Why don’t you cut your hair?”
“I don’t want to! Jeri says I should, but I don’t want to.”
It had only been a question, not a challenge. Wager got back to Crowell. “How long ago did she and Jeri have their argument?”
Cindy thought a moment. “Three weeks—at the time of The Denver’s Christmas preview.”
“Did you hear it?”
“No. Jeri told us about it after the show. She was upset because she didn’t think Tommie was ready for New York.”
“Do you want to go there?”
“You bet! That’s the only place if you’re a model, and Jeri says if I keep working as hard as I have been, maybe in a year or so I can go.” She took a tiny sip at the salt-crusted
rim of the glass. “She knows some real important people there who can get me started, but she doesn’t want to waste their time by sending somebody who’s not ready.”
“Would Tommie have done all right there?”
“Well …” A person shouldn’t talk unfriendly of the dead. “Jeri said she would have a hard time.”
“But she was going anyway.”
“I think around January. I remember she said her lease was up so she could go anytime.” Another tiny sip. “I remember now, she was going home after Christmas shows and then go to New York from there. I forget where she said home was.”
“She didn’t talk much about home?”
“No, I guess we really didn’t talk much about anything but modeling.”
Wager refilled his cup from the small silver coffeepot warming over a candle. By now, the facts were familiar, but he was getting something else, something that couldn’t be called fact but may have been more important. He groped for a way to move closer to the thing he was after. “Did you ever see Tommie date anybody from a show?”
“Jeri would be furious!”
“Even customers?”
“That’s different—that’s not really a date. It’s just business.”
“Did she ever go out with the same person a lot?”
“Oh, no. The sales staff only comes through town two or three times a year.”
“Did you ever go out with her and one of these customers?”
“A few times, but I don’t know that much about the business yet.” She giggled slightly. “And sometimes I get asked for my I.D.”
“You’ve never had any trouble with any of the men?”
“Only one.” Cindy stared at the table and her shoulders hunched into a slight shudder.
“What happened?”
It took another sip. “He kept talking about how models knew more about their own bodies than any other women, and how this made them more sensuous. He said they liked to pose, and that every model he knew had to get relief from all the ‘sensuous energy’ they stored up.” Another shudder. “Then he wanted me to go up to his room and see the pictures of the models he used in San Francisco.”
“Did Tommie ever go out with this man?”
“No. I told Jeri what happened and she said it was the first and last time she’d accept any business from him. She’s really sensitive about the agency’s reputation.”
“Do you like working at places like the Jetliner?”
Cindy studied the question. “I don’t think anybody really likes it; it’s dark and nobody can see the numbers. But Jeri’s always there to make sure nothing happens, and she says it’s good training. A model has to handle all sorts of situations, she says.”
“So the truck drivers don’t upset you?”
“They used to. I mean, some of the things they say show they think models are—well, not nice.”
“But you don’t mind now?”
“You get used to it. And Jeri says that most of them don’t mean anything by it. Every now and then somebody gets obnoxious, but most of the men are shy—they don’t really know what to say to a model.” That small giggle. “Like you.”
Wager had never called himself shy—he had nothing to be shy about; he just had good manners was all. He asked very politely, “Would you like another?”
“Oh, no. I shouldn’t have had this one—it’s all calories and salt. But I don’t have another show for a week.” She pushed at the damp foot of the glass. “I think Jeri was really angry about my hair. But I really don’t want to cut it.”
“Don’t a lot of models have long hair?”
“Oh, gosh, yes! Farrah Fawcett’s one. Of course she’s got a lot of other things, too.”
It sounded like an Arabic plumbing device, but Wager nodded and said, “There, you see?” Cindy was quickly happy again, and it seemed to him that this little girl would need a hell of a lot of luck in life. “Do you have a portfolio?”
“Yes. The school puts one together for us.”
“Who’s the photographer?”
“Les Tanaka was mine. He’s real good; I think he does all the photography for the school.”
“Have you ever heard of Phil Bennett or High Country Profiles?”
“I sure have! I heard I’d better stay away from him. Jeri doesn’t like that man at all!”
“Why?”
“He rips-off people. He tells them they need a lot of expensive training before he can put together a portfolio.”
“Did Tommie have any work done by him?”
“I wouldn’t think so. But not just for the money. Jeri says that he tries to … to seduce every girl who goes there. Tommie just didn’t seem to be the type who’d put up with that.”
