Killing Zone

by Rex Burns

  Parking downtown on a Sunday morning was no problem, and he pulled into the last of an empty row of parking meters that picketed Larimer Street in front of the yellow brick of the apartment towers. A large brass sign said Centennial Square and led under a bricked archway toward the splash of a fountain and a scattering of concrete benches and large planters holding young trees. The inside door to the apartment lobby was locked, but the column of names and buzzers listed apartment 5 as the manager’s. Wager pressed the button, and a few seconds later a voice said, “Can I help you?”

  “Police. Would you come to the front entry, please.”

  “Just a minute.”

  While he waited Wager ran his finger down the names behind the slotted windows. Apartment 1051 was blank.

  The manager, a short man with stiff, iron-gray hair and a mustache that struggled to look impressive, peered at Wager’s identification through the inner doors. Then he unlocked them. “What’s the problem, Officer?”

  “I need to look at apartment ten-fifty-one. A warrant’s on the way.”

  “An arrest?”

  “No. It belongs to a homicide victim. Horace Green. You know him?”

  “Ten-fifty-one … Ten-fifty—” The manager blinked. “Black fellow? Tall?”

  Wager nodded. “You didn’t know him by name?”

  The man held the elevator door for Wager and then followed him in and pushed number 10. “No—that’s a corporate rental. We have a lot of those,” he explained. “Business rents an apartment instead of using hotel rooms, to put up visiting firemen. Better tax break. Had a lot of oil companies did it, but that fell off. Now they’re coming back, though.” He added, “Thank God.”

  “Embassy Furniture.”

  “That’s right—it sure is! Embassy Furniture. And he used it for a few parties, I remember, because sometimes I’d let people in.” The elevator stopped and he held the doors again for Wager. “It gets pretty busy around here some evenings—if there’s a lot of parties, I watch the door to keep things from jamming up there, you understand.”

  “Did you ever see him use it at other times?”

  “I’d see him around now and then. But it’s hard to say—the residents have underground parking and their own elevator up from the garage. They don’t have to come through the lobby.”

  The hallway was a short one in both directions, quiet, with the feel of thick walls and softened only a little by a couple of small pictures and an end table holding paper flowers. He followed the manager around the corner to the door of the apartment. The man pressed a security code into a panel and then opened the lock with a passkey. “You sure you have a warrant for this?”

  “I phoned it in.”

  “OK—I want to cooperate with the police, of course. But I got to be sure, you understand.”

  “Did you ever see Green with anyone?”

  “The black man?” He nodded. “Came here sometimes with a blond woman. Saw them in the elevator once or twice. Before that, a black woman.” He pushed the door open and stood aside for Wager. “It’s not my business what people do in the privacy of their own homes, you understand.”

  “Did he bring many women here?”

  “I don’t think so. Three, maybe four, I guess. I guess whoever he was going with at the time. What I mean is, he didn’t mix them up, you understand—he’d have one for a while and then some time would pass and I might see him with another.”

  “The blonde was the last one?”

  “As far as I know.”

  The room had the musty odor of unopened windows and trapped summer heat, despite the air conditioning. A half-bath to the left of the entry, a closet to the right, and then widening into a living room that, had the blinds been opened, would have been full of light from the two corner windows and the patio doors that led to a balcony. Dining area with the kitchen beyond, also opening to the patio; two bedrooms linked by the master bath.

  “Don’t look like he used it much,” said the manager. “Nice furniture, though.”

  A show room. That’s what struck Wager when he glanced over the apartment—each piece of furniture seemed to have its own location, as if Green had carefully selected the best from his store to display in the apartment. Wager started going through the drawers. “What’s the rent on a unit like this?”

  “Eleven hundred. That includes water and heat, parking, recreation and health facilities. It’s one of the less-expensive units. Phone’s extra, of course, and electricity.”

  Good thing most of the cost went to the taxpayers, Wager thought; even a successful furniture dealer felt eleven hundred a month. “Do you have any list of people who visited?”

  “No, sir. When residents have guests, generally they buzz themselves through. Unless, like I say, there’s a lot of parties and it gets real crowded. Then I help out at the door. Usually, people buzz themselves through.”

  The drawers in the living room furniture were empty except for an unused telephone book; the closets held a few shirts, an extra suit and shoes, a raincoat. Nothing in the pockets. The dresser drawers had a few pairs of shorts and another shirt still in its laundry wrapper; the bathroom had shaving gear, toothbrush—two of those—a bottle of aspirin, shampoo, a shower cap, a set of towels on the racks and one in the closet, with some extra sheets. Some cleaning items. The refrigerator was empty of everything except a couple of bottles of mix for drinks, a few beers, a partly used quart of milk. No frozen dinners, nothing to cook. The garbage pail was almost empty, too: a paper-bag liner held a wad of cellophane from something, a bottle top that matched the beer bottle lying beside it, and a cash-register receipt from a liquor store for $4.73 and dated 9 June—three days before Green’s death. Both beds were neatly made; the dishwasher contained some glasses, no plates, and a few pieces of silverware waiting to be washed.

  “See what you’re looking for?”

