Deadly Guild (Detective Sarah Spillman Mystery Series Book 3)

by Renee Pawlish

  The waitress arrived with our food. We both ate for a moment, then he went on.

  “His head was lying in the water, the rest of his body on the bank. He had on old jeans, a ratty T-shirt, and a flannel shirt. Old shoes. Nothing to note, really. Like I said, a jogger called it in about six a.m. She was pretty shaken up, and a cyclist who rode by stopped and stayed with her until the police and homicide arrived. We interviewed them extensively, and I think they’re exactly who they say they are. They didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s all in my report. I’ll email it to you.”

  “How’d you identify the body?”

  “Fingerprints. We matched them to his service record, then found out who he was related to.” He finished his rellenos and gulped some Coke. “I had to tell the lieutenant governor and his wife. That wasn’t fun. She could barely talk to me. He was both shocked at the death, and clear that I was to keep the death out of the public eye. He didn’t want anyone to know his son was homeless. I guess the son was pretty smart, ex-military. They thought he would go places, but he served in Iraq and that messed him up.”

  I mulled over everything he’d told me while I finished my lunch. “That was good.” He nodded. “What evidence was at the scene?”

  He wiped his hands on his napkin, then dropped it beside his plate. “There was some trash around, nothing that gave me any clue to a murderer. Again, it’s in the report. You can check it out, tell me if you see anything noteworthy. Other than that, nothing.” He glanced toward the door, as if hoping he could escape. “As you can see, I’m completely at a loss.”

  “Once you found out it was the lieutenant governor’s son, what did you do? Where did your investigation lead?”

  He grabbed a napkin and fiddled with it. “We talked to his family and friends. No one could understand who would want to murder him. They don’t think he had any enemies. He didn’t have any trouble when he was in the military.”

  “You think another person living down there would’ve wanted to drown him?”

  “It’s possible. I went to some of the homeless shelters to see whether anyone recognized his picture, or could tell me somebody might’ve had a beef with him. Nothing came of that. Homeless people can be territorial. Maybe he encroached on someone else’s spot, and that led to a fight. I don’t know.”

  “I’m dealing with a similar situation, where no one knows anything.” I told him about my investigation.

  He’d taken to tearing at the napkin, and he had a small pile of shreds on the table. “Yeah, only you’re just starting with your investigation. I’ve had time, and I’m not coming up with anything. And I’ve got the Chief breathing down my neck.”

  “Don’t worry about him,” I said. “Let me take some time this afternoon to go over your case notes, and I’ll see what I can come up with. Between the two of us, I’ll bet we can figure this out.” I put more confidence into my tone than I felt.

  He nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” He got out his wallet. “You heard there’s a press conference at three?”

  “Rizzo wants me there.” I started to get money out to pay, and he waved me off.

  “This is on me.” As he waved for the waitress and handed her his credit card, he said, “The lieutenant governor wanted his son’s death kept quiet, but now he wants everyone to know, see if someone will come forward with information. We’ll get a bunch of useless leads, that’s what I think.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicole’s arrest record said that she lived on St. Paul Street, so I went there next. The neighborhood was full of old houses built decades ago, most with long covered porches, and a few apartment buildings. Nicole had lived in a three-story nondescript brick building set close to the street. This neighborhood had been run-down when I was a kid, but had been through a gentrification. Even so, the apartment building was out of place among all the nicer homes. This time of the day a lot of people were at work, and I was able to park in front of the building. A school must’ve been close by because I heard the shrill yells of children playing. The sun filtered through the leaves of towering oak trees and shaded the front entrance to her building. She had lived in 203, and I entered a small foyer and pressed a buzzer. A moment later, the lock on the door clicked, and I entered. Was someone in that apartment expecting a visitor? They’d be surprised to see me. I took carpeted stairs to the second floor, then walked down to 203. I knocked and waited, then knocked again. I was not going away. The door finally opened.

