by Mike Markel
“All right,” Ryan said. “We need to get over to Susan Warnock’s and interview her. I’ll see if she’s in the system and get her address and all.” He paused. “You sure you’re all right, Karen?”
“Yeah, absolutely.” I tried to clear my throat without him hearing me. “I should’ve called you when I realized I was gonna be late. I’m sorry.”
He was silent a moment. “See you soon.” He hung up.
I ran into the bathroom and took a shower so quick the water never got hot. Ryan knows I live about eight minutes from work. If it took me twenty minutes to get to headquarters, he’d know I was lying about a dead battery. Dead battery, for God’s sake. You’d think a person who lies as much as I do would be better at it.
The ride in took eight minutes. I’d concluded that Ryan had figured out I was lying—and why—so there was no sense in sticking to my story. I carded myself into the building and ran down the hall toward the detectives’ bullpen. The clock on the wall said 8:29.
Ryan’s expression was concerned as he glanced at my wet hair. I knew my face was more of a mess than usual. My eyes were red-rimmed, the grey bags under my eyes greyer than usual, my skin pale and puffy.
“I went to see Mac last night.” I didn’t intend to say it as an excuse, but before it was out of my mouth I knew that’s how it would sound.
“How is he?”
“Skull fracture.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be at the meeting tonight. Eight sharp.”
“Good,” he said. Not like a boss. Not even like a father who’s telling you how disappointed he is. Like a friend who wants you to stay well. “Ready to head out?”
“My coat’s already on.” I tried to smile.
“All right, let’s go.”
He pulled his topcoat off the back of his chair and slipped into it. He grabbed his briefcase and started to walk when I came over to his side of the desks and touched his arm. “Ryan,” I said. “I’m very glad I know you.”
He looked embarrassed and turned away. “You want to drive?”
“You probably can get us there faster,” I said.
We went out to the Charger and headed toward the Walnut Street Apartments, where Susan Warnock lived in apartment 214.
“We got a sheet on her?” I said.
“Couple of traffic citations. That’s all.”
It was a two-story stucco complex with maybe fifty units. Ryan parked us in one of the three visitor spots, next to the numbered parking spaces. The cars looked miserable, their glass covered in spider webs of frost, their hoods and trunks spotted with snow that had blown in under the steel roof.
“Just a second,” Ryan said as we were heading toward the entrance to the complex. He walked back toward the cars, pulled his notebook from his inside suit jacket pocket, and opened it.
“What is it?”
He pointed to a silver sedan parked in spot 214. The nameplate on the trunk said Audi7. “I’ve had my eye on this car.” He walked around it slowly, his eyes fixed on it, like a teenager looking at a Mustang at a used-car dealer’s.
“So why don’t you get one?”
“Because I don’t have seventy-five thousand dollars?”
“For just one of them?” It looked nice, long and graceful. I glanced down the row of other cars. Lots of small pickups, Honda Accords like mine, Saturns, small Hyundais and Fords. “I think we might want to talk to Susan about her car.”
We took the stairs up to the second floor. It was a decent enough complex, with bulbs in all the wall sconces, reasonably clean carpeting, and no garbage sitting outside the apartment doors. Definitely a step up from the student slums I used to visit on weekends when I was a uniform. I put my shield around my neck and knocked with a little force. Nothing.
Ryan said. “The car’s here. Let’s give it a second.”
“I think one of the other strippers said she has a kid.” I looked at my watch: 8:42. “She could be getting the kid to school.”
We walked to the end of the hall, where a window with snow rounding the corners looked out at another apartment complex, some duplexes, and, in the distance, the Rawlings River and the Greenpath, hidden behind a ribbon of black, leafless trees.
Neither of us said anything. If I hadn’t fucked up and gotten drunk last night, I’d have liked to talk with Ryan about Mac and his daughter. Ryan was really good to me when I crashed and burned, right after we became partners a couple years ago. I’d been quite shitty to everyone, including him, but he seemed to understand that I couldn’t help it. He gave me the space I needed and never judged me.
Finally, we heard the elevator door open. It was Susan Warnock, bundled up in a down coat and a wool hat. She fished her keys out of her purse then stopped when she saw me and Ryan walking toward her. We met about twenty feet from her apartment door.
“You’re here to talk to me?” she said.
“Yes, please.”
I saw a hint of a frown as she nodded. “This way.”
We followed her to 214. She opened it up and led us in, then hung her hat and coat in the little closet in the entryway. “I was bringing my son to his bus.” She smoothed her hair back. “Can I take your coats?”
“No, Ms. Warnock, thank you. We need to talk with you a few minutes about Lee Rossman.”
She gestured for us to sit on the couch. It was a medium blue, leather, with tan leather pillows in the corners. She sat in a tan high-backed chair.
“We talked Monday afternoon, a little after one,” I said. “At Johnny’s Lounge.”
“I remember.”
“I asked you if you went out with Lee Rossman. You said no.”
She shook her head. “That’s not exactly what happened … I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.”
