by Rex Burns
“How much did she make?”
Miss Roberts turned another page or two. “On a good day, she got sixty dollars. That’s three shows at twenty dollars each—standard rate for an inexperienced model. Out of that, she had to pay her own transportation and other expenses.”
The most shows in a week that Wager had counted in the appointment book was twelve—$240 for a good week, and there had been a number of poor ones. “Do you have a lot of people who want to be models?” The question was more for himself than for Rebecca Crowell.
“Hundreds, Mr. Wager. Hundreds ‘right here in River City.’” A small, hard smile widened the corners of her mouth, and Wager half wondered if at times his own mouth looked that way; it was the faint smile of satisfaction at seeing someone get the trouble they deserved. “Every woman between thirteen and thirty-three, and, any more, most of the men.”
“Have you been an agent very long?”
“Too damned long for my health. I was an executive director in a New York agency until two sons of bitches ganged up to push me out. I came here four years ago to start all over.”
“And you’re doing O.K.?”
“You are goddamned right I am.”
He’d heard that phrase recently; he’d heard it from Lisa Dahl, who was also starting all over. And it struck his ear with the same slightly hollow sound as if Jeri Roberts, like Miss Dahl, found that the only difference between the new start and the old was that now she could see her mistakes coming—that nothing really changed for the better. But you either kept trying or you died. It was something that Rebecca Crowell might have learned, too, before she died. “Do you recognize any of these initials or names?” He handed her a slip of paper listing the brief entries from the appointment book. “They might have to do with the modeling business. Some of the initials are maybe store names.”
She settled a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. “Yes.” She gave names to the initials; Wager had guessed right on three. “But these first names could be anyone.” The glasses jerked up. “These are Rebecca’s notes?”
“Yes.”
“Then ‘Phil’ must be that wimp of a photographer who was trying to take every cent she made—Phil Bennett.”
“I thought models needed pictures to show customers?”
“You’ve been talking to him. The only models who need that many pictures are TV and publications models. Girls like Rebecca who work fashion shows do most of their advertising live. Local buyers see them at work and hire them for their own shows. The out-of-town trade comes through me. Most salespeople from out of town don’t see the models until the show. That’s what agents are for.”
“She missed a lot of these shows after she was killed. Didn’t you worry about where she might be?”
“I was worried that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. That’s all. It happens all the time—girls come and go; and while it surprised me that someone like Rebecca missed the shows, it’s just not that unusual.” She sighed and added, “I did call a couple of times. There was no answer, of course. So I figured, screw her.”
“Do you know if she ever went to the Botanic Gardens?”
“Damned if I know. I didn’t know this burg even had any until I read about where they found her.”
“Did she have any boyfriends that you heard about?”
“You mean like ‘Ralph’ or ‘Allen,’ here?”
“Them or anybody else.”
“Most of the girls have husbands or boyfriends. Some have both, some have more than one of each. But Rebecca never talked about these two or anyone else. She was strictly business.” Miss Roberts gazed out the window again. “It really is too bad.”
“What is?”
“Rebecca had the right attitude to make it in this business—she’d cut her mother’s throat… . I guess I shouldn’t have said it, but that’s the kind of insanity it takes. Total dedication, and to hell with everybody else.”
Total dedication did not sound like insanity to Wager. “Was she scheduled for a show tonight?”
Another glance at the file. “Yes. The Jetliner Motel.”
“Motel?”
“A promotion stunt for a convention. Motel convention directors like to have cocktail-hour shows for the visitors’ wives. No one ever buys a thing, but it’s a cheap way for dress stores to get known, and it makes the convention a little classier. Besides, I will take every bit of business I can get—from anywhere!” That slight stretch of the mouth was somewhere between a faint smile and a set of the jaw. “And I’ve already lined up a replacement for Tommie Lee.”