  “About time you –” The woman stopped short. As I surmised, I was not who she was expecting. She put her hands on her hips. “Who’re you?” She was young, with long red hair pulled into a ponytail, circles under her eyes, and a freckled face. She wore tight-fitted shorts and a green T-shirt with a high school logo on it. She yawned, then her eyes went to the badge clipped on my belt loop. Her brow crinkled with apprehension and she dropped her hands to her sides. She didn’t invite me inside, just stared at me, mute.

  I introduced myself, then asked, “Do you know Nicole Lockwood?”

  She licked her lips, hesitant, as if she wanted to lie but knew she shouldn’t. She still played it cool. “Who?”

  I raised my voice. “You want me to create a scene here, because I can.”

  She leaned out and looked up and down the hall. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? Chill out.”

  “Don’t tell me to chill out,” I snapped.

  She grew flustered, not sure what to say, but she sure as hell didn’t want anyone to see us. “Look, um, Miss …”

  “Detective Spillman,” I said with emphasis on the first word. “I’ll repeat. Do you know Nicole Lockwood?”

  “Sure, I’ve seen her around. She got herself into trouble again? I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  I shook my head. “She’s dead.”

  She took a step back, and it took her a second to form words. “What happened?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  She shook her head, puzzled. Her reaction seemed genuine, not like the faked expressions of surprise we sometimes see, the ones with the exaggerated wide eyes or a dropped jaw. You can always figure those folks are lying. “Not a thing, I swear.”

  “She was killed outside the Princeton Motel last night.” I watched her closely. Her face was blank. “You haven’t heard anything about that?” I repeated.

  “No,” she whispered. I smelled cigarettes and a greasy odor. She tugged at her shirt. “I was out late, and I didn’t see her last night. I got home early this morning, and I’ve been sleeping. How’d she die?”

  “She was murdered.”

  She sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. “Wow.”

  “Does Nicole live here?”

  “Nah, she hasn’t lived here in a while.”

  “Why not?”

  She scratched her arm. “She couldn’t pay her rent. We got three of us here now, and it’s tight. Rent’s high. She couldn’t pay her share, so we had to get somebody else in here who could.”

  “Why couldn’t Nicole pay?”

  She frowned, looked for an excuse and settled on, “You know how it goes.” She went silent. I waited. “She spent more of it on drugs, okay?”

  I tried for a glimpse of the apartment again. “Three of you live here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You all work the streets?”

  “Um, well … come on,” she whined. “You’re not going to hassle me, are you? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Not if you cooperate.”

  She sighed. “We don’t cause any problems here, okay?”

  I wondered if the landlord knew hookers lived in the building. “What’s your name?”

  She hesitated. “Rachel.”

  “Rachel what?”

  She looked everywhere but at me. I waited her out. “Ingalls,” she finally said. “You don’t have anything on me, do you?”

  I shook my head. “Just trying to find out what I can about Nicole
. Do you know if she was in some kind of trouble?”

  Somewhere back in the apartment, a door opened and closed. Rachel took a peek over her shoulder, then looked back at me. “I don’t know. She hasn’t lived here in a while. I’ve seen her around, but I hardly talk to her. If she had something going on, I wouldn’t know.”

  “That’s the truth?” I snapped, trying to keep her off-balance so she hopefully wouldn’t have time to lie.

  “Yes!” she wailed.

  I pointed into the apartment. “Who’s there?”

  “Nobody.” Her voice was soft.

  I glanced behind her “If it’s somebody who might be able to tell me more about Nicole, I–”

  “It’s nobody,” she interrupted. “Just a friend. We’re partying.”

  I got it. It was a guy. “Would he know anything?”

  “No, I didn’t pick him up at the Princeton.”

  I could hassle her some more to let me talk to the guy, but beyond that, I couldn’t force her to do anything. I frowned. “If your roommates are home …”

  “They aren’t here, and I don’t think they knew Nicole. You can come back and talk to them later. They’ll probably be around this afternoon.”

