by T. E. Woods
“That would be me.” Jimmy showed his badge and identified himself before pointing over his shoulder. “This is Mort Grant, Chief of Detectives. My partner here is Bruiser. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man crossed his arms and rested them on his belly. “You got a warrant? I don’t talk to nobody without no warrant.”
“You’re a little rusty on the rules.” Mort smiled his best. “We’re investigating, as I’m sure you’re aware, the murder of one of your employees. We’d need a warrant if we wanted to search the premises. We want to ask you a few questions.” Mort paused. “That is, unless we need to search the premises. The only choices you get to make are (A) do we do that here or down at the station and (B) do you feel the need for an attorney or should it just be us guys chatting like old friends?”
Two of the store’s clerks wandered over. Mort and Jimmy both made a show out of wishing them a good morning, but made no effort to step past the man blocking the entrance. A small middle-aged woman approached from the street and pushed her way behind them. “Can you let a lady by, please?” she asked. “I got business to take care of and my boss will go apeshit if I’m late.” She stopped in front of the man in the doorway and held up a plastic bag. “You got some nerve, Chris. These pumps didn’t make it past the second dance before the heel snapped off. Right there at my niece’s ten-thousand-dollar Saint Sava’s wedding. In front of God and everybody. I’m limping back to my table while my no-good sister’s already pointing and whispering to that bitch Jasmina Milkovich. You’re giving me a full refund and I don’t want any lip.” She shoved herself under his arm and marched in. “Sasha!” she yelled into the store. “Meet me at Customer Service and get ready to give me cash. No stinking store credit this time.”
Mort looked him in the eye. “What’ll it be, Chris? Station’s looking pretty good about now, huh?”
The man stepped clear to admit Mort and Jimmy. “But the dog stays outside. Health code violation or something.”
Bruiser trotted in behind Jimmy and made his way to the first sales clerk he saw, tail wagging in his well-rehearsed “Give me a treat” pose.
“Bruiser is a sworn officer of the Seattle PD,” Mort said. “He goes where we go.”
The man led them down a wide central aisle separating tall racks heavy with inventory. The air smelled of glue and disinfectant. Every third row or so was labeled with a large number indicating the shoe size to be found there. Overhead bulbs were in widely spaced utility cages. Mort assumed that was an important part of the store’s marketing plan. It might look to the customers that the store spent so little on retail frills they could pass along the savings. But in actuality, dim was the most advantageous lighting in which to showcase the shoddy merchandise.
They passed through a heavy curtain at the back of the sales floor and entered the storeroom. A framed-in staircase rose to the left. As they climbed Mort worried the scarred lumber wouldn’t support the full weight of the three of them and Bruiser. But they made it to the top and entered a wide but shallow room. A row of windows offered a view of the entire sales area. Mort pictured Chris up here keeping a watchful eye for shoplifters or lazy employees. A large metal desk was in the center, cluttered with papers and files. An oversized coffee mug proclaimed him to be World’s Best Boss. Stacks of boxes, about evenly divided between file and shoe size, balanced precariously along both side walls. The wall opposite the bank of windows was lined with three banquet-sized folding tables where an outdated microwave the size of a small hatchback was positioned next to piles of plastic plates, red Solo cups and rolls of paper towels. Bags of cookies, crackers, and chips, along with giant-sized bottles of soft drinks, completed the kitchen area of the space.
Chris took a seat behind his desk. Mort and Jimmy sat on the worn leather sofa facing it and Bruiser settled on the floor between them.
“Let’s start with some ID,” Mort said. “We know you’re Chris. Fill us in with the rest.”
The man wiped a hand across the top of his head and sighed. “Chris Novak. What do you want? A business card? My driver’s license? What?”
Jimmy smiled. “We trust you. You’re the owner of this store?”
Chris shook his head. “My Uncle Pete owns ’em all. He’s old. I run things for him. Nine stores in King County, four down in Tacoma, and two in Olympia.”
“That’s quite an empire,” Mort said. “Are you the one who hired Crystal Tillwater?”