  “No.” Perhaps forensics would find something of interest, but Wager didn’t think so.

  He slid back the patio doors and went out on the balcony. Ten floors below, the vacant streets of downtown held an occasional pedestrian or car; the Sunday tide of diners and boutique haunters had not yet begun. This apartment faced east, into the morning sun, and across the roofs of neighboring low rises he could see the steady glide of a distant jet sinking across Green’s district toward Stapleton. A set of plastic patio furniture and a small table were pulled back against the wall; a portable barbecue sat dusty in a corner.

  “Did you ever hear Green and the blonde argue?”

  “No. Just saw them going up or down in the elevator.”

  “The woman Green went with before the blonde—how long ago was that?”

  The mustache bristled out as the man puffed his lips in thought. “Long time. Two Christmases ago, maybe. It was a Christmastime, I remember. But two or three, I couldn’t say. After a while they all run together, you understand.”

  “Not this last Christmas?”

  “No—two, maybe three, Christmases ago.”

  “Let’s go down to the garage and look around. Do you know what his car looks like?”

  The manager didn’t, and Wager wasn’t able to show him because the car wasn’t there. The slot for 1051 was vacant and a slow tour in the chill air past the other stalls turned up nothing. Wager handed a business card to the manager. “Lock up the apartment and don’t let anyone else in unless it’s a policeman. If someone wants in, give me a call right away—any time.”

  1109 Hours

  The remnants of last night’s activity still marked the littered ashtrays and trash baskets of the C.A.P. offices, and an occasional desk held a weary cup of cold coffee, left behind when its owner was pulled away in a rush. The weekend had only a skeleton crew of janitors and they hadn’t worked their way up to the third floor yet. Wager nodded to Theresa, the civilian who sat at the reception desk, thumbing through the Sunday comics.

  “Morning, Sergeant Wager. Were you in on that riot last night?”

  “Yes.”r />
  The woman’s straight, short hair wagged with sympathy. “Papers make it sound pretty bad. Have you heard about Officer Wunderlicht?”

  That was the cop who had the heart attack. “How’s he doing?”

  “Intensive care, still. But they think he’ll make it.”

  “I hope so.” Wager didn’t know Wunderlicht, but he was a cop, and he was suffering one of a cop’s favorite diseases. When any cop went down, it was like someone in the family: sometimes a distant cousin who was only a name, sometimes a brother. Wager flipped his name to the IN column and glanced at Stubbs’s tag. It still said OFF-DUTY, and Wager, thinking of Wunderlicht, felt a twist of irritation and wondered if the man would bother to come in today.

  “Paper says it’s supposed to be worse tonight. That kid getting shot and all.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Theresa called down the hall after him, “You have a message from Councilwoman Voss—it’s in your box.”

  He lifted a hand thanks and paused to take a small stack of papers from the pigeonhole above his name. The while-you-were-out note simply said, “Councilwoman Voss,” followed by a telephone number and an X in the box for “Call Back.” Other papers were the routine notices and queries that steadily accumulated like dust and were just about as important. Wager dialed the number and listened to the rings while he glanced over the page of his notebook that listed words and phrases cueing possibilities in the case. There were still too many of them for any pattern, and they still led in no special direction.

  “Mrs. Voss?”

  “This is Elizabeth Voss.”

  “Detective Wager. I have a note to call you.”

  “Oh, yes!” Her voice warmed with recognition. “Thank you for returning my call. I wanted to say how grateful I am for your protection last night. I’m afraid I didn’t realize what you and the chief were warning us against until that gang came out of the alley. It was so sudden—so … ferocious and mindless …”

  “Yes, ma’am. I hope you’re not planning on being down there tonight.”

  “Well, yes, I am. But not to drive into the neighborhood. I want to be there, but I’ll stay at the command center.”

  “Your husband doesn’t care if you go there again?”

  The question made her pause. “My husband’s dead, Officer Wager. And even if he weren’t, I would not need his permission to go anywhere.”

  She didn’t sound as if she would. “Have you talked to Mrs. Green this morning?” The councilwoman and Lieutenant Elkins had taken the shivering woman home last night.

  “I called earlier. Her mother told me she was still sleeping. It’s the best thing for her.”

  Wager thought so, too, especially with the funeral this afternoon, which would be another drain on emotions. “When you talk to her, tell her we’re doing the best we can.”

  “I know you are, Officer, and that’s a second reason I wanted to talk with you.”

  He waited.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were so quiet I wasn’t sure.” The momentary lightness left her voice. “Have you learned anything more about the possibility of Horace selling votes?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s one of the things we’re working on. Are you ready to tell me who your informant was?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to talk to the person, Officer. I probably will this afternoon.” She added, “I understand you asked Councilman Albro about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He called me this morning. He was quite upset.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “I understand he complained to the chief.”

  “That he did.”

  “Please know, Officer Wager, that I intend to make the chief fully aware of the professionalism and cooperation you’ve shown in your investigation of the case.”

  “Thank you.”

  She wanted him to know that, she said once more before hanging up; and Wager, gazing at the telephone his hand rested on, wondered why.

