There wasn't room for all three of us in the doorway. I walked around to the other side of the bed, where all I could see was an ear and the back of his head. He'd had dark hair, already thinning.
"My guy didn't do this," Crane said. "Hasn't the guts."
"I'd say my client is off the hook for the same reason," Lowry said, apparently happy to go along.
They had each taken a position at maximum distance from each other and the bed. In the tiny space available, they could still have held hands.
"Bullshit. Everybody's a suspect until we start establishing alibis."
"Then you agree?" Lowry asked. "No police?"
"I don't agree. But I'll go this far—we take the photos we came for, and we ask whoever shows from the police if we can report to our clients tonight and go in for a formal statement in the morning. I think we can get away with that much, and it gives us each a little time to check out our own clients. Maybe we can protect a couple of innocent people that way."
"Way to go," Lowry said.
"Where'd you find the photos?" I asked.
"What?" Crane turned sharply, and for a minute I thought he was going to grab Lowry's neck. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his forehead.
"In the dresser," Lowry said. "Second drawer."
A dresser with a Scotch tape dispenser, a stapler, some pens, and a few scattered window envelopes on top—the kind that hold bills—was at the foot of the bed. The angled mirror reflected Dahl from the torn chest down. I had to turn away.
Lowry had either been lucky with his first try or he had tossed the place carefully. Not that there were many places to look. For all the personal effects showing, Dahl could have been packed and out of there in ten minutes. Aside from the shirt, jeans, and jockey shorts lying on a chair, and a coffee mug on the small table, everything but the bed itself was as void of character as a motel room. A second coffee mug was in the drainer next to the sink.
"Did you leave prints?" I asked.
"Not a chance." As I started for the dresser, Lowry added, "I didn't leave any photos, either."
Crane hitched his shoulders. "Let's have 'em."
"Easy, now," Lowry said. He placed the briefcase on the carpet, held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, then knelt down and flipped the catch to reveal a stack of tan envelopes. "Four—count 'em—four. One marked Lowry, one marked O'Neal, one marked Crane, and one marked Dennis."
"Why do you have them? Who the hell is Dennis?" Crane asked.
"Why the hell didn't you tell me you had mine?"
"I have them because I wanted to get them out of the apartment. I wouldn't have let you get away without your envelopes. I was just playing it out." Lowry's geniality seemed to be wearing thin as he handed a fat nine-by-twelve to me and another to Crane. "As for Dennis—if he doesn't show up, I say let's open his."
"I'm Dennis. Open what?"
A slender young man with streaked blond hair curling around his chin stood in the doorway. When Crane turned to look at him, he cleared a line of sight to the body on the bed.
"Oh, my God." The young man blanched so quickly that I thought we might have a second corpse on our hands. He caught himself against the wall. "What happened?"
"Somebody decided murder was cheaper than blackmail," I said. "Did you know the deceased or were you hired?"
"Know Jimmy? Of course I knew Jimmy. Who are you? Where are the police?" He glanced from face to face, shock turning to terror.
"I'm calling them right now," I said.
Before anyone could protest, I picked up the phone on the dresser—using fingertips and hoping I wouldn't smudge anything—and punched out the direct dial to Detectives.
I was lucky enough to catch Matthews. He didn't think it was so lucky. But he said he'd be right over.
"What happened?" Dennis asked again. While I was on the phone, he had moved over to the bed. He had taken the envelope Lowry held out, automatically, without looking. It dangled at his side.
"We've each been hired to make an exchange—money for photographs. This is what we found," I said. "And you?"
"I thought I could talk him out of doing this. Oh, Jimmy." Dennis began to slump, and I grabbed his arm to keep him from the bloody sheets.
Crane and Lowry both backed toward the door. They stopped when they reached it at the same time.
"Waiting outside is a good idea," I said. "We'll all wait outside."
Crane let Lowry go first.
"I'd rather wait here," Dennis said.
His eyes were filling, and I wished I could let him mourn in peace.
"Sorry. We're messing up a crime scene."
"A crime scene. But that man had the envelopes. Doesn't a crime scene mean we have to give the envelopes to the police?"
"It means we're working in a gray area here." My nose should have grown longer on that one. I turned him toward the door. "If the photos are evidence—if they provide a motive for murder—we'll have to turn them over. Do you have a way to carry your envelope?"
"I don't understand."
"Well, if you wave it in Detective Matthews' face, he'll have to ask you what's in it." I pulled the corner of the envelope containing what I hoped were photos and negatives of Lane Josten out of the leather folder.
Dennis seemed puzzled for a moment. Then he handed his envelope to me.
"How do I get it back?"
"We'll leave separately, and I'll meet you."
"Tom Thumb's," he said, "I need a drink."
Not the place I would have chosen, but I didn't want to argue.
I hadn't realized how cool the apartment was until we were back on the sidewalk. The sun was heavy on my cotton shirt, and I envied Lowry his hat.
The four of us waited quietly for Matthews. No envelopes in sight.
A black-and-white arrived first. Two unmarked cars rolled up right behind.