The Botanic Gardens was a short drive from the New Faces Agency. At this time of day, the narrow parking lot was half filled, though only a few people strolled outside in the broad spaces that were now brown and empty of plants. It was one of those late-autumn afternoons when cloudless skies held a hot sun and cold air—one of those bright days when, as his grandfather used to say, the sun had a bite to it. A hard wind blew away the city’s smog and brought the snow-dusted mountains so close that Wager could see the blue dots of pine trees scattered along their flanks. He gave himself a few quiet minutes in a sheltered corner of the concrete walls to feel the sun burn against his face and the cloth of his trousers and coat. Then he went looking for Mr. Sumner.
He found him talking with a round-shouldered man in a green wool blazer, and at first, Mr. Sumner did not remember Wager’s face. “Oh—you’re the police officer!”
“Yes, sir. I wonder if you’ve ever seen this woman here before?”
Sumner frowned at the photograph. “Not to my knowledge. Of course, we have so many people passing through.” He looked up. “I take it this is the victim?”
“We identified her yesterday as Rebecca Jean Crowell.”
The name meant nothing to Sumner. He shook his head. “Poor thing. Mr. Weimer and I were just discussing some kind of special display that would take people’s minds off what happened.”
The round-shouldered man touched Wager’s fingers in a cautious handshake. “Most of our recent visitors haven’t come just to see our specimens, I’m afraid.”
“And it’s quite bothersome for those who have. It’s difficult to realize just how macabre people can be.” Sumner handed the photograph to Weimer.
“This seems to be a professional pose,” he said.
“She was a model,” said Wager. “She was also called Tommie Lee.”
“Well, she certainly did not do any posing here!” Sumner glared around the lobby echoing with the clatter of footsteps and voices that ran together in a buzz beneath the sound of the reflecting pool fountain.
“I thought you let photographers in.”
“Amateurs only. And then absolutely no artificial lighting—flash bulbs or otherwise. None. Specimens have been damaged in the past by heat and by exploding bulbs. And naturally we do not want the pathways blocked by all the equipment that professionals bring with them. No, if she came here, it wasn’t as a model. Absolutely forbidden. We have a sign. Right there!” He pointed to the wall.
Wager turned to Weimer. “You were at a convention in St. Louis on the nineteenth?”
“Yes. I was back there when it happened.”
“Did you have your key to the conservatory with you?”
“My key?” His brown eyes widened. “Of course—it’s on the same ring as my house and car keys. It’s always with me.” He pulled out a ring with a green rubber leaf for a tag. “See?”
He saw. “Do you mind if I show this picture to some of the workers, Mr. Sumner?”
Sumner didn’t. Wager wandered among the clusters of people drifting down the gritty paths until he found Solano. The utility worker stepped to the middle of the path to peer at the photograph and then shook his head slowly. “She sure don’t look like what I found.” The man spoke very loudly and a group of people stopped to listen. “When I found it, I’d of never guessed she looked that good, Officer.”
“Pardon me, young man.” An old lady
bent like a hairpin tugged at Solano’s denim shirt. “Are you the one who found that head?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was just coming on work, just up there by the big waterfall, and I just felt something was wrong. Even before I saw anything, I just knew deep down something was right over there in the dark, lurking… .”
Wager went in search of Mauro.
The thick-bodied man was in Greenhouse 1 loading trays of asters onto a long worktable. He gave the picture a quick glance. “Nope. Never saw her before.”
Wager studied Mauro’s face, with its realigned nose and the carefully distant eyes that tried to hide the man’s feelings about cops. “You didn’t take a real good look.”
“It’s good enough to tell.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Mauro, you did some time a while back for being dumb. I hope you’re smart enough now to tell me the truth.”
“You checked me out?”
“Sure. Every citizen at the scene of a crime gets checked out. That’s democracy in action.”
“Well, screw you, fuzz. These people know about my record. And they know I’ve been clean ever since.”
