“In her place, would you like him?”
Elena was driving, talking to Lance, while Leo took notes as they pulled up to a prairie-style house, probably designed earlier in the century by Henry Trost, a Frank Lloyd Wright follower. Elena would have loved to own a Trost house, but they were too big and undoubtedly too expensive.
“I have the second floor,” said Lance. They mounted outside wooden steps that must have been added later when the attic was converted to accommodate a renter. Lance had one large room and a bath. There was a Pullman kitchen behind slatted doors and a large couch upholstered in a nubby black fabric. It evidently opened out into a bed. A beautiful reproduction eighteenth-century writing desk and chair stood by the large dormer window, and a glass and wrought-iron dining set occupied one corner. Several large abstract paintings, whose predominant colors were black and white with touches of red, hung on matte white walls.
Elena found herself liking the paintings, although her taste usually ran to Indian and Southwestern art. The Hopi painters who had modernized traditional Hopi designs were among her favorites. If she were rich, she’d buy one of those corn-maiden pictures. They featured a muted shade of green that sent shivers up her spine. “Nice place,” she said to Lance.
He thanked her with a pleased smile and added deprecatingly, “It’s affordable.”
The most interesting thing in the apartment, case-wise, was the streamlined bicycle hanging from the wall on pegs. Elena went over to inspect it and jotted down in her notebook “green Cannondale R600.” The Ituribes had thought the bike in the alley was green.
“Do a lot of bicycle riding?” asked Leo casually.
Lance turned to follow the direction of Leo’s gaze. “I’m a racer.” His face lit with enthusiasm. “It’s the greatest high in the world, riding a bike so fast the roadside blurs at the corners of your vision and the horizon hurtles into your face.”
Very poetic, thought Elena and asked prosaically, “You own a car?”
Lance shook his head. “I bike to work.”
“That’s ten miles!” exclaimed Elena. Ten miles on a bike would probably lay her up for a week.
“Not quite, but it keeps me in shape for the next race. The gun’s in the drawer of my writing desk.”
Leo went to the desk, opened it, fished a gun out with a pencil, and dropped it, barrel up, into an evidence bag he pulled from his pocket. “Looks like a Luger.”
Lance nodded. “My father found it on the body of a German officer during the Second World War.”
Before he sealed the bag, Leo leaned over to sniff. “Smells like it’s been cleaned.”
“Probably. He’d rather disassemble and clean that Luger than read a book or watch TV.”
“Ammunition in here,” said Leo. He used a handkerchief to remove the box and open it. “Some gone.”
“He liked to shoot ground squirrels out back.”
“Surprised he didn’t notice the gun was missing if he was so fond of it,” said Leo.
“Maybe he did. I haven’t talked to him or my mother since I took it.”
“Nine millimeter hollow point,” Leo murmured to Elena.
The autopsy report had come in that morning. Boris had been killed by a 9 mm hollow-point bullet through the brain. It had smashed against the plate at the back of his skull, making it impossible for Ballistics to give them rifling information that would tie the bullet to a specific gun. The markings at the end of the cartridge, however, had been identified as probably coming from an old Luger. The gun, the bullets, and the bicycle made Lance a very good suspect, especially since he’d been overheard threatening to kill his father.
They left the apartment and went to headquarters at Five Points, where they put Lance in the large interrogation room with the one-way window. He sat down on the blue polka-dot sofa as Elena and Leo excused themselves for a private conversation in the hall.
“He was lying about the flu,” said Leo.
“I agree. You’d think he’d at least come up with a better story. And he only rides a bicycle, which explains the green bike in the alley.”
“You wanna question him while I listen?” Leo offered. “You know more about the mother.”
“Sure. And let’s get a warrant for his apartment. If we find the czar’s medal, it would make our case.”
“I’ll fill out the form while you’re talking to him.”