If Matthews had been unhappy when I called, that was nothing to his reaction when he was faced with three private investigators who didn't want to divulge their clients' names plus one private citizen who admitted to being a friend of the deceased but was otherwise unwilling to volunteer anything. He finally agreed to let Crane, Lowry, and me come in for formal statements the next morning, making dire threats about what would happen to our licenses if we failed to show. He was still talking to Dennis, who gave his last name as Stiers and his occupation as accountant, when we left.
I swung by my office to drop off Lane's envelope. I didn't want to carry it with me to the bar. I thought about calling him, but it was after five-thirty, and telling him Dahl had been murdered ten minutes before he went on camera didn't seem the thing to do. If I caught him at seven, he'd have four hours to compose himself before the late news. The risk was that the police beat reporter would tell him first. I decided to chance it.
I got back in the Jeep, took a couple of quick corners, and headed south on Virginia Street.
Tom Thumb's was a squat, brown rectangle in the middle of a parking lot. The neon sign above the door was small and pale. This wasn't a place anyone would drop into, not without knowing what it was.
I had thought Dennis Stiers might beat me there, but none of the startled male faces that caught my entrance belonged to that particular young man. I had my own moment of surprise, though. Barry Crane was seated at the bar. He wiped his forehead when he saw me heading toward him.
"This isn't what you're thinking, O'Neal," he said, as I settled onto the next stool.
"Okay. I'm not thinking. But I'm listening."
"Buy you a drink?"
"Beer's fine. Whatever's on tap."
The bartender had been busy with a blender concoction for a couple at the far end of the counter. Crane caught his eye, held up his own glass, and two fingers.
Crane didn't say anything until the glasses were in front of us.
"Freddie O'Neal, I want you to meet Barry Crane, Jr. My son."
"Pleased to meet you," the bartender said. "Although I'm
sorry about the circumstances."
"Same here."
"I haven't told the other customers about Jimmy. I'd rather they found out from someone else. I wasn't fond of him, but other people thought he was attractive. That's how all this happened."
I hadn't noticed the resemblance until the bartender started talking. Barry Junior was younger and thinner and had more hair, but the timbre in his voice was similar. When his father frowned at him, he excused himself to wash glasses out of earshot.
"I'm still listening," I said.
"Dahl was threatening to out a local attorney. Barry asked me to intercede. I don't even know the attorney's name—that's why I'm here."
"It may be time to open the envelope," I said.
Crane thought for a moment, then pulled the envelope out of his jacket. He must have had a pocket in the lining. I caught a glimpse of his shoulder holster as he shifted. I had been right—he was carrying.
"I'll let him do it." Crane gave the envelope a shove down the counter. It stopped near his son.
Barry Junior dried his hands and picked it up. He moved back to us.
"My friend wouldn't have killed Jimmy," he said. "He was just going to pay. He didn't even want to hire help."
"We want you to make sure those are your friend's pictures," I prompted.
The envelope had been sealed with Scotch tape. Barry Junior picked up a knife and slit the top. He fumbled with the contents.
"The pictures are here. The negatives aren't."
"Warned you," Crane said.
"Hell." I wanted to say something more profound. But I had warned Lane, too.
"I guess you didn't get there in time."
I thought Barry Junior was saying that to me, and I was about to bristle and tell him I was early, when I realized that Dennis was standing next to me. I hadn't heard him come in.
"No, I didn't."
"What time were you supposed to be there?" I asked.
"No special time," Dennis answered. "Jimmy said he was setting up appointments at four, four-thirty, and five. I didn't know they were with private investigators. I thought he was dealing directly with friends."
"Former friends," I said.
Dennis nodded. He took a sip of the beer that Barry Junior placed in front of him.
"There was an envelope for you—but you didn't have an appointment?"
"No. I had told him I wouldn't pay. I was ready to leave the closet anyway. There was nothing he could do to me. Jimmy said in that case, he'd let me have the pictures. He planned to leave town once he got the money, so he didn't have any use for them."
"He had use for something," Crane grumbled. "Why else would he keep the negatives?"
"Keep the negatives? He wasn't going to keep the negatives."
I handed Dennis his envelope. He ripped it apart and spread the photographs on the bar. I caught a glimpse of two naked male bodies in awkward positions and looked away. Crane almost fell off the stool turning his back.
"You're right," Dennis said. "The negatives are missing."
"What time was your appointment?" I asked Crane.
"Four-thirty. I came early to check things out. Lowry must have done the same."
"Shit. The last shall be first," I said. "Clean and dry, too."
"What?"
"Have you got a phone directory?" I asked Barry Junior.
"The public phone is by the John," he said, pointing to the back of the barroom.
One glance told me the directory was too old to give me what I wanted. I left without saying good-bye.
I made it back to my office in record time.
Lowry's ad in the Yellow Pages listed a post office box. The reverse directory gave me an address in Sparks.
I wanted to leave again immediately, but I restrained myself long enough to call Matthews.
"Did someone take a shower?" I asked.
"What? A shower? Yeah. The bathroom was wet. We've even got what is maybe the perp's hair from a towel. Why?"
