by Rex Burns
“Bunch and I have argued over whether or not we’re in the pornography business.”
“Do you think it’s a light question?”
“No. But I’m not sure of its relevance. Investigation is just that—there’s nothing salacious about it. And, ninety percent of the time, there’s nothing interesting about it, either.”
“But it’s an invasion … it’s … “ She tapped the folder. “When you saw yourself in these pictures, you said your professional pride was hurt. Wasn’t your sense of humanness invaded, too? Didn’t you resent having been spied on?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I’d resent it more if I’d been doing something to be ashamed of.”
“With or without shame, I resent it.” She sipped at her drink and once more thought over her words before speaking. “How long do you think you can do that sort of work without becoming … sullied?”
“If you’re asking me to defend my work, Margaret, I could make an analogy with a doctor or a lawyer. Both of those occupations deal with human misery; they both make their money off of human pain.”
“But theirs is the attempt to alleviate it. Yours seems to contribute to it. I’m not trying to make you angry, Devlin. I’m just trying to understand. You told me that your uncle raised questions about my fitting in with your line of work, and I’ve been thinking of that. And now, well, this is an aspect of it I never considered.”
“I work with people in trouble or people who want to prevent trouble. It’s not a clean corner of the world and it’s not always a clean business. Sometimes, in fact, it’s pretty damned dirty and mean. But I do my best to keep that outside of me—on my skin so it can be washed off. And despite what the job calls for, there are some things I do my best to avoid. Maliciousness, for example. Or harm to those who don’t deserve it. Maybe even help for those who do.”
“You the jury?”
“Judge and jury, sometimes—if it’s called for. I guess what I’m trying awkwardly to say is that the dirt doesn’t have to be eaten.”
“And yet you,” she selected the word, “investigated Austin before he committed suicide?”
“Yes. What I did might have contributed to his death. That’s a fact, and I am truly sorry for that.”
“But he was guilty, so it all balanced out in the jury’s eyes? Is it fair to say that?”
“I don’t know about the world’s balances, just my own. He was in trouble, and he was getting other people in trouble. I was hired to find out what kind of trouble and how bad.”
“But when you were hired, you didn’t know that. You didn’t know if he was innocent or guilty when you began investigating him.”
“That’s true. That was the thing I was supposed to find out.”
“And so you took pictures of him and made lists of his visitors?”
“I also tapped his telephone and went through his papers.”
“I see.”
I wasn’t sure what she saw. I hoped it wasn’t a vision of saying good-bye to me. But I wasn’t going to soften the facts; the work did involve a lot of things that weren’t clean and nice and well mannered. There was no sense misleading her about that. She was trying to get a picture of her options, and if I was still one of them, I wanted that picture to be very clear. “There are some rights and wrongs we hold to despite the kind of work we do. Bunch has a good sense of them. I like to think that I do, too. Even someone like Landrum has a glimmering of them.”
“You mean you’re some sort of Robin Hoods?”
“Nothing so glamorous or fabled. But I’ve known some people who have very respectable jobs but whose private lives—and hearts—are cruel and greedy and petty. I like to believe that Bunch and I are the reverse of that. We work among the cruel and greedy and petty, but there are some moral standards we hold to—a sense of human dignity that’s even more important because we see too many who are without it.”
“I believe I understand. I mean, we pass judgments on people every day, don’t we? But I’m still confused.” She glanced at the folder on the coffee table. “And I’m still a bit shocked at what was done to me. And at how you explain the need for it. I have to think, Devlin. I want time to think.”
I finished my drink and gathered up the papers. “While you’re thinking, Margaret, please remember that I love you.”
She nodded, silent, as I went to the door by myself.
“She’s doing a lot better,” said Bunch. “Did you hear that sentence? Three words— ‘I like it.’”
We had been driving Mrs. Faulk around on last-minute errands—she was to fly back to Des Moines for a few days to stitch up the fabric of that abruptly torn life, and then drive back to Denver in her own car. After that, we had gone by the hospital to visit Susan and that left Bunch in high spirits, reliving everything she said and did and finding reason for hope in each tiny change.
When the last aspect of our visit with Susan had been savored, Bunch asked me what Margaret had said about Landrum’s file, and I told him that part of it which was relevant.
“There was a car she didn’t recognize?”
“I talked to her again this morning. She still couldn’t place it.” But at least her voice no longer held that distant, musing tone that had chilled it last night. In fact, she sounded genuinely pleased when I asked her to a show at one of the local experimental theaters.
“So we’ve got two possibles: one unidentified and one repeat.”
“A repeat? You mean Loomis?”
“I don’t mean you, partner. He has two contacts with Margaret Haas and his name was in Busey’s purse. In sleuth talk, that’s a notable coincidence.”
“It’s not so notable if she was only going to ask him why he was talking to Margaret.”
“But we’ll never know that for certain, will we?” Bunch asked, “What do you have on the guy?”