“Yeah. Took a chance on her and it worked out good. She was here for years.” Chris’s jowls shook as he nodded his head. “I could be flexible with the hours. She had a little girl. Poor kid. It’s gotta be tough, having your mom murdered and such.”
“Would you describe her as a good employee?” Mort asked. “She ever give you any trouble?”
Chris waved a heavy arm toward the windows overlooking the shop. “It’s me and fourteen women. We sell shoes to customers who expect Saks Fifth Avenue for less than what they’d pay for a pound of beets. Don’t go asking me about trouble.” He looked disgusted. “This one’s getting her period. That one’s breaking up with her husband. Another one’s thinking the other one got a little too chummy with her boyfriend when he came by with the lunch box. It never ends.” He smoothed a hand over his silk shirt. “You know, some folks may think I’m sitting in gravy with all these females paid to do what I tell ’em, but let me clear it up for you. It’s not all sunshine and cookies.”
Mort and Jimmy nodded their sympathy. “Were you and Crystal close?” Mort asked. “She worked here a long time, and like you said, you were a good boss to her. You two strike up a friendship?”
Chris drummed his hands on his desk. “I see where this is going. You wanna know maybe was I dating her or some such? Maybe try to tie me to her death in some way. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I know how to keep my work and personal separate.” This time he pointed toward the windows. “You have any idea the hell my life would be if one of them bitches thought I had an eye for someone other than them? I wouldn’t make it out of the store alive. The trick is to make them all think they’re your favorite. And you sure can’t pull that off if you’re nailin’ one of ’em. Besides, my wife would have my balls.”
“Actually we were wondering if Crystal might have confided in you,” Mort said. “Maybe talked about who she was dating or what she did with her time when she wasn’t working.”
Chris stared at Mort as though trying to assess his motivation. “Nah,” he finally said. “It wasn’t anything like that. Like I said, she had a kid. From what I know, that’s the end-all, be-all for her.”
“Do you know her friends?” Mort continued. “Did she go to church or bowl in a league? Anything you could give us would help.”
Chris shuffled a stack of papers around his desk. Yellow sheets on top of blue. Pink ones shoved into a folder. “Like I said, she came to work on time. Didn’t steal. Didn’t waste time in the break room gossiping. Beyond that, I got nothing.”
Mort turned to Jimmy and shrugged. “Man’s got nothing. Guess we better go.”
“That’d be good.” Chris continued his show of efficiency by opening a desk drawer and sliding an entire pile of paper into it. “Like you see, I got a business to run.”
Mort, Jimmy, and Bruiser stood in unison.
“Just one thing,” Jimmy asked. “Why were you so set on none of your employees talking to us?”
Mort watched the soft spot at the base of Chris’s throat pulse a bit quicker.
“What are you talking about? I answered all your questions.”
Jimmy nodded. “So answer this one. What made you tell your clerks to keep away from us? What was that about?”
Mort focused on Chris while Chris kept his attention on Jimmy. Chris’s left hand twitched while he wiped his right hand against his leg. He sucked in his lower lip as the soft spot on his throat continued to pound.
“Listen.” Chris tried to sound firm. “Like I said, I got nothing but gals here. They got
complaints about anything and everything.” He turned to Mort. “You ever meet a woman who didn’t? Last thing I need is them thinking here’s someone in authority capacity who wants to listen to their every little gripe about maybe how they didn’t get paid time-and-a-half that week they worked fifteen minutes extra or maybe how they think the toilet paper in the crapper’s not soft enough.” He pushed himself free of his desk and stood. “I don’t need any workplace investigation, you know what I mean? Look, I’m sorry Crystal went and got herself killed. It’s a tragedy of modern urban life. But I got a business here and I need my ladies to stay focused.”
Mort had a sense he knew exactly what motivated Chris. The Shoe Stop was located across from Saint Nicholas Church, in the heart of Seattle’s Russian community. If Chris was willing to offer a job to a high school dropout single mother, he might also look the other way if an employee couldn’t come up with documentation proving she was in this country legally. Especially if the trade-off for his accommodation was a lower wage.
