Endangered Species (5 page)

“Somewhere in her twenties, I’d guess. And a guess is all it is, so far. Good, healthy musculature, normal internal organs—if a bit well-done.” He used a pair of tongs to lift something out and lay it in the pan scale. When the needle settled on a number, he stepped on the recorder pedal and muttered into the microphone. Then he took it out of the pan and placed it in a shallow stainless-steel bowl, to be sectioned for further tests.

“Can you look for evidence of rape?”

“I know my job, Wager.”

“I mean, is there enough left to determine if the victim was sexually assaulted?”

“External evidence, no. Internal, probably.” He peered toward the head area, at a part of the body Wager couldn’t see. “Except the mouth—throat’s pretty well burned through. Won’t be able to tell until I get there.”

Wager took his word for it. “The house was rented by a man. That’s who I thought this was.”

Hefley used the cuff of his chain-mail glove to scratch at his nose. “That adds to the possibility of a homicide.”

It was finally Wager’s turn. “That’s pretty damned obvious, isn’t it, Doc?”

9/21

1345

B
ACK AT HIS
desk, Wager first phoned Information in Oceanside, California. There was no listed number for a Marshall on Tremont, and the operator wouldn’t take Wager’s word that he was a cop and needed to know about a possible unlisted number. His next call was to the Oceanside PD. As he waited for that to be shunted to the right desk, Wager had vague memories of Camp Pendleton and the sun-washed beach city that was home to so many marines living off the base. Aside from the flat expanse of sea that stretched away from the sandy cliffs, the only part of the town he clearly recalled were the bars and dry cleaners outside the gate at Camp Del Mar. And even that, he’d been told, was nothing like it used to be.

Finally, a deep voice announced it was Detective Harwood, and Wager told the voice what he needed.

“This Marshall is the resident but not the victim?”

“Right. He listed the Oceanside address as his previous residence. His mother lives there too.”

“Not there she don’t, Detective Wager. Tremont Street don’t run that far north.”

“There’s no such address?”

“I used to patrol that area. There’s no such number.”

Wager thought about that. “Maybe it was copied down wrong. Could you check for any Elizabeth Marshall? See if she has a son named John living in Denver?”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Wager gave the voice his number and thanked him, and then he dialed Information in Los Angeles. Another male voice confirmed what he was beginning to suspect; there was no listing for a company named Crystal Pure Chemical Corporation.

He sat staring at the wall for a time. Someone had taped up a Xerox sheet proclaiming “Lost Dog,” and beneath the heavy print a one-eared, one-eyed fuzzy face stared out. Under that, a description: “3 legs, Blind in left Eye, Missing Right Ear, Tail broken, Recently Castrated. Answers to name of Lucky.”

A renter who gave a false last address, a false work address. And possibly a false name. Who may have disappeared. Possible arson. And a victim. It added up to a possible homicide, and Wager felt that little increase of pulse that came when he had a suspect. He turned to his list of numbers and dialed the business office of the telephone company and left his request. A few minutes later, as he shuffled through the morning’s stack of notices, announcements, and requests from other sections and departments, Mr. McClinton called back.

“Good morning, Detective Wager. I understand you need information from our files?”

In the decade Wager had known McClinton, the telephone company officer had never relaxed his vigilance where police inquiries were concerned. The procedure, when Wager or any other cop wanted information, was for McClinton’s secretary to take the request and the requester’s telephone number, verify it against the directory to be certain it was an official police number, and then McClinton would dial back to see who answered and to determine the officer’s need to know. Wager told the man why he wanted Marshall’s last telephone number.

“So this is for identification purposes only?”

“That’s right, Mr. McClinton.”

“Very well. The subscriber lists his last telephone number and address to be 494-9062 , 951 North Tremont, Oceanside, California.”

“That street address doesn’t exist. Could you find out for me if that telephone number does?”

A brief silence. “Doesn’t exist? What do you mean?”

Wager told him what he’d learned from the Oceanside PD.

A muted note of warmth entered the administrator’s voice, and Wager had the feeling that McClinton would be as eager as he was to trap a malefactor. “I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, Detective Wager.”

