Suicide Season

by Rex Burns

  “Okay, Dev. It’s open. Watch the treadplate.”

  We sidled past the heavy door and stepped gingerly around the edges of a large rubber mat that during the day caught the street dirt, and during the night concealed an alarm plate. As Bunch had said earlier when we strolled through the lobby with the workday crowd, “Hell, if we can’t outsmart an alarm system like this, we shouldn’t be in the business.”

  The empty observation desk glowed whitely. We darted across the stark space of the lobby before the watchman wandered back to his post, our tennis shoes making occasional squeaks on the fresh wax of the floor. Beyond the rows of elevator doors, we found the fire stairs and started the long, spiraling climb up to the thirty-fifth floor. We reached the last landing and paused in the dull glow of the emergency bulb to catch our breath and let our quivering legs rest a moment. Then I glanced at Bunch who nodded and gently opened the thick metal door. Its latch echoed loudly into the blackness of the corridor and we followed the probe of the flashlight beam to the shiny wooden doors of the Aegis Group offices. I held the light while Bunch tested for any additional electronics.

  “I don’t think they have any sensors, but it only takes a minute to check it out. Be damned embarrassing if the president and vice president of Kirk and Associates got busted for breaking and entering.”

  When he stepped back, I slid the rippled metal blade of the pick into the lock’s cylinder, my hands pale in the pair of thin, disposable rubber gloves. Carefully, the tumblers nudged into place and a moment later the door swung silently in.

  The thin glow of the city filtered through the atrium, showing desks and chairs as shadowy smudges. I led Bunch to the receptionist’s desk, shielding the flashlight lens with my fingers. The drawers were locked, but taped on the retractable writing board under the desktop I found what we came for: the directory of in-house telephone numbers, information that Bunch’s contact in the telephone company had not been able to provide. I began copying down the extensions and the names preceding them from the worn sheet while Bunch prowled silently through the lifeless rooms.

  “Is the number there?”

  “Yeah. It belongs to a David Neeley.” Good old D.N. from my list of Haas’s contacts. “I’ll be through in a minute.”

  Bending close over the sheet that smelled faintly of the secretary’s perfume, I was almost down to the bottom of the column when Bunch said “Uh-oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘uh-oh’?”

  “Uh-oh, I just screwed the goose. You about through over there?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I found a door with a silent alarm on it. I just tripped the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “A couple seconds—just a few more names.”

  Bunch trotted to the hallway doors and peered into the blackness. “Better make it now, Dev—the elevator’s already halfway up.”

  I shoved the writing board back and hurried after Bunch. We quickly locked the door behind us and ran past the flicker of numbers above the elevators, our tennis shoes squeaking loudly now. Tumbling into the stairwell, we used the slick steel rails to glide down the flights three and four steps at a time. My pace fell into an urgent rhythm—step, slide, step, thump, turn, step—that made the series of landings a spinning blur in the dim glow of bulbs. At the door marked GROUND FLOOR, Bunch slowed to catch his breath and I pulled ahead and motioned him to wait. Carefully I went down a step at a time into the stale air of the basement and unscrewed the light behind the last fire door. Then, easing it open, I felt my way along the concrete wall toward the red glow of the exit sign.

  A white light speared me like a moth to the wall and an excited voice yelled “All right—I see you—hold it right there! I’m the watchman and I got a gun—you hold it right there.”

  I froze, slowly lifting both hands empty and spread, and blinked into the glare. “No gun—you just take it easy. I’ll stand right here.”

  “You better, goddamn it! You better!”

  “Take it easy, now. You can see me. No gun. You got me.”

  The light and the voice came closer. “Damn right I have. I knew you’d be coming down the fire stairs soon’s I sent that elevator up. How’d you get in here? Put your hands up—higher—higher!”

  The flashlight wobbled briefly and canted at an angle. A hand came into the light to pat the front of my dark jacket and from the blackness behind the flashlight an odor of cigarette breath said, “Stand still, now. Don’t you try nothing!”