He thanked Chris for his time and led Jimmy and Bruiser down the stairs and out of the store.
Chapter 17
Lydia welcomed Roz and Bud Jensen into her office. She saw Delbe in her mother. They shared the same red hair and amber eyes. Both had freckled skin and an anxious way of carrying themselves. Bud had contributed his body type to his daughter. Where Roz was short and bulky, Bud had the same long-legged, broad-shouldered presence as his daughter.
“Thank you for coming.” Lydia offered them coffee or tea, which both refused. “I asked Delbe to take this slot when she called last night.”
“Let me apologize for that straight off.” Roz sat on the edge of the sofa opposite Lydia’s chair. She held her purse on her knees, shaking her head in disapproval. “She was raised better than to call in the middle of the night. I can’t blame you for being so upset you needed to wake us up. Of course, we packed and left the hotel as soon as we hung up from you.” She looked over to her husband, who had taken his place at the other end of the sofa. “Even though we still had another night paid for. But we’re used to throwing good money after bad where Delbe’s concerned.”
“You haven’t heard from her, then?”
This time Bud spoke. “She doesn’t share much with us. She comes and goes as she pleases. Works down at the Pancake House. You probably already know that.”
“She could have had her pick of jobs if she’d gone to college,” Roz interrupted. “My side of the family has always been the best students.” Her smile was sheepish. “I graduated from Washington State. Secondary Education. Taught four years before Delbe was born. We thought it best for me to stay home to raise her. She was smart as the dickens, that one. I always said she took after my Uncle Davis. Didn’t I always say that, Bud?”
He nodded. “I guess you know she dropped out of high school her junior year. Ran off to California to hit it big. We told her it was foolishness, but you know kids.”
“She’s always been headstrong,” Roz added. “Gets herself in trouble with her fancy ideas. When she was nine, she saw some show on TV and decided she wanted to be a journalist. Started her own neighborhood paper. We had Axel Stone pounding on our door one morning before I even had my shower. He lives three doors down and was mad as a maniac, wanting to know where Delbe got off talking about how his secretary visited him at home every Wednesday while his wife was out getting her hair and nails done. Remember that one, Bud?”
Lydia needed to keep them focused. “Was she home when you got there?”
“No,” Bud said. “Her bed was made. I figured she’d taken an extra shift at work. She was always looking to work more hours.”
“I tried to tell her working more at minimum wage isn’t the way,” Roz said. “It’s better she spend her time getting her GED and heading off to college. But she wouldn’t listen. I think she was intimidated by my education. I tell her, ‘Your dad’s got just a technical school degree and it hasn’t hurt him any.’ No need for her to shoot as high as I got.”
Lydia was beginning to understand Delbe’s marijuana use. “Did you call the Pancake House?”
Bud nodded. “Manager said she called and told him to take her off the schedule for the week. He wasn’t too pleased.”
“She’ll lose that job and we’ll be stuck paying her bills again,” Roz clucked.
Bud ignored his wife. “I’m worried, Dr. Corriger. Delbe’s never done anything like this. We were disappointed and angry when she lit off to California, but she always kept in touch. This isn’t like her.”
“Did she take any clothing with her?”
Roz huffed her disgust. “Who can tell? That girl’s got more clothes than Princess Di. I went in there about a month ago, trying to clean up that pigsty she calls a room. Do you know I pulled thirty pairs of shoes out of her stacks? Thirty! And that wasn’t the half of them. I walked out and left the mess where it sat. That’s where she spent all her money. That and guitar lessons.”
“Now, hon, you know she hasn’t bought anything new in a long time.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Roz snapped. “She’s got enough to last ten lives. So much I can’t even answer the doctor’s question here. How do you think that makes me look? She could have packed five suitcases for all I know.”
Lydia shifted topics. “You said you’d be stuck paying her bills. Does she have many?”