“About the same as you do: he was my father’s business partner, he’s a consultant to and friend of McAllister, and he was Margaret’s professor. That seems reason enough for him to keep turning up.”
“Sure it does. But suppose you didn’t know the guy? Wouldn’t you check him out because he’s a repeater?”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“I’ll flip you for it. Heads is Loomis, tails is the car rental.”
I said heads and it came up Loomis. Bunch said “Ciao” and headed for the airport and the Efficiency Auto Rental office; my first call was to the private university that housed Loomis’s business school. I explained that the Denver Post financial editor wanted me to do a story comparing the local business schools and asked the secretary if she would be kind enough to answer a few questions. I underestimated the press’s power to tremble the ivied halls; with a breathless eagerness, she quickly turned me over to the dean, a fat voice that hovered around the first person singular and spelled its own name twice. Among the myriad facts, I learned about one of the finest programs of its kind in the state, about one of the finest faculties in the nation, about one of the finest administrations in the world. We approached the galaxy and the universe as I was told that, yes, Professor Loomis was an especially prized member of the faculty and an internationally recognized expert in his field of—and here the dean had to clear his throat—and that he had established very strong relations with the local business community, who often requested his consultation. The professor had been at the institution for several years, coming with the highest recommendations from—the dean believed, no, was certain—Columbia University. To facilitate my interviewing of Professor Loomis or any other of the outstanding faculty, the dean finally turned me over to the secretary who had a list of telephone numbers and office hours and who would be happy to assist in any way possible. And could I give her an idea of when the story would be coming out?
The next call was one of those that had to go through two or three operators and half-a-dozen secretaries before being halted by a female voice of crisp and authoritative officialdom. “Yes, Mr. Kirk. Professor Loomis was on our
faculty. He resigned his position four years ago.”
“Did you know him?”
“I did.”
“Can you tell me something about him? Something I can use to fill in the human-interest side of my story?”
“I would prefer not to.”
It seemed Columbia University never heard of the Denver Post. Or did I detect a faint aroma of animosity there? “Was he difficult to get along with?”
“I did not say that. In fact, I did not say anything. I do not gossip about faculty members, past or present.”
“I see. Did the professor give any reason for his resignation?”
“You would have to ask the dean that. But I’m sorry he’s not available.”
“Can you tell me of any awards or grants he may have won?”
“You would have to ask the dean about that.”
“How about publications while he was there? Or consultantships?”
“You would have to ask the dean that.”
“Is this a recording?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I’d like a recording of his triumphs and successes as seen by his peers and students. Can you recommend anyone I should speak with? Besides the dean, that is.”
A pause. “Yes, Mr. Kirk, I do believe I can. If this is kept confidential.”
“Of course.”
“Then you might try Mr. Robert Sharabigian. I believe he works for Computer Electronics over in Newark. Good-bye.”
She didn’t wait to hear me say good-bye—too emotional a moment, perhaps. The call to directory assistance was even less helpful and left me with the slight suspicion of having been had: Computer Electronics wasn’t listed in the greater Newark directory. And there turned out to be thirty-five Sharabigians in the New York region, a tribute to the perseverance of the Armenian nation. Nine of them were named Robert. One had not attended Columbia University, another had never heard of it, and the others either weren’t home or weren’t answering their telephones. That left me talking to the hearty quack of Percy Ahern, one of the reasons Kirk and Associates was in the plural.
“Devlin! Is it still snowing out there in Indian country, lad?”
“It’s almost summer, Perce. We haven’t had snow for at least two hours.”
“Almost summer! Well for your sake I hope it comes on a long weekend this year. And what is it you want from me besides entertainment and wisdom?”
The only time Percy had flown out to Denver had been a quick trip one July to check on the investment and borrowing records of a creative financier who had purchased a bank in Albany, New York, apparently using the bank’s own funds to make the down payment. As his plane landed, one of those heavy mountain storms had blown in and hung low and tattered among the skyscrapers and dropped an inch or two of crunchy snow across the city, to give the seersucker-clad Percy a shock that he never got over.
“I’m doing a background check on a Professor Michael Loomis who was at Columbia business school five years back. The only lead I have is one Robert Sharabigian, and I can’t find him. Last address was the Computer Electronics Company in Newark. But it’s not listed. Can you help me out?” I spelled all the names and gave him the numbers of the Sharabigians I had not been able to reach.
Percy would do it because I traded off by looking up things for him in this area—he preferred to stay out East where the seasons could be identified—and also because of the touch of nostalgia we shared for our days in the Service. He asked me a few more questions about Loomis and Sharabigian and when we’d finished telling each other about names from the past, he said he would call back as soon as he had something. “It might take a few days. You know how it goes.”
The routine work of keeping the agency going ate up the next few hours. I logged in the tax-deductible items before they slipped away into unprovable obscurity, checked the mail with its bills and ads and—more importantly—responses from possible clients, had the satisfaction of tallying and mailing the final bill for the AeroLabs project, and began answering the calls on the recorder. Far down the answering machine’s tape was a brief message from Vinny Landrum, “Kirk, give me a call. I got something.”