“I’m Detective Seagate. This is Detective Miner. What exactly did happen?”
“You asked me if I went out with Lee Rossman. I said that’s not why I work at Johnny’s. You asked me why I work there. I said it’s for the money.”
“You go to law school?”
She held her gaze.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” I said.
“This is why.” She gestured to me and then Ryan.
“You do understand, don’t you? I ask you if you go out with Lee Rossman, you lead me to believe you don’t, then I find out he calls you from his burner couple times a week, talks to you for ten, twenty minutes at a time … you do understand that gets me interested in you, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Detective. I was hoping you’d find out who did kill him and my name would never come up.” Like it was my fault for not having caught the real killer—after all, it’s been forty-eight hours. “Do you understand that?”
“Tell me about your relationship with Lee Rossman.”
“Lee used to come to Johnny’s Lounge.”
“How often?”
“I’d say every few weeks. He’d be there with other guys. Some were dressed nice, like he was. Others were roughnecks. He tried to pass me a note, but you know the drill: We’re not allowed to date any of the customers.”
“But the note eventually made its way to you?”
“Yes, it did. I assume he paid someone. I don’t know who.”
“So you started going out with him?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘going out.’ We never went out in public. He made that clear at the start.”
“Because he was married?”
“Yeah, because he was married. So we wouldn’t be seen together in public.”
“And that didn’t bother you?”
“I’ve never been married,” she said, “so I have no firsthand knowledge of how wonderful it is.” I saw her looking to see if Ryan or I were wearing wedding bands. “The only guy I ever went out with the last fifteen years who wasn’t married is Tyler’s father, and for some reason he didn’t seem to want to get married. I’l
l accept reasonably honest.”
“What did you get out of the relationship?”
“Besides the uncomplicated sex?”
“Yeah, besides that.”
“Money.”
“Tell me more.”
“He helped me with some expenses. Tyler needs some tutoring. Tyler, my son.”
“And the Audi under the carport?”
“Actually, I do pretty well at Johnny’s Lounge. I could have afforded that myself, but yes, that was a gift from Lee.”
“And what did Mr. Rossman get out of the relationship, I mean, besides the uncomplicated sex?”
“I think he liked me.” She raised her jaw a little bit.
“Well, yes, I can see you’re quite likeable, but could you be a little more specific?”
“We’d talk.”
“What about?”
“Things.”
I paused. “Ms. Warnock.”
“Art, for instance.” She gestured to the prints and posters all over the walls.
“What kind of art is that?” It was all bright colors and swirly shapes. One of the prints looked like it might have been a nude woman. If you kind of titled your head, squinted, and used your imagination.
“Most of it is abstract expressionism.”
“You studied art.”
“Yes, I did. I have most of an MFA.”
“Most of?”
“Did I mention my son, Tyler?”
“And you and Mr. Rossman would talk about art like these pictures?”
“That’s what I said. He knew nothing about art, and he was completely comfortable with that. Very unself-conscious. I’ve found that successful people don’t try to hide their limitations. But he would ask me questions. He had a good eye. In another world, I mean, if he’d gone to college, he could have become a very good student of art. He was very respectful, and very grateful. I think that was the aspect of our relationship that gave me the most satisfaction. A sixty-five year old oilman, sitting on this couch,” she said, pointing to me and Ryan, “talking to me about art.”
“You’ve been stripping how long?”
“Like I told you, two years. I was a grocery checker, until the oil started up. Then Johnny’s Lounge took off. I went over there, got a job right away.”
“When was the last time you saw Lee?”
She thought about it. “I think it was last Thursday.”
“Where was that?”
“At a hotel, the Cumberland, downtown. He used the name Dallas. James Dallas, if you want to track it down. He always paid in cash.”
“Did you two have some kind of fight?”
“Not at all. We never fought.”
“You never fought?”
“That’s what I said.” She took a breath. “In my experience, people only fight—couples, I mean—if they want different things. Lee and I didn’t want different things. He appreciated my companionship and my willingness to sleep with him without asking for any commitments. I felt the same way—and was very satisfied with the relationship exactly as it was.”
“You mean, the free Audi and the money for tutoring your son?”
She looked at me, then smiled slightly. “Is this where I’m supposed to become offended that you’re implying I’m a prostitute? Then I lose my temper and break down in tears and tell you I killed Lee because he wouldn’t divorce his wife and marry me and make a beautiful home for me and Tyler to live in, happily ever after?” She leaned forward a little. “Let me explain something about my life. I’ve made it on my own since I left home at fifteen. I’ve raised Tyler on my own. When I go to work, five nights a week, drunken assholes call me whore and bitch. That’s just to break the ice. Little later in the evening, they tell me how they’re going to fuck me in my cunt and up my ass and in my mouth—and how I’m going to love every moment of it. You understand what I’m saying? That’s what I do for a living. So if you want to sit here and suggest I’m a whore because I had sex with Lee and he gave me money, you go right ahead and suggest it. Because I don’t give a damn what you think about me and the way I live my life. If you have any evidence that I killed him, you get in touch, okay?” She stood up and turned to walk away.