  “Hi, Gabe.” Stubbs, a fresh scratch of blood under his chin from a shaky morning shave, came in holding a cup of coffee. “I thought I’d find you down here. What’s new?”

  Wager told him about Green’s love nest and his real estate venture.

  “But Sonie Andersen didn’t find any money laundered through the company?”

  “That’s what she says. I don’t want to subpoena the books yet. That’ll bring in the D.A. and open up the malfeasance crap.”

  Stubbs nodded and tried not to look uncomfortable about that issue. “What about forensics going through his apartment?”

  “Give them a call. I don’t think they’ll get much, but it has to be done.”

  The younger detective paused, his finger on the telephone’s cradle. “I found out where that receptionist for K and E Construction lives. I thought she might have some idea of her bosses’ whereabouts on the eleventh.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Not yet. I figured I’d ask you first.”

  Wager nodded and glanced at the wall clock. “Let’s check out the restaurants first, then we’ll talk to her.”

  1241 Hours

  The glossy coating on the reprint of Green’s photograph was beginning to show the mark of Wager’s sweaty thumb. Mrs. Green had given him the names of a dozen restaurants where her husband liked to eat—“He tried to go to a lot of different ones; he didn’t want to favor any particular one”—and they were spread all over Denver’s north side. Most were in his district and many were close to his headquarters. But a few were nearer his furniture store, and they started with those. Wager showed the photograph to yet another manager who recognized the man and said what a tragic thing his death was.

  “Do you remember if he ate here on the afternoon or evening of the eleventh?”

  “That would be Wednesday?” Again the shake of a head. “I’ll ask, but I don’t think so. He came in, what, two weeks ago. I remember seeing him around then. But not last Wednesday.”

  Back in the car, Stubbs sighed. “That’s five?”

  “Yeah.” Wager crossed off that name and looked at the next address. It was a small place that served only barbecued ribs, beef and pork, and Wager drew a line through it, too. No chicken and vegetables there.

  “We’re pretty near Gail Haney’s place,” said Stubbs.

  “Who?”

  “The secretary for K and E. Gail Haney.” He told Wager the address.

  “Might as well break the monotony.” He glanced at his watch as he swung onto Colorado Boulevard and headed south. The funeral was at two, and the chief had called a staff meeting at four to prepare for tonight’s festivities. Turning onto Seventeenth Avenue Parkway, he followed it to Jersey and then turned and slowed to look for the number. If Wager wanted to make the funeral, he’d have to move a little faster.

  “That’s it—the four-plex.”

  Wager pulled the car to the curb of the quiet street. It was one of those settled neighborhoods whose trees and hedges seemed to keep the rest of the city at a distance.

  The young woman who answered their ring wasn’t the long-haired blonde, but she nodded when Wager identified himself and asked if Miss Haney lived here.

  “Can we talk to her, please?”

  “Just a minute, I’ll call her.”

  “Must be a roommate,” Stubbs murmured, watching the glimmer of the girl’s legs beneath the rise and fall of her shorts. “She’s not bad, either.”

  Gail Haney, minus the bright makeup that she wore at work, seemed much younger and the straight blond hair that came down each side of her face and dangled over the tips of her breasts emphasized her girlishness. “You want to see me?” Her blue eyes were round with surprise and innocence.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”

  “Sure.” She wore a thin cotton shirt with tiny blue checks, sleeves rolled up and tail out, and a pair of yellow shorts creased t
ightly where creases should be. The roommate disappeared to leave the small living room to them. Miss Haney gathered up the scattered Sunday paper and carried empty coffee cups into the kitchen. “I’ve never talked to a detective. It’s kind of exciting.”

  Stubbs smiled. “It can get real exciting—depending on what we talk about.”

  She giggled, pulling her chin nervously against her neck. “I’ll bet!”

  Wager showed her Green’s photograph. “Have you ever seen this man around the K and E offices?”

  She looked at the picture. “Councilman Green? The one who got shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I’ve heard Mr. Kaunitz talk about him, but as far as I know he never came to the office.”

  “What did Mr. Kaunitz say?”

  “I’m not sure. That he had a meeting with him. That he needed the councilman’s OK for a project. Things like that.”

  “Did he meet often with the councilman?”

  “It varied. When a zoning request was going up for a vote, they’d meet and either Mr. Kaunitz or Mr. Ellis would present it to the councilman or his committee. Otherwise, I don’t think they saw much of him.”

  “Did you ever hear either Kaunitz or Ellis mention any private business with Green?”

  “Private business?”

  Wager nodded. “Dinner meetings, accounts, personal messages, that kind of thing.”

  “Not that I know of. When they needed to meet with him, I’d call his office and make an appointment. Sometimes they did meet for lunch, though. I guess that’s kind of private.”

  “You called the furniture store?”

  “No. His council office—I figured it was council business so it seemed right to call him there. It just seemed more businesslike, don’t you think?”

  Wager did. “The request for zoning changes—do you keep a record of those?”

  “Sure. I keep a record of all correspondence—it’s on the computer. We have a main disk and a backup that we run off at the end of each day.”