“The girl’s name was Rebecca Jean Crowell or Tommie Lee. She was twenty-three, a model, and her parents will be burying her in a sealed box.” He held out the photograph again. “And you better be goddamned sure about what you tell me.”
One of Mauro’s thick hands pulled the photograph close to his bent nose and he squinted for a very long time; then he slowly looked Wager in the eyes. “I never seen her before.”
Mauro was lying. Wager knew it absolutely.
He was unlocking his car when a familiar voice called across the parking lot, “Wager—hey! Hold on!”
Gargan sprinted from a brown sedan that bore black-and-white press plates under the Colorado license. “Man—it’s hotter than hell today.” A finger dug at the knit collar of his black turtleneck. “For a working man, anyhow. You look your usual cool self.”
“That comes from taking siestas.”
“I’ll have to try that. What’s new on the Crowell thing?”
“About the same as before. How about you?”
“Me? Gabe Wager, El Super cop and loping lone wolf, is asking this humble reporter what he has?”
“I heard you were the Daily Planet’s ace reporter—or some word like ‘ace.’ ”
Gargan raised his eyebrows in wonder. “You just tried to make a funny, Wager. I hardly recognize this nimble-witted new you. But as a matter of fact, El Supremo, I do have something.” He waited until Wager gave in.
“What?”
“You really didn’t want to ask that, did you?” Gargan laughed and jabbed a finger at Wager’s chest. “You almost choked before you could ask that, didn’t you?”
He wondered if drinking printer’s ink kept a lot of reporters from growing up. “What is it, Gargan?”
“The victim was a model for the New Faces Agency—when I finish interviewing Solano, I’ll be going over there.” He grinned. “You can come along if you like and learn how information’s gathered.”
It wasn’t the “what” but the “how” that interested Wager. “Where’d you get your information?”
“Process of deduction, my dear flatfoot. Besides, I got a buddy who knows all about the modeling game.”
“He knew Crowell?”
“Down, boy, down! No, he didn’t know her. But he told me how to find out who she worked for.”
“How?”
Gargan winked. “That’s privileged information. First Amendment guarantees.”
“Who is this friend?”
“You’re going to ask him about New Faces? You don’t take my word for it?”
“I’m going to ask him if he really calls himself your friend. What’s his name?”
“Oh, you’re cute. But I’ll lay a deal on you—I’ll tell you his name if you tell me what you’re doing here.”
“O.K.” It was Wager’s turn to wait; if Gargan wanted to play games, Wager would beat him at his game.
“Me first, right? You trusting s.o.b. He’s Saul Kramer—Kramer Studios over on fifteenth. Used to work for the Post and then went free-lance. Now, give!”
“What are you doing here?” Wager asked.
“That’s my question!”
Wager shrugged. “All or nothing.”
Gargan shook his head. “I’ll bet you cheat at solitaire, too. My editor gave me the O.K. to do an in-depth on this one; the wire services are still interested. I’m here to get the unvarnished impressions of the guy who found the head.”
“Solano’ll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“Jesus, I’m glad to hear that. I talked to that bastard Sumner on the telephone and he was scared shitless to let me near the place. ‘Absolutely no photographs,’ he said. I told him he’d get a hell of a lot of bad publicity if he didn’t let me do my job. We servants of the fourth estate are not without power! Your turn.”
“Identification.” He showed Gargan the picture of Crowell.
“Hey, that’s nice stuff. Was nice stuff. Too bad. Can I have this? You got another copy?”
“No and no. But give the mortuary a call and see what the arrangements are. If the parents are coming to pick up the pieces, Gargan, maybe you can have some fun with them.”
The reporter finally got angry. “That’s a shitty thing to say, Wager.” Then he thought a moment. “But it’s a good story angle. Thanks.”
Wager started his car and rolled down his window. “Gargan—give my regards to Jeri Roberts.”
“Who’s that?”
“She owns New Faces.”
His last glimpse of the reporter was in the rear-view mirror; the man’s mouth was still open.