  “What’re their names?”

  “Misty Chandler and Gwen Pruitt.”

  I wrote down the names and tried a different tack. “If someone is going after hookers, wouldn’t you want to get him off the streets?”

  She went pale. “You think we need to be watching out?”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “At this point, I don’t know if this was a random attack or not.”

  It may have been a little dramatic, but I needed to get her to cooperate. “I don’t know anything.”

  “Did Nicole have any issues with a particular john, that kind of thing?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Most girls aren’t going to tell you much, anyway. They want to be left alone.”

  I left that as is and went to something else. “There’s someone else I’d like to talk to.” I described the woman that I’d seen and chased near the motel, and pointed to my face. “She’s got some scarring here. You know who I’m talking about?”

  “Yeah, that’s Lola.”

  “Is that her real name?”

  “I don’t know, and before you ask, I don’t have a last name. I just overheard someone talking about her, and they said her name is Lola.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know where she lives.”

  I crossed my arms. She was holding back. “Give me something more than that.”

  “Hey, I’m telling the truth. I think she might work at some strip club on Evans. The Diamond Club. Near the Platte.”

  I’d heard of it. It was a dive.

  “She’s there, and she turns tricks. You know how it goes.” She looked over her shoulder again. “You need anything else? I gotta get going.”

  “Do you have ID?”

  She muttered under her breath. “Yeah, hold on.” She partially closed the door and went to a table in a small nook close to a kitchen, rummaged in a dark-colored purse, and came back. “Here.”

  I verified her name, then handed the ID back. “Thanks.” Then I eyed her carefully. “I hope you’re telling me the truth. I’d hate to have to come back.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and an older woman with long gray hair came down the hall. She slowed as she approached, gave me a quick onceover, then threw a small smile at Rachel.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, no problems, Mrs. Spruce.”

  The woman continued to her apartment and glanced at me as she unlocked the door. After she disappeared inside, Rachel looked at me, her big eyes were pleading. “I’m telling you the truth. Please, I need to stay out of trouble.”

  I met her gaze and held it for a moment before pulling a business card from my pocket. “If you think of anything else that might help me find Nicole’s killer, you be sure to call me, okay?”

  “Of course.”

  She shut the door, and I knew I wouldn’t hear from her again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the way to the strip club, I made phone calls, starting with Ernie. “Have you found out anything from Nicole’s friends?”

  “Not so far. I’m having a hard time tracking them down. You know, a yearbook is a great resource for names, but it’s been a few years. Some have moved, others are working, or in college.”

  “I get that. Keep on it.” I told him about the lead with Lola and that I’d be going to the strip club.

  “I hope Harry is understanding about that.”

  “He knows I don’t eat from the other side of the buffet.”

  He was still laughing when I disconnected.

  I called Spats next. “Have you seen the surveillance video from the gas station of the 911 call that was made?”

  “Not yet. The guy on the day shift wants me to talk to his boss, which is proving a hard thing to do.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a bead on her. Her name’s Lola.”

  “Lola? Like the Kinks song?”

  “Yes. I’m going to see if I can talk to her now.”

  “All right. You know I’m going to be hearing that song in my head now, don’t you?”

  “No need to thank me.”

  There were several cars in the Diamond Club parking lot when I drove up. It was early in the afternoon, but that didn’t stop the desire for sex. I received wary looks from a couple of men in business suits as I got out of my car and walked into the building. The foyer was gloomy, and loud music with a heavy base greeted me, along with a tall bouncer with thick arms and an equally thick mustache. He stared at me as I walked up, not overly surprised that a woman had walked through the door. I flashed my badge at him. That elicited little response as well.

  “Does a woman named Lola work here?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high, almost comical compared to his burly form.

  “Come on, Lola’s not a common name.”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated.

  I let out a slow, dramatic sigh. “I really don’t want to do this.”

  “Do what?” He crossed his arms and stared down at me.

  “I don’t want this to be a thing.”