  “You’re supposed to face me to the wall for that.”

  “Don’t you tell me what to do! By God, I know what I’m doing—I—”

  The voice shifted into a startled yelp and I dropped down as the flashlight spun and caught a massive hand clasped around the guard’s fingers and pistol. Then the light shattered on the floor and, blinking against the lingering red glare in my eyes, I heard Bunch. “Now I got the pistol, old timer. All we want is out. You just sit still and everything will be all right.”

  “Don’t hurt me! I got a wife—a sick one—and grandkids. I wouldn’t have this damn job if my wife wasn’t sick!”

  “Hell, we don’t want to hurt you. We just don’t want to get caught.”

  The tangled shadows of Bunch and the guard disappeared, leaving me to grope blindly toward the fire door. A moment later Bunch was back, his shape a thicker darkness beside me.

  “Is the guard okay?”

  “Yeah. I tied him up with his pants. He’ll be loose in a couple minutes.”

  The push bar had the usual warning: ALARM SOUNDS IF DOOR OPENED. Bunch swung his penlight around the margins of the doorframe to locate the wiring. Quickly, he clipped a small copper bridge across the leads. Then pressing the door open, we escaped into the cold air of the dark alley.

  “Sorry about that alarm, Dev. They didn’t have one on the hallway doors, so I didn’t figure one for an inside door.”

  I drove while Bunch rustled around in a paper bag for a couple of beers and popped the lids. “I didn’t think that guard would come after us. He sent the elevator up empty and then went down to wait for us. Smart old bugger.”

  “It took guts, all right.” Bunch, his mouth full, handed me a can. “I always get thirsty after a gig like that.” He swallowed again deeply. “Why do you think they had an alarm door inside?”

  “It’s probably their security room for the proprietary stuff. They’ll think someone was after their planning documents.”

  “Someone like McAllister.” He ran the flashlight down the list I’d copied. “Does Neeley’s name mean anything to you?”

  “Not the name. The initials. There was a D.N. that showed up in Haas’s appointment books. My guess is it’s the same.”

  “I’ll give Lewellen a call and see if he’s got anything.”

  A small item deep inside the Rocky Mountain News headlined “Guard Assaulted in Action West Building”: and quoted Anthony Crinelli, 62, saying that he had been jumped by three assailants while checking out a silent alarm triggered in the Aegis Group offices on the thirty-fifth floor. One was described as a tall white male in his late twenties or early thirties, medium-length brown hair and blue eyes, and a small vertical scar above the left side of his mouth. There was no description of the other two who had moved up behind Crinelli and overpowered him while he was attempting to arrest the first suspect. A spokesman for the Aegis Group said nothing appeared to be missing and declined further comment. The development company is currently involved in two extensive real-estate ventures in Aurora and unincorporated Jefferson County.

  I ran a finger down the hairline scar that led to my upper lip. The guard had a clear look at me in the shadowless glare of that flashlight, and it was a good thing there wasn’t a mug shot somewhere in Denver police files or I’d be standing in a line-up right now. The next time, we’d have to go formal—a stocking over the face.

  I tossed the newspaper aside and once more spread the Haas folder across my desk to search out all the “tee-off” times and days. The co
mputer had come up with no correlations for any of the names on the Aegis directory, and the D.N. initials that I remembered simply sat on a blank square for a day in September and told me nothing. That left the golf games, real and supposed. I had located a couple and was entering their dates and times into the computer when the telephone rang and Margaret asked if she was interrupting anything.

  “Not at all. I’ve been thinking of you.”

  She paused as if to interpret that, then said, “That’s nice to know.”

  The voice had a soft note that did something warm in my chest, and I heard myself ask if she would like to see a play that I happened to have a pair of tickets for. Or at least I would as soon as we hung up. “It’s a comedy—it’ll help brighten a dull week.”

  “I could use a little comedy.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Elaine Ewald—remember her? You met her at Ricci’s.”