Elena walked into the interrogation room and sat down on a brown vinyl chair facing Lance while Leo holed up next door, where he could listen and watch without being seen.
“You’re about to ask if I want a lawyer,” said Lance. “Don’t bother. I didn’t kill my father.”
“Good. You said you were home with the flu. Did you go to a doctor?”
“Of course not. You have the flu, you go to bed, drink lots of liquids, take aspirin.”
He seemed more comfortable with the story now. Elena figured he’d been thinking up elaborations on the way over. “Did you see or talk to anyone while you were sick?”
“No, I stayed in bed, only got up to use the bathroom and drink tea.”
“Sounds like my mother’s prescription.”
“It’s my mother’s too.”
“How come you didn’t call her if you were sick?”
Lance gave her a hard look, belying the shy poet façade. “When I got in touch with my mother, it set my father off.”
“Your mother never said your father abused her.”
“That’s right. Even when he pushed her downstairs and broke her hip, she didn’t admit it. You’ve never met women like that?”
Elena nodded. There was anger there, enough to fuel a murder, she thought. “What was the problem between you and your father?”
“Just about everything. The way he treated her. It infuriated him if I tried to defend her. He’d probably rather they never had a child. Especially one like me.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“He thinks writing poetry is unmanly—I’m a poet. Then he found out I’m gay; he hated that.” Lance eyed Elena bitterly. “I suppose my being gay gives me favored status as the suspect.”
“Neither Leo nor I have anything against homosexuals,” said Elena, which was an evasion of sorts. There had been problems between the department and the homosexual community. “Are you—ah—out of the closet?”
“If you mean do I run around joining organizations, stumping for gay rights, marching in weird parades, no. It’s neither a secret nor widely known. Do you run around talking about your sex life?”
Elena laughed. “Right now I don’t have any. I suppose someone lives downstairs at your place.”
“Sure. The owners of the house.”
“Would they be aware that you were home sick?”
“I don’t know.”
“They might have heard you moving around.”
“I didn’t move around that much.”
“Going up and down the stairs?”
“I didn’t leave the apartment.”
“You’re telling me that you have no alibi.”
“I don’t need an alibi. I didn’t kill him.” He was sounding nervous and defensive again, as if it were beginning to dawn on him that he might be in big trouble. “And you can keep the gun. I don’t want it back now that my mother’s safe.” He paused, then said, “My God, has she been trying to get hold of me?”
“She has.”
“I need to get over there.”
Leo came in from the listening room and said, “We’re gonna have to ask you not to leave Los Santos until our investigation is complete, Mr. Potemkin.”
“But I’m entered in a bicycle race on the High Road to Taos the end of the week.”
“Sorry. Unless we’ve found the killer, you can’t go.”
“I’m under arrest?” He looked terrifie
d. “Do you realize how gays are treated in jail? I can’t—”
“You’re not under arrest,” said Leo. “But you are a suspect.”
“Another thing. We’re going to have to impound your bicycles,” added Elena. “I assume there’s a second at H.H.U.?”
“What am I supposed to use for transportation?”
“Rent a car. Take a bus,” suggested Leo.
“What do my bicycles have to do with this?”
“One of the neighbors”—Elena almost said who but thought better of it—”saw a bike out in the alley the afternoon of your father’s death.”
Lance paled. “It couldn’t have been one of mine.”
“Still, sir, we’ll need to impound them,” said Leo. “If you refuse, we can get a warrant.”
“What are you going to do? Have a bicycle lineup for one of my mother’s doddering old friends?” he snapped.
Elena hadn’t thought of it, but it was an idea.
Lance looked dejected and muttered, “Did it occur to you that someone might have broken into the house and killed him?”
“Sure, we thought of that, except the house wasn’t broken into. We also thought of your mother,” said Leo.
“Mother wouldn’t.” Lance looked horrified. “Good lord, she wasn’t there when it happened, was she?”
Nice touch, thought Elena. “She says she was playing bridge at the senior citizens center.”