  He was still lost. “What?”

  I leaned against the wall. “I don’t want to end up having to hassle you, threatening to bring the police in here to see what you’re doing that might not be legal.” I pointed past him toward the main part of the club, where I could see some men at tables. “I’m sure there’s something going on in here that shouldn’t be. Drugs being sold? Maybe sexual favors? Who knows? I would hate to have to shake this place down, which would make your customers unhappy, and I would think that would make your manager very unhappy. And do you know what would make your manager even more unhappy?”

  “What?”

  “When I tell your manager that the shakedown didn’t need to happen,” I extended a finger at him, “except that you wouldn’t cooperate with me.”

  His lips twitched under the mustache.

  “It’s a simple question,” I said.

  He finally relented, not happy to do so. “Lola works here, but she’s not here right now.”

  “How about you get your manager to confirm that.”

  “He’s busy.”

  We were back to obstructive. “Make him un-busy.”

  We engaged in a staring contest, and he lost. He broke eye contact and reached for a phone on the wall behind him. He spoke into it for a moment, hung up, and stared again with fire in his eyes. Then another man in a black suit, tie, and gold cuff links materialized out of nowhere.

  “I’m the manager, Victor Golic. I understand you want to talk to one of the women who works here?” He was being exceedingly polite. If he thought that was going to make me go away, he was wrong.

  “As I told your bo
uncer here,” I pointed at the big man, “I need to speak to Lola.”

  He put his palms together. “She isn’t working here right now.”

  “When’s her next shift?”

  He glanced at a gold watch. “Not until five.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled. “And what’s Lola’s last name?”

  “Tyndale.” He spelled it.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re quite welcome.” He gazed at me, waiting for me to leave. I held back for a moment, just to make him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and waited some more.

  “I’ll see you soon.” I had no choice but to believe they were telling me the truth, which meant I had to leave.

  I went outside and got into the Escape. I was close to the South Platte River, so I decided to stop where Oakley’s murder victim had been found. I got onto Santa Fe and drove north to Mississippi Avenue, then hunted around until I found a parking place on a side street. I walked toward the overpass where Oakley said Jonathan Hall’s body had been found. The afternoon was warm and pleasant, a beautiful late summer day. I waited at a stoplight, then crossed Mississippi and walked onto a bike path which led down underneath the street. Shadows overtook me, and it was cooler, although the traffic sounds were barely muted.

  Jonathan Hall had been found near some bushes about ten yards north of the overpass, so I continued down the path, then veered off it toward the Platte River. This section of the Platte is really more a creek than a river, the name somewhat of an embarrassment to real rivers like the mighty Mississippi. The South Platte forms southwest of Denver, but in the metro area, it’s smaller, with some wider sections and areas that flow over rocks, but where I was it’s quite a bit narrower. I made my way through taller grass that was brown and thirsty, stepping carefully on the steeper slope. As I got closer to the edge of the river, it grew rockier. Once I reached the river, I walked slowly toward some bushes, then stood and listened. Santa Fe’s a major north-south road, running on either side of the Platte, and at this time of the day there was no shortage of traffic noise. I tuned out the sound, squatted down and looked around the rocks, and didn’t see anything. Whatever evidence might have been here that Oakley could’ve missed was probably long gone. I stared at the ground and wondered why a homeless person would venture down close to the river in the middle of the night. Was he relieving himself, or had he heard something? Had he been lured there by his killer? I pictured someone holding Hall down. It would have to be a fairly strong person, and the killer would likely have been on his hands and knees on the rocks. That could’ve hurt. And if Hall had struggled, had the killer been injured, or bruised his hands and knees? I listened to the water, then finally stood up and brushed off my pant legs. I carefully checked around the bushes and didn’t see anything, not even trash. I could see how Oakley could dismiss the murder as some kind of fight between homeless people, or a robbery gone bad. Not much else made sense. I looked up and down the river, hoping for some kind of inspiration. None came.