  The restaurant where the blond woman came over to the table to snoop. “I remember.”

  “She called me last night. Apparently someone’s going around the neighborhood asking things about me.”

  “What things?”

  Margaret hesitated. “Questions. About the night Austin shot himself. What did anyone see or hear. Did they ever hear Austin and me quarreling. Would there be any reason I might want Austin dead.”

  I watched a wisp of steam lift out of the dark shimmer of my coffee cup. “It’s nothing you should get upset over, Margaret.”

  She said quietly, “That sounds as if you know something about it.”

  “I think I do. Please don’t let it worry you.”

  “Don’t let it worry me! Devlin, Elaine said it sounded as if someone were almost accusing me of killing Austin. If you do know something, I want you to tell me.”

  “I think I know who it is.”

  “Well, who? And why is he doing this?”

  “Take it easy, Margaret. I want to find out a few things first. Why don’t I pick you up about seven and maybe I’ll have something definite then.”

  “I … I suppose so. Yes, all right. I’m sorry I sounded shrill—it’s just such a horrible accusation.”

  “And we both know it’s a damned lie. I’ll see you this evening.”

  The Vincent Landrum Detective Agency was over on Pennsylvania in an old mansion that had been remodeled for offices. The two floors at the front of the building were occupied by lawyers who gave Vinny some work now and then; visitors who wanted the detective were directed along a narrow sidewalk to the back and then up a flight of worn stairs to a small alcove tucked under the slope of the shingled roof. From the ground floor came the steady clatter of a quick-print shop, and the office facing Landrum’s bore the sign TRIPLE A ANSWERING SERVICE.

  “Busy, Vinny?”

  “Well, well. My day is complete. And so early, too.”

  I closed the scarred door behind me. The room was small; a desk and two wooden chairs facing it took up most of the space. Dusty metal filing cabinets stood here and there, and in one corner was a coat rack dangling a wrinkled trench coat and topped by a brown fedora. A half-open door showed a tiny washroom with toilet and sink. Landrum lowered his feet from the desk and rocked forward in the creaking swivel chair. On the desk stood a tape recorder with a wire that ran to the headset clamped against one of Vinny’s ears; scattered across a stained blotter were strips of negatives and color Polaroid shots of a man and woman busy with each other and unaware of the camera. “Something you’re selling, Kirk? Or are you just trying to be Mr. Sunshine?”

  I leaned an elbow on the tall filing cabinet that crowded the doorway. “I’m not selling. And I’m not smiling. I understand you’re working over in the Belcaro area.”

  “I heard a rumor you liked to play detective.”

  “Some of the questions you’re asking come close to slander, Vinny.”

  “Up yours, Kirk. I can ask what I want, where I want. It’s called First Amendment freedoms.”

  I moved toward the desk and Landrum looked up, suddenly wary. “Not true, Vinny. It may be legal, but it won’t be safe.”

  “Don’t pull any shit, Kirk. I’m warning you.”

  “You didn’t find out anything, did you?”

  “Never mind what I found out. You don’t want to work with me, I’m not working with you.”

  “You didn’t find out anything because there’s nothing to find out.” I grabbed the front of his jacket and lifted him out of the chair. “And now you’re going to stop harassing.”

  “Let go, goddamn it—you’re wrinkling my skin!”

  “Mrs. Haas doesn’t know anything about her husband and Carrie Busey. You don’t want to be the one to tell her, Vinny.”

  He grinned up at me. “Yeah? You worried about that?”

  “Vinny … “

  “Goddamn quit it! That hurts!”

  “Hear me, Vinny: she’s a nice lady with two nice kids and nice memories of her husband. Don’t bring them any pain.”

  “I hear you—let go!”

  I sat him back in the creaking chair and smoothed his jacket and gave him a tap of manly playfulness under the chin. It was a corny act but I really believe he expected it; it matched the trenchcoat in the corner. “I’ll be watching, Vinny.”