"I'll call you later." I would have asked him to meet me, but I wanted to be sure I was right first.
I made it to the Sparks address in record time, too.
Lowry was tossing a duffel bag into the trunk of an old Pontiac when I blocked the driveway with my Jeep.
"That's not a good place to park, little lady." He smiled, sort of. I didn't exactly feel welcome.
"I'll move it when the police arrive," I said, wishing I'd given Matthews more information.
"And when's that going to be? Seems to me you'd have to offer something to get them over here, and I just don't think you're holding any cards."
"Maybe. But I know you're holding the negatives—and that's extortion."
"Who'd I threaten? And that's only assuming you're right. You could get me for taking them from the crime scene, but we'll all get our wrists slapped for that one. So get out of my way, O'Neal." He shifted restlessly.
"Let me tell you what I think." What I really thought was that I should have brought Crane with me. "I think nobody hired you—Dahl had pictures of you. That was why you resigned from the force and left Las Vegas—somebody was threatening to out you. You made a five o'clock appointment to meet Dahl, but you got there early, had a cup of coffee, offered to make up, do it once more for old times' sake. He gave you your envelope, so you knew where they were. You didn't have to toss the place. Thus, no worry about fingerprints. Once you had the pictures, you both got naked, and you killed him."
Lowry wasn't even trying to smile anymore.
I took a deep breath and continued. "You took a shower and cleaned up, then removed the negatives from the other envelopes and resealed them with tape. Maybe you were going to leave them, creating as many suspects as possible. For some reason you changed your mind and put them in your briefcase. Maybe you didn't want to risk a possible fingerprint on the tape. You were on your way out, planning to return at five in all innocence, when you ran into me."
The sun was fading into twilight, but even in shadow I could see his face mottling with dark streaks of anger.
"Wrong from the start, little lady." His voice was low and controlled. "I didn't know the fag. And I sure as hell didn't get into trouble over my sexual orientation. I was hired by a local politico who knew I'd been pushed off the force in Las Vegas for getting a little too excited during a couple of arrests. He'd heard I needed money, and he thought paying once for a hit would be cheaper than paying forever for the negatives."
"Not a good choice."
"Well, it might have been, but I decided a better choice for me was taking the hit money and then going for the retirement pay. I figured with four professionals involved—I thought I had Dennis Whosit, too—I'd get money more regular than Social Security." He was relaxing a little, and the smile was back.
"So how'd you get naked?"
Lowry offered a low chuckle.
"Hell, I pretended he was a girl till his pants were off. Told him how cute he was, all that. I could have just shot him—would have been neater—but I liked the idea of making it look like a crime of passion." He shifted his weight restlessly again. "It's been fun talking with you, O'Neal. You are a smart woman, and I surely wish I hadn't cut the time so close. It's going to be a lot harder collecting my Social Security on the run. Now you got a choice. You move the Jeep and let me leave, or I break your neck."
I know a little about self-defense, and I might have been able to take him if he rushed me. I didn't want to try. As he moved forward, I made a dive for the lawn, rolled over, and came up with my gun in my hand.
"Where the hell did that pea shooter come from?"
"My boot. It's small and not too accurate, but you'll have to get your hands on me to break my neck. That's close enough that I could put a hole in yours. You can take the chance, or you can climb into the trunk of your car and pull it shut. I figure the police will get here before you suffocate."
He struggled with the idea, but he finally turned toward the car, chuckling. He put one b
oot, then the other, into the trunk.
"You're going to have a hell of a time proving anything," he said. "I'll deny everything but taking the envelopes. Hearsay evidence never hanged anybody. The rest is circumstantial. Nothing ties me to the murder. No weapon, no prints, no nothing."
He had to take his hat off to get all the way inside. I waited until he had closed the lid. Then I sat on it to make sure the latch had caught before I yelled to him.
"You forgot something at the scene, Lowry! Use your head!"
He had left the front door open, so I made two calls from his phone, one to the television station and one to the police. I caught Lane just as he was coming off the set, told him not to worry, and arranged to meet him after he was through for the night.
Matthews was still unhappy with me, but he cheered up when I went with him to the station.
I told him most of the truth.
Lane was waiting for me in a quiet corner of the Comstock Room on the top floor of the Mother Lode casino by the time I arrived, a little after midnight. He looked tired, but relieved. He even managed a gleaming smile when I slid into the booth next to him and passed him the envelope.
"I didn't look at the pictures. And I didn't sort out the negatives. I trust you'll do that and return the ones not yours to the people who need them."
"Won't you get into trouble over this?" he asked.
"I hope not. Lowry's briefcase was sitting on the front seat of the car, unlocked, and he hadn't bothered to seal the envelope he was keeping. So the police will find an envelope with pictures of Jimmy Dahl in a compromising position with the man who hired the hit. If Lowry volunteers that he took the negatives, he may have to volunteer a whole lot more. And trying to make a plea bargain by offering to testify that I rifled his briefcase wouldn't get him very far. I suspect that Matthews isn't going to try too hard to make life difficult for anyone but Lowry."
Lane picked up my hand and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes and held my hand against his cheek.
Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Page 7