There was no “Saul” in Crowell’s appointment book, and this would be another long shot; but, short or long, the shots had to be taken. And it was a way of filling time until he could act on the more important thing in the back of his mind. Much of a cop’s life was filling in time, living in a car with grimy floor mats and scraps of official forms, ashtrays packed with someone else’s stale cigarette butts, air moist with the breath of whoever drove the car earlier. It all brought that familiar sense of swimming in a river crowded with other swimmers—river and swimmers both invisible to John Q. Citizen. And though Wager didn’t like much about it, it was home and he spent a lot of life there.
Yet this case made even those familiar things and smells seem awry, somehow. Maybe it was just being on the night shift; he hoped that the next nighttime victim was a nighttime person; then maybe things would fit a little better. Because there would be another victim. Always another victim, and Wager saw why Ross and Devereaux were in no hurry when there were no immediate witnesses.
He threaded among the downtown traffic of 15th Street and pulled into a no-parking zone, flipping down the sun visor with its “Police Car” tag. Maybe it was the worrisome feeling of something solid just out of sight that, with a little more reaching, a little more grabbing, he should get hold of. But it had not happened yet. It was just there, just beyond reach, but it had not happened yet.
Kramer Studios was a long, narrow shop wedged between a topless bar and one of the few mom-and-pop grocery stores still alive in Denver. Down one side ran a long glass case full of sample frames and photographs; facing it was a maroon expanse of velvet wallpaper checkered with framed pictures of all sizes. A balding man in his late forties pushed through a black curtain at the far end; Wager might have remembered him from the Post.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m Detective Wager, D.P.D. Maybe you can help me with a case I’m working on.”
“Wager? Yeah—I thought you looked familiar. Is this another narc bust?” He held out a hand.
They shook hands. “Homicide. Gargan tells me you know a lot about the modeling business.”
“A lot? No, I know some photographers who specialize in that end of the business, but I’m mostly a port
rait man myself. Wedding, family, that sort of thing.”
Wager was puzzled. “But Gargan said you knew the agency Rebecca Crowell worked for.”
“I’d never heard of her. All I told him was to call the agencies in the yellow pages and ask. Hell, there’s only five or six listed; it’s no real chore. They all keep records of their models.”
Wager tried not to grin at himself; it would take too long to explain to Kramer, and he probably wouldn’t see what was funny anyway. “Do you know a Phil Bennett of High Country Profiles?”
“Phil? Sure. He does a lot of work with models.”
“He’s a good fashion photographer?”
“I guess so. But I wouldn’t call him a fashion photographer. He mostly does portfolio work. I suppose he could do more that was straight advertising and commercial stuff—God knows the business is starting to grow. But he gets his kicks out of training the girls.”
“Training them?”
“Yeah. For camera work. He tells me there’s no modeling school in town that really teaches people how to act in front of a camera. He really gets ticked off at that.”
“Is he good at this training?”
“I guess. There’s people around who knock him for his prices and think he’s just trying to sell pictures. Hell, selling pictures is the name of the game. But I heard of a couple girls who moved on to bigger and better things because of what he taught them.”
“Who?”
“Names? I can’t give you names. I just heard one works full time for Sears—she’s been in every catalogue for the last three years. Phil told me the other went to San Francisco about a year ago and is doing real well.”
“How is he with male models?”
“He only handles women.” Kramer saw Wager’s expression. “There’s nothing wrong with that—some shooters specialize in women, others in kids, others in old folks. And then you’ve got the rocks-and-trees people and some who do only pet portraits. Phil’s lucky enough to pick a subject that gives him a living and a little excitement, too.”
“Have you ever seen this girl before?”
Kramer looked at it and then glanced at the credit on the back. “Phil’s work. I thought so—he’s good at taking out shadow. Me, I like a little for contrast and highlight.” He pointed to one of the wedding pictures in the glass case. “No, I’ve never seen her. This is the girl who was killed? The one who had her head cut off?”