  The rest of the day was spent with Bunch at AeroLabs on a final walk-through to compare the security system diagrams to the actual site. There were always changes that had to be made on the diagrams, and it was a little after seven before I pulled up at the Belcaro gatehouse to tell the guard who I was visiting.

  “All right, sir. That’s really a nice car. What kind is it?” This guard was a new one, in his late teens or early twenties, probably a college kid, and sure enough I caught sight of a book propped open on a shelf just inside the door.

  “An Austin-Healy 3000. I only use it for special occasions.”

  “It’s a classic, all right. Have a good evening.”

  Margaret was reading to the children when the babysitter let me in. They looked up briefly and then back to the brightly colored pages of the book. She smiled without breaking the quiet rhythm of the lines and nodded me to a chair. When she finished, she asked the children if they remembered Mr. Kirk.

  Austin, Jr., slid off the couch from his mother’s side and held out a small hand. “How do you do.” Shauna, the toes of her pajamas flopping loosely, said “Hello” and settled more firmly on her mother’s lap.

  “All right, now,” she said. “Story’s over and up we go.”

  The girl clutched more tightly as the babysitter, a teenage girl who had been studying me from the corner of her eyes, came forward to lift her from Margaret’s lap. “Come on, Shauna. I’ll read to you upstairs.”

  “I want Mama!”

  “I’ll come up with you. But I’ll only stay a minute,” Margaret said.

  “Hey, we’ll all come up. We’ll make a parade—Austin, you hop in front and be the leader.”

  A few minutes later as we came back downstairs, Margaret smiled. “You’re very good with children. I’ll bet you were the oldest.”

  “I was the only. But I have a lot of cousins—I used to visit my Uncle Wyn and stay over with his kids.” I held her wrap and she slipped it over her shoulders in a faint breath of familiar perfume.

  “Do you know where we’re going? I’d like to leave a telephone number for Tammy.”

  I told her and gave her the seat numbers and she jotted it down on the pad beside the telephone. Once we were clear of street traffic and on the freeway leading downtown, she apologized again for being so nervous this morning. “It was just such an ugly, ugly thing to hear.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry about it anymore.”

  “Did you find out who it was?”

  “Yes, but let’s talk about it at dinner. It’s not worth talking about now.”

  The theater was inside the hulking concrete walls of the performing arts center, and we mingled with the crowds that filled the long, echoing galleria leadin
g from the parking garage to the brightly lit foyer. Occasionally a man’s eyes lingered with admiration on Margaret and followed her through the crowd, and I felt good about the light touch of her hand on my arm as I guided her toward the entry. We settled into the plush seats and Margaret glanced at the rows of faces banking up each side of the auditorium. “These are very good seats.”

  “My uncle’s. He always buys season tickets to support the theater, but he doesn’t use them much. His children have moved away.”

  That led to questions about my family and I asked about hers. Her mother and father lived in Chicago and although he was officially retired, he was still very active as a consultant. Haas’s parents had recently been transferred to San Francisco where he was manager for the Pacific Coast region of a retail chain. “They’ve asked me to move out there. They want to be near their grandchildren. That’s all they have left of Austin.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I like this area, but that’s the only thing that keeps us here now. If we’re going to move, I suppose it should be fairly soon, before the children start settling into school and friendships. It’s so hard for them to leave those things behind and start again when they’re older.”

  “It’s not something you’re going to decide right away, is it?”

  “No. There’s no real rush.”

  “That’s good.”

  She didn’t follow up and I didn’t press. The lights over the open thrust of the stage began to dim and, as the audience noise ebbed, an actor entered from the wings.

  Later at intermission, as we stood in a quiet eddy at the edge of the crowd and sipped a glass of wine, Margaret asked more about my family.

  “I see now,” she said, “why you’re so kind toward Austin and Shauna.”

  “That may be part of it.”

  “Was your father a good friend of Professor Loomis?”

  “They were business partners more than friends. And not too long at that.”

  “Still, it seems a bit callous of him not to at least offer you some of your father’s stock.”