Motor Vehicles cooperated without any hassle. They had eleven John or Johnny Marshalls in their file of automobile registrants. Five were twenty to thirty-five years old. None listed the address Wager looked for, but he took the information anyway and began calling. The four people who answered gave variations of the same reply: they had not rented a house on Wyandot Street, they had no knowledge of a fire, they had no knowledge of a female victim of a fire. The fifth John Marshall had a telephone answerer that filled the receiver with laughter, music, and the clink of glasses and said that John was too busy having fun to answer the phone right now—leave a message and he’d get back when the party was over.

“Gabe—you had lunch yet?” Max settled on the side of Wager’s desk and wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. He frowned at the dark, oily smear it picked up: sludge that came from the air he breathed.

Wager looked with surprise at the wall clock. It was after two already. “Did you get anything from Fullerton?”

The big man sighed heavily. “That guy takes more time to say less than anybody I know. He ought to run for mayor. You know there’s an estimated 3,200 gang members in Denver? Anyway, Flaco Martinez he’s heard of. But as far as he’s learned, Martínez doesn’t belong to the Gallos or any other gang. He might belong to a ‘collectivity.’ That’s not quite a gang and it—”

Wager interrupted him. “‘—doesn’t have a fixed leadership.’ I’ve heard Fullerton before.” He shrugged on his jacket and followed Axton. “What about Albuquerque? They have anything?”

“Don’t know; their man wasn’t available yet. He’s supposed to call this afternoon.” Axton slid his and Wager’s name tags across the location board to the column headed
OUT OF OFFICE.
It told the civilian secretary that they were gone but on duty and she could contact them on the radio if necessary. “The Brothers?”

My Brother’s Bar was across the river bottom from lower downtown; the noon crowd would be gone by now, and Wager thought the aching memories associated with it and Jo Fabrizio had finally gone too. Still, when they entered the cool dimness of the corner bar, he couldn’t help a glance at the back tables, where he and Jo had spent a lot of time talking. It wasn’t a place where he brought Elizabeth, not because it was some kind of shrine but because it was a different period of his life—different people in it and perhaps even a different self living it—and he did not feel right about mixing them. Jo was dead, having literally disappeared into that emptiness we all go into sooner or later, her body still not found. It was that, Wager had finally come to realize, which made things worse: without a grave, grief had no focus, and the tiny voice of unstifled hope that said “Maybe she is still alive” was more of a cruelty than a solace. That observation had been Elizabeth’s, made when Wager had finally loosened up enough to tell her about Jo. Her words had been true, though they weren’t things that Wager would have admitted aloud, even to himself. And in fact, he still remembered the effort it had been to admit to Elizabeth that she was right. After that, they had made love for the first time.

Max led the way into the adjoining larger room and the heavy wooden tables and benches that the big man liked because they could hold his weight. The large sandwich menus painted on the wall hadn’t changed over the years, and neither had Max’s order—two Moisheburgers.

“Fullerton did say there could be some trouble at the Holy Name Church fiesta.” Max talked through a mouthful of sandwich.

“When’s that?”

“Tonight. What are they celebrating?”

Wager was “ethnic”—that was the latest buzzword. He was supposed to know all the Hispanic festivals. Some people said his minority status was the only reason he’d made it to Homicide. Others said he was put on Homicide because he was too much of a pain in the butt to work with anyone but Axton.

“I don’t know. Maybe they just feel like having a party.” He caught Max’s raised eyebrows. “Hey, I’m only half Hispanic. I only know half the fiesta days.”

“Oh.” The rest of Max’s sandwich disappeared from his fingers and reappeared as a lump in his cheek. “Anyway, Fullerton thinks there might be gang trouble. The parish includes the turf of the Gallos on the north side and the Tapatíos on the east.”

Gallos
meant “roosters,” and a lot of the neighborhood’s graffiti featured a stylized crowing bird; a
tapatío
was someone from the Mexican state of Jalisco, though Wager didn’t think any of the punks in that gang could even find Jalisco on the map, let alone claim to be from there. “The dance is going to be at the church, right?”

Max nodded.