He wasn’t at his office, but the telephone clicked forward to the next number and Landrum answered.
“This is Kirk. What do you have?”
“It took you long enough, for Christ’s sake. I thought you were so goddamn hot for this stuff.”
“I just got your message, Vinny. You were way down at the end of the tape—sort of the story of your life.”
“Funny guy. What’s it worth?”
“How do I know until I hear it?”
He thought that over. “You said you’d pay a bonus for information. You said that, remember?”
“I remember, Vinny. And if it’s any good, I will. Let’s hear it.”
“It’s good. It’s something the cops didn’t come up with.”
“Or perhaps didn’t want?”
“It’s good! Here it is: on the night that Carrie went up to my office and got herself shot, another female went up there too.”
“A woman? With her?”
“No. Alone. Just after Carrie went up the stairs.”
“You’re sure?”
“Hell yes, I’m sure! I talked to this old guy lives across the alley from the office. A Mr. Svenson, 1650 Pearl. He was sitting on the crapper looking out the bathroom window and he sees her.”
“How did he know it wasn’t Busey?”
“He didn’t know who it was, but she was wearing a tan coat like a raincoat, and a hat that came down around her face. Did Carrie have a hat? Tell me, smartass, did Carrie have a hat?”
No, she didn’t, and her coat had been a dark, short one. “Why didn’t he tell the cops this?”
“They asked him if he saw a woman go up the stairs at about that time. He said he did. But, man, the woman he saw wasn’t who the cops were asking about. It was this other one.”
“Did he see her face?”
“No, just the light brown coat and hat. That’s why he remembers. The hat. Nobody wears a hat no more.”
“What time was it?”
“A couple minutes before seven.”
“How’s he so certain about the time?”
“He watches this program at seven. He was getting in his after-dinner crap before his program comes on.”
That fit the time of death. “He saw her enter your office?”
“He saw her go up the stairs. He can’t see my door from that angle, but she didn’t come back down. So it figures she went in.”
“But he didn’t see her come out later?”
“No. He was at the TV. And he didn’t think much of it anyway. When the cops asked him if he’d seen a woman go up the stairs at about that time, he said yeah. They thought he meant Carrie, but, man, he meant this other one. I asked him what’d she look like and he told me. I knew, man—that wasn’t Carrie. So I went around to this other witness, the one who told the cops she saw Carrie, and had her describe the one she saw and it was Carrie. No hat and that dark jacket she had on. And this other witness figures the time at about quarter to seven. I figure this other one had a meet with Carrie for seven and then offed her.”
“That’s good work, Vinny.”
“I know that, Kirk. I’m a damn good p.i.—the best. Now, what’s it worth?”
CHAPTER 14
“I DON’T KNOW who it was, Devlin. But I was terrified. It was no accident—it was deliberate!” Margaret’s voice still had the tense, quivering note of fear and anger that verged on tears.
“Are you all right? The children?”
“Yes, we’re all fine, thank God. We had our seatbelts on, and Austin and Shauna were in the back seat. I still don’t know how we got out of it.”
“You’re at the police station now?”
“Yes. The officer said someone would give us a ride home.”
“Stay there—I’ll be right over.”
Margaret’s call had
caught up with me in the Healy and I angled across the lanes crowded with six o’clock traffic and turned south. What she told me had been fragmented and disjointed, but I pieced it together to understand that a van had forced her car across the road toward incoming traffic on one of the high-speed arteries that sliced through the southeast corner of the city. Somehow she had managed to avoid the cars screaming toward her and skidded across both lanes to spin to a halt on the edge of the road, sitting in almost numb shock and trying to calm the now terrified children. The car’s right front wheel was broken and the right side scraped and dented where the van had side-swiped them. It had disappeared somewhere during the frantic seconds she fought the steering wheel, and everything had happened so fast that all she saw was the black wall of steel and the heavily tinted glass of the driver’s window.
District Three police headquarters was just off I-25, a flat-roofed, one-story building that had solid white walls and several parking lots scattered around it. One was reserved for visitors, and a walk led around the side of the building to the silvered glass of the main entry. A woman police officer sat behind the chest-high bench and glanced up as I came in; Margaret and the children were at one end of the oblong room.
“How are you doing?”
“Devlin!” She held me tightly and I could feel the quiver still in her body. Austin and Shauna, silent with eyes wide, sat side by side on the chairs drawn up to a small table where Margaret filled out the accident report form.
“You sure you’re all right? You checked the children for bumps and bruises?”
“Yes. The officer … I was just sitting there—I couldn’t believe it—he told me to look them over. They say they’re all right and I didn’t see anything.”
I took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the tight feeling that must have clamped my lungs since Margaret’s call. “I’m glad you’re safe. All of you.”