“Please sit down, Ms. Warnock. Just a few more questions.” She sat, her expression blank. But I could see her ribcage rising and falling beneath her cotton sweater. She had a very nice figure. I’d put the waist at twenty-six. “Where were you Sunday night? Were you working?”
“No, I was here.”
“Can anyone alibi you?”
“My son and I were doing a bunch of things. I do my grocery shopping with him, usually after dinner Sundays. Then, I clean the apartment for an hour or two. He’s in his room, in bed, by nine. When did you say Lee was killed?”
“So, nobody to vouch for you after nine?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Can you tell us about anyone who might have wanted to hurt Lee?”
“Since we didn’t spend any time with any of his associates, I really can’t.”
“No other gentleman callers except Lee Rossman?”
She sighed. “None that I’d call gentlemen.”
“But you do understand my question.”
“I sometimes see other men, but not Sunday.”
“Did Lee mention any problems he was having with other people at work? Anybody who didn’t like what he did for a living?”
“No, nothing like that. He never talked about people who didn’t like what he did for a living.”
“What do you think about what he did?”
“Not a fan,” she said. “But I think there’s someone who might have disliked him for a more personal reason.”
“Oh, who was that?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing, except that he’s screwing Lee’s wife.”
“Did Lee know who it was?”
“I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t push it.”
“How did Mr. Rossman feel about his wife’s affair?”
“Lee was fairly traditional in that way.”
“As in, he could have a lover but his wife couldn’t?”
“That’s what I mean by traditional.”
“Did he say what he was gonna do about it?”
“Not in so many words. But from his body language, I assumed there would be a confrontation. A physical confrontation. I mean, if he found out.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Ms. Warnock?”
“I’m very sorry he’s gone. I liked Lee very much. Our times together were always positive. He was a good friend. I knew that our relationship could never have become anything more than it was, and I didn’t want it to be. And I knew that eventually he would have moved on. But still, it was a wonderful experience.”
“Ms. Warnock, did you kill Lee Rossman?” I said. “And please answer the question directly.”
“No, Detective. I did not kill Lee, and I do not know who did.”
Ryan and I stood and I handed her my card. “Let me know if you think of anything that can help us figure out who did.”
Chapter 18
“You want to look at her Audi again before we leave?”
“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.” Ryan smiled. “You want to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I’d rather you do the computer stuff.” We got in the Charger and I started it up, cupping my hands over the air vents.
“Of course,” Ryan said, “maybe Susan Warnock was just making that up.”
“About Florence screwing someone?”
“Maybe she was just saying that so she doesn’t look so skanky.”
“No, I don’t think she’s interested in appearances,” I said. “What she said about all the shit she gets as a stripper—I believed what she was saying.”
“Maybe Lee told her he thought his wife was fooling around so he doesn’t look all that skanky.”
“You mean, her f
ooling around justified him fooling around? Nope, sorry. He didn’t need an excuse for it. Like Susan said, he was a traditionalist: As long as he provided for his wife and screwed around discreetly, he wouldn’t see anything wrong with his behavior.”
Ryan turned to me. “Okay, you don’t like any of my theories, what do you think is going on?”
“Just what Susan said: Lee was nailing her because he’s a rich guy—”
“A rich guy who likes to discuss abstract expressionism.”
“Yeah, that’s it. He’d look at the fingerpainting on her walls and get all hard. And Florence Rossman was fucking someone because—shit, I don’t know, there could be a dozen reasons. Because she’d seen her husband nude, or he wasn’t willing to use up all his blue pills on her, or she knew about Susan and it’s payback, or they fought all the time, or she was a skank. You don’t want to start naming reasons husbands and wives cheat. You’ll be there a while.”
“So what’s our next move: go to Cheryl Garrity? She’d know whether there’s a guy from the company involved with Florence.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I think she would. But I want to hold off on her. I want to be able to tell her she was holding out on us about both affairs—if it comes to that.”
“Why’s that?” Ryan said.
“Because she’s our best link to the company. I want her to know we can find this shit out on our own. That way, we can put more pressure on her. Remember, she could be a former lover, too, who didn’t like Lee taking up with Florence or the stripper.”
“So you want to come at Florence? Two days after her husband is killed?”
“I don’t give a damn about that. Our job is to find out who killed Lee Rossman. Odds are, it’s family. Here’s this rich woman with ten more years before her tits collapse. She kills her husband, she has twice as much money as the day before. Compared to Florence, what’s Susan Warnock got to gain by killing him? She’s already got the Audi. She’s not gonna get another one now.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, “how do you want to come at Florence? Do we know about his affair with the stripper?”
“Let’s go to her house.” I navigated us out toward the river and toward the big house overlooking the reservoir. “Yeah, I think we do. If we tell her we already know about the stripper, she might be less embarrassed about telling us about her boyfriend.”