“Then it’s the priest’s problem.” Nothing new about that. For many of Denver’s Latino immigrants and even a lot of the second-generation Chicanos, the church was their social as well as religious center. Which, of course, the priests did their best to further with dances, fiestas, and neighborhood celebrations. A small band, a keg of beer at a dollar a glass, a potluck table, and they were in business. And the priest always deputized a small cadre of hefty men—some of whom were ex-gang members—to keep things under control.

“Fullerton also said he heard Flaco was trying to make a deal with the Gallos. Which,” Max added, “could explain why he shot Moralez.”

“A dope deal?” The jostling between gangs for power was always restless, Wager knew, and if Flaco could offer the Gallos an edge over the Tapatíos, they might take it. Depending on what Flaco promised and what he wanted in return.

Max shrugged. “That’s my guess. Fullerton didn’t know anything more.”

“It fits with what Salazar told us.” He finished the sandwich. “So you want to go by the church?”

“Maybe we’ll find somebody to talk to.”

Maybe; maybe not. More likely, they’d end up wasting time. But if anybody was going to talk, it would be not to Max but to Wager, who, even if he was a cop, at least looked Hispanic.

Wager had two messages waiting at the office when he got back. The first, from the arson investigator, was terse officialese: “Traces of accelerant and origin of fire indicate arson.” The second was from McClinton: “The telephone number in question does not belong to the subject under inquiry. No listed or unlisted number in that exchange area is subscribed to by the subject or subjects under inquiry.” Wager took that to mean no on both counts: no number, no Elizabeth or John Marshall. He tried the morgue again, and the secretary, with excessive politeness, assured Wager that she would call him as soon as the final report was ready. She really would.

Then he called the forensics office to alert Archy Douglas. “Last night’s fire, Archy—it’s an arson. And as far as Doc Hefley’s gotten, it looks like the victim could have been dead before the fire started.”

“That’s definite?”

“The arson is. I just heard from the investigator’s office. Doc’s still working, but the victim’s not a man. It’s a woman.” He added, “The doc’ll need copies of Lincoln’s crime-scene photographs.”

“I already sent them over.” Wager heard that tiny whistle that Archy gave when he was thinking. “OK, the place is still sealed; I’ll get over there. Thanks—I think.”

Forensics didn’t want to waste a lot of time on a scene if a crime hadn’t been committed. But that reluctance had to be balanced against the need for speed if the death was a definite homicide. Wager guessed that Archy would spend the rest of the afternoon charting and measuring the room and the closet where the body had been found, and while that was going on, there wasn’t much Wager could do at the scene except get in the way.

He scanned down the federal government listings in the telephone book for the postal station nearest the Wyandot Street address. The woman who answered his call said the carrier for that route was Alfred Morris and he should be back at the station by four-thirty. She would be happy to tell him Wager wanted to talk with him. That gave Wager time to catch up with the afternoon’s paperwork and just beat the evening rush across town to the Highland Park Station.

There was no change-of-address card for a John Marshall at the Wyandot address. That didn’t surprise Wager. What did surprise him was that the route carrier remembered the man.

“Yeah—I saw that this morning. A bad fire.” The mailman was about Wager’s height but thick around the middle. A fringe of whiskers about as long as the bristles on a toothbrush, and just about as wide, ran from ear to ear along his jaw. It merged with the stiff hair of his sideburns and head to frame a round, pockmarked face with a sharp, triangular nose. It was a dumb-looking beard, and Wager tried his best to ignore it. “Anybody get hurt?”

“We found a body. I’m trying to identify it. Maybe you can help.” Morris nodded, and Wager asked the mailman if he could describe the people who lived there.

He thought for a moment. “Sure. Guy named Marshall. I remember because it’s not a Mexican name, you know?” He glanced at Wager and smiled widely. “Most of the customers in that neighborhood are of Mexican descent, you know?”

Wager nodded.

“You get used to the Spanish names, so that’s how I remember. He just moved in a couple weeks ago.” Morris scratched at an inch or two of the line of whiskers. “The Florios lived there for a long time—years. Then came the”—he searched his memory—“the Colimas. They had it about a year. Then it was up for sale again for a long time, and then this guy Marshall moved in.”