He looked relieved. “I hope you’re giving me a ride back to the English Department.”
“Well, we’ll have to pick up the bicycle there, and we’ll want to search your apartment,” said Elena.
“What for?”
“Evidence.”
“But there isn’t any,” Lance protested. “I didn’t do anything.”
“The question is, do we have to get a warrant for your apartment?”
“If I give permission, what happens? You discover I have some homosexual novels and charge me with—”
“Lance, we’re not interested in your library. You have my word that we won’t take anything that doesn’t pertain to your father.” He looked scared and confused. If Lance was innocent, confusion was understandable. Either way, she could understand scared.
“Cooperation makes a good impression,” said Leo, “but we can get the warrant. Take about two hours. We can hold you until—”
“But I have the magazine proofs to do.” Lance now looked like a man on the edge of panic. “All right,” he decided.
They left the Crimes Against Persons Division and started to turn right toward the side door.
“Sneaking me out?” muttered Lance.
“Not if you’d prefer to leave through the front,” said Leo sharply and, taking Lance by the arm, headed him toward the hall that went to the public reception area. At the desk they ran into Harmony, chatting with a volunteer.
“Mom, you’re kind of early to pick me up, aren’t you?” said Elena.
“I finished at the center, so I thought I’d come down and get better acquainted. Your colleagues are so—” She stared at Lance, then exclaimed, “You’re the poet who publishes in the Desert Wind Anthology!”
Lance flushed, much to Elena’s astonishment.
“Your poem on saguaro against the sky was so moving,” said Harmony. “If it doesn’t take the prize this year, I’ll be very disappointed. I’m Harmony Portillo.” She shook Lance’s hand enthusiastically. “Elena’s mother.”
“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” he replied. “I don’t know too many people who’ve read my poetry.”
“I’m definitely a fan,” said Harmony. “And I’ve met your mother. Lovely woman. She gave me a dozen frozen cabbage rolls just yesterday. I suppose you’re here about your father’s death. I’m so sorry, dear.”
“Thanks,” said Lance.
“In fact, I drove Dimitra over to your apartment this morning to see if we couldn’t get hold of you.”
“I feel terrible that I wasn’t there for her,” said Lance. “How’s she taking it?”
“Very well, dear. She’s bearing up.”
“Bearing up” was an understatement, thought Elena. Dimitra was just short of gleeful.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. If you’re ever in Santa Fe, I’ll come in for the reading.” Harmony gave him a card.
“I’ve got a reading at the university tomorrow night,” he said diffidently.
“Really. Which university?”
“Herbert Hobart. It’s at seven. The first-floor auditorium in the Humanities building.”
“I’ll be there,” Harmony promised.
“Now that I think of it, I wonder if I’ll be there,” he mumbled. “I’ve got to find a ride.”
“Oh, I’d be glad to pick you up,” said Harmony.
“Mom!”
“Give me your address.”
Lance wrote the information on a slip of paper he borrowed from the desk sergeant. Elena gritted her teeth. Her mother was making friends with their prime suspect. Declaring herself his biggest fan. Offering him a ride.
“Time to go, Mr. Potemkin,” said Leo. “Officer Blake here will take you to the university to pick up the other bicycle. You can either give us the key to your apartment or we’ll meet you there.”
Lance opted to be present during the search. Once the poet had gone, Leo turned to Elena. “We’ve got him on tape saying, ‘My mother’s safe now.’”
Elena sighed. “I noticed that, but he was cooperative. Didn’t make us get warrants or anything.”
“When I said we’d hold him, he thought I meant jail.”
“Can’t blame him for not wanting to spend any time there.”
“I figure he thinks he’s washed the bicycles down so good there won’t be any evidence left that one of them was in that alley. As for the apartment, lots of perps think they’ve hidden things where no cop would ever think to look. But he’s wrong. If the medal’s there, we’ll find it.”