“You’re sure Bennett acts that way?”
“Well, Jeri said so. And she knows just everybody in the business.”
Wager drove the girl home. On the way she told him that yes, her parents worried a little about her being a model; but no, once they knew a little more about the business and had met Jeri, they didn’t mind the cost of the school. Especially now that she was starting to make some money, and her daddy even bragged a little to the neighbors.
He walked her to the door of the split-level home set on the bend of a curving street in one of the many suburban developments whose name ended in “wood.” The porch light glowed and a man’s shadow rested against the curtains of the picture window.
“Daddy’s watching television.” She hesitated on the top step, not quite sure how a woman of the world said good night to a detective. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“And thank you for your help,” said Wager.
CHAPTER 13
WAGER’S FIRST CALL after he got off work the next morning, Friday, was to the Famous Faces Modeling School. The moist, hot voice said it would be very happy to help with the two things he asked about: yes, the school’s photographer was Les Tanaka. “His number is 794-5541! and our records don’t list Tommie Lee as working for us at any time on the nineteenth, Detective Wager!”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
He felt like swabbing his ear with a towel. The Tanaka number rang eight times before an entirely different voice answered, “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Les Tanaka?” He wondered why so many Japanese-Americans gave their children names that began with L’s or R’s.
“It is,” said the mild, deliberate voice.
“I’m Detective Wager investigating the death of Tommie Lee. Can I come over and talk with you?”
“Certainly. Do you know my address?”
Wager didn’t; the mild voice gave him a number on West Alamo in distant Littleton. It took almost an hour to make the drive south through heavy traffic and strings of lights that turned red as he approached each one, and he hoped it wasn’t going to be one of those days.
The building on the corner was a remodeled gas station. Concrete aprons led from both streets, and in place of gas pumps, the service islands held large clay flowerpots filled with frost-killed petunias. The outside doors to the automobile bays were walled up with concrete block and whitewashed over, but except for removing the cash register and racks for oil cans, little had been done to the small office with its large windows and single concrete step. The room was empty. “Mr. Tanaka?”
“In here, please.” The voice came through a door leading to the bays. Wager looked in to see the slight figure of a young man twisting the collar of a light stand. In the glare of some twenty bulbs and cushioned starkly against a sloping background of white cardboard sat a jar of green olives.
Wager showed his badge. “You’re doing an advertising picture?”
“Yes. The client’s Ollie the Olive. I think I’ll call it ‘Ollie’s Story.’“
Wager could not tell if the shorter man’s black eyes smiled or not. “Is this your usual type of job?”
“No—this one pays money.” He screwed the surprisingly small camera onto its tripod and
peered down into the square viewfinder. “Let me finish this series.” Giving the aperture a gentle turn, he pressed the cable trigger, then cranked the film forward and peered again. Wager counted six pictures. “O.K., I think Ollie’s happy now.” He turned off the hot lights that had flooded the windowless room. “It’s very difficult to make an olive say ‘cheese.’”
“Is it easier with live models?”
“Rarely. As a matter of fact, I think I prefer the olive.”
“But you do the photography work for the Famous Faces Modeling School?”
“That’s why I prefer the olive.” He led Wager back into the office and gestured at a chair. “What may I help you with?”
Wager wasn’t exactly sure. He had the same feeling last night when he was talking to Cindy: something was there, just out of sight, but he had no idea what it was or in what direction it lay. Still, a man couldn’t catch fish without casting lines; he showed the picture to Tanaka. “Have you seen this woman before?”
Like Kramer, this photographer glanced at the back of the paper before studying the smiling girl. “Sure. It’s Tommie Lee. I heard she had gone over to the enemy.”
“Bennett?”
“Yes. He can’t stand the Famous Faces School—and vice versa.”
“Do you get along with him?”
“Oh, business could be better, but it’s not worth fighting over. Besides, Phil’s not a bad photographer. This isn’t a bad shot. Well, not too bad.”
“Does much of your work come from Famous Faces?”
“More work than money.”
“Don’t they pay their bills?”
“Sure—who couldn’t pay what they offer? But for the work I do, it’s not enough.” He reached into a steel filing cabinet and pulled out two canisters of film. “Here’s one girl’s day—forty shots. That should take”—he shrugged—“two hours, maybe. With the sweet young things of Famous Faces, it’s an all-day labor.”