“Just the one from when she headed out to California and found out living on her own wasn’t cheap. She started borrowing and one thing led to another.” Roz opened her purse, pulled out a checkbook, and started leafing through it. She read from her register. “I sent two hundred to her loan last week.” She shuffled back a page. “Two weeks before that it was a hundred fifty.” Roz looked up at Lydia. “We pay her cellphone, like I told you. And we give her a tank of gas every month for her car.”
“You pay those bills yourself?” Lydia wondered if Bauer was right. Had Delbe gotten herself in deep with a payday loan scheme?
Roz tossed her checkbook back in her purse. “Delbe gives me the cash and I write the check out for her. No bank would trust her with an account of her own. These are the sum total of her bills. I know what she makes. Yet she never has money for anything. Always hitting us up for ten dollars here, twenty dollars there.” Roz shot a look at her husband. “I keep a strict line. She got herself into this mess, she doesn’t need to come looking to me to bail her out. But she’s got her dad wrapped around her little finger. Always has. He thinks I don’t know he’s slippin’ her cash all the time, but I see everything. I can do the math. She ought to have plenty from her waitressing job. Where’s that money go?” Roz took a sharp inhale and reached over to grab her husband’s arm. “Oh, my Lord. You’re not telling us she’s a drug junkie, are you?”
Delbe’s frantic call replayed in Lydia’s mind. I have debts…No more sheets to sign…No more promises I can’t keep…There’s a new plan…They’re shipping me off to market…
“Where did you send those checks, Mrs. Jensen?”
Roz looked confused. “What’s that got to do with Delbe being a junkie?”
Lydia shook her head. “I have no reason to believe your daughter’s addicted to drugs. Would you mind telling me to whom she owed the money?”
Now Roz looked indignant. “I don’t see where that’s any of your concern. I’ve known people who’ve gone to psychologists and they never have to discuss personal things like—”
Bud leaned forward and interrupted his wife. “It’s Rite Now Finance. That’s who she borrowed money from and that’s where Roz sends the checks. One of those scalping outfits. You probably seen the ads with that guy Charlie Fellow tellin’ you how he’s gonna fix your financial worries.”
Lydia sat back. “Yes. I’ve heard.”
Chapter 18
Mort looked down at another body and wondered just how hot this summer was going to get. Seattle had weathered three dark and rainy months without a single homicide. Now the sun was poking through the clo
ud cover on a semi-regular basis and here he was, supervising his second crime scene in less than ten days. He nodded toward a woman talking with Micki fifteen feet away.
“She called it in?”
Jim DeVilla pulled Mort back a step, allowing his officer access to photograph the corpse from another angle. “Yeah. That’s Louise Ennis. Big-time commercial real estate mogul, from what I’m told. Says she was scheduled to meet with a prospective client this morning. This place has been vacant seven months. She came by early. You know, turn on the lights, brush away cobwebs. Let herself in the front, says she heard nothing. Walked through the two front rooms, claims to have touched nothing but doorknobs and light switches. Heads into this back office, turns on the overhead, and sees this. Gotta hand it to her, she didn’t lose her breakfast. Stepped back into the hallway and called it in. Says she walked back to the front door, stood in one place, and waited for the patrol car.”
Mort looked around the windowless room. “Knew not to disturb the scene.”
“God bless TV.” Jimmy directed the photographer toward the rear door. “That’s how they got in. Make sure you get shots of the entire alley.” He turned back to Mort. “Coroner should be here any minute, but to my eye it doesn’t look like she’s been here long.” He looked around the vacant room. “Place is clean enough. No worries about rats getting in and gnawing away clues.”
“Maybe a little too clean.” Mort pointed toward the walls and floors. “This storefront’s been vacant seven months? I’d expect more dust. This place is showroom ready.”
“That’s what Micki thought. According to Louise over there, a cleaning crew keeps the front rooms nice. The ones facing Western Avenue and any prospective renter who might press a nose against the glass. They don’t bother cleaning back here, since it’s typical for interior walls to be ripped out and reconfigured to the new customer’s needs.”