“Whatever are you two talking about?” asked Harmony. “That boy didn’t kill his father.”
Elena grinned. “Let me guess. He radiates the wrong color? Unfortunately, testimony about auras isn’t admissible in court, Mom.”
“Auras?” said Leo and stared at Harmony as if she’d just sprouted fairy wings.
Harmony went to the Chevrolet dealership to pick up her truck. Leo and Elena returned to Lance’s apartment, where they found a lot of handwritten poetry stuffed in his desk. No czar’s medal. No gun-cleaning equipment, no rubber gloves to eliminate fingerprints, no ski mask to hide his identity. No letters or diaries expressing a desire to kill his father. He did have an extensive library of gay literature and some videos, but Elena kept her promise and ignored them. And he had some sexy silk bikini underpants in bright prints, but she didn’t think those were germane to the case, just interesting. Frank had never worn anything like that, nor had her brothers. Elena wondered how many men had sexy underwear. Maybe just gay men did.
“We still can’t assume he’s innocent,” said Leo, interrupting her underwear speculations.
“I know,” Elena agreed and got out of Leo’s car. Since Harmony had left Elena’s truck at the dealer’s lot, Leo had offered Elena a ride to pick it up.
11
Wednesday, September 29, 8:15 P.M.
Having dug the first trench for her irrigation system, Elena came in from the back yard to find her mother weaving.
“Do you like the colors?” Harmony asked.
Elena studied the growing piece of fabric. “Yes,” she said. “Especially the green.”
Harmony nodded. “You always had a taste for that Hopi green, but what about the coral?”
“Depends on how much there is.”
“Just touches,” said Harmony. “Actually, I don’t know why I’m asking you. You neve
r give any thought to home decor.”
“I trust your taste, Mom, but look at this stuff.” She waved despondently at the sofa and love seat. Stuffing burst out of the pillows, springs from the frames.
“Not a problem. Mr. Ituribe will take care of it.”
“How did you happen to meet him?”
“Why, I’ve introduced myself to all your neighbors. Jose perked right up at the thought of getting his hand in again.”
“I’ll have to pay him something.”
“He’d be insulted if you offered.”
“The poor man’s dying of prostate cancer, Mom.”
“I know, Elena. It will make him happy to know he’s left something beautiful behind when he goes. Why haven’t you replaced your TV?”
“I’ve still got the black and white in the kitchen. It’s good enough for the news.”
“Well, certainly the news is something one doesn’t want to see in full color.”
“Mom, about Lance Potemkin. I don’t want you hanging out with a guy who probably killed his father.”
“Elena, Lance is not guilty.”
“O.K. Maybe he isn’t, but he’s a suspect. It looks bad to have my own mother connected to my suspect.”
Harmony chuckled. “Listening to him read poetry hardly constitutes a close connection.”
“You offered him a ride.”
“Well, he doesn’t have one. You took his bicycles.” Harmony stretched her back, then returned to her weaving.
Elena gave up. “Have you seen Dimitra today? I wondered how she was doing.”
“Just for a minute this afternoon,” said Harmony. “She was getting dressed for a date with Mr. Ashkenazi. Since she couldn’t locate her son, Mr. Ashkenazi offered to drive her to the mortuary to make funeral arrangements. Then they planned to take in a movie and go out to dinner.”
Elena didn’t know why she was surprised. Dimitra hadn’t made any bones about being pleased over Boris’ death, but for God’s sake, the woman had accepted a date before she’d even buried her husband. And taking her boyfriend to the funeral parlor? Elena shook her head. Tomorrow she’d ask Lieutenant Beltran to assign two uniforms to recanvass the neighborhood, see if anyone had spotted Omar lurking around the murder scene. Claiming to have been asleep on your carpet wasn’t Elena’s idea of a great alibi, and dating the widow of the victim—that certainly looked suspicious—stupid maybe, but suspicious.
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