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Authors: Joseph Hansen
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little boy.” Vickers shook his head, troubled, grim. “I thought she had herself in better control. I couldn’t believe she’d go to pieces so completely. I was appalled. She threatened me with a gun.”
“You weren’t the first,” Dave said. “When she put Zach in the trunk she showed him the gun and told him she’d kill him if he made any noise.”
“Oh, no.” Vickers leaned back in his chair, tilted his head up, eyes closed. The baseball cap fell off. He paid it no attention, sat forward again, face twisted in pained disbelief. “Threatened a little child?”
“Are you so sure now she didn’t kill Shales?”
“She was clean, Mr. Brandstetter. Back at her job. Doing just fine. We had a beautiful relationship going between us. She’s a lovely, gentle girl. God gave her a beautiful voice. I was certain with the drugs and booze behind her, she’d make a career.” His face shadowed. “She’d have done it years ago if she hadn’t met Cricket.”
“The police are sure she killed him.”
“Have they found her? Lieutenant Leppard promised to call. I want to see her. Arrange bail, get her a lawyer.”
“They haven’t found her. Where is she, Mr. Vickers?”
“I only know she isn’t here.”
Dave stood up. “Maybe here is where she’ll come to.” He laid his card on the desk. “If so, call me, will you? I want to see her, too. Because I don’t think she did it.”
Vickers rose. “I’ll get someone to show you out.”
“This way is fine,” Dave said, pushed open the screen door, went down rickety steps, lacy at their edges with dry rot. He took a strip of cracked walk toward the driveway. This led him past a trash module. Sticking out of heaps of rubbish was a worn blue-and-white jogging shoe. He didn’t think he’d ever seen one so large. He picked it up and looked for its mate. Not here. A squatty youth came out of the stable, brushing sawdust off his sweaty bare chest and arms, and blinking in the morning sun.
“Help you?” he called.
“No, thanks.” Dave took the shoe away with him.
The address he had got from a phone book was of a long single-story warehouse in a sun-struck, beachside district of Santa Monica, where the only traffic seemed to be made up of seagulls and trucks. He left the Jaguar on tarmac gritty with blown sand and bleached and cracked by weather, and climbed steps to a block-long loading dock. He walked this dock, peering at signs beside or above or riveted to painted metal doors—signs for commercial photographers, advertising agencies, illustrators, magazine publishers, layout and design studios, mail-order merchandisers, TV production companies—until he found SAY WHAT? RECORDS, INC .
He pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a long hallway handsomely wall-painted in bright, clean geometric shapes, and lit by fluorescent tubes suspended from studded steel rafters under a pitched metal roof. The floor of the hallway was color-coded in stripes—red, yellow, blue, green, brown, white. He blinked around him and found a directory. The blue stripe would lead him where he wanted to go. He followed it along the hallway, around several corners into other hallways. At last the blue stripe veered and climbed beside a door to a bell button. He pushed the button. A latch clicked. He stepped inside.
He had braced himself to be met by loud music, but the only music came faintly from some far-off room. This office was quiet except for the click of computer keyboard keys under the fingers of a hefty black woman whose red-framed spectacles had thin gold chains hanging from the bows and around her neck. She turned from putting green letters on a monitor, let the glasses fall to the vast shelf of her bosom, and cocked her head at him. Plainly she didn’t know what to make of him. “The photographer for Gentlemen’s Quarterly is at the other end of the building,” she said.
Dave grinned. “I’m not a fashion model. My name is Dave Brandstetter.” He let
“You weren’t the first,” Dave said. “When she put Zach in the trunk she showed him the gun and told him she’d kill him if he made any noise.”
“Oh, no.” Vickers leaned back in his chair, tilted his head up, eyes closed. The baseball cap fell off. He paid it no attention, sat forward again, face twisted in pained disbelief. “Threatened a little child?”
“Are you so sure now she didn’t kill Shales?”
“She was clean, Mr. Brandstetter. Back at her job. Doing just fine. We had a beautiful relationship going between us. She’s a lovely, gentle girl. God gave her a beautiful voice. I was certain with the drugs and booze behind her, she’d make a career.” His face shadowed. “She’d have done it years ago if she hadn’t met Cricket.”
“The police are sure she killed him.”
“Have they found her? Lieutenant Leppard promised to call. I want to see her. Arrange bail, get her a lawyer.”
“They haven’t found her. Where is she, Mr. Vickers?”
“I only know she isn’t here.”
Dave stood up. “Maybe here is where she’ll come to.” He laid his card on the desk. “If so, call me, will you? I want to see her, too. Because I don’t think she did it.”
Vickers rose. “I’ll get someone to show you out.”
“This way is fine,” Dave said, pushed open the screen door, went down rickety steps, lacy at their edges with dry rot. He took a strip of cracked walk toward the driveway. This led him past a trash module. Sticking out of heaps of rubbish was a worn blue-and-white jogging shoe. He didn’t think he’d ever seen one so large. He picked it up and looked for its mate. Not here. A squatty youth came out of the stable, brushing sawdust off his sweaty bare chest and arms, and blinking in the morning sun.
“Help you?” he called.
“No, thanks.” Dave took the shoe away with him.
The address he had got from a phone book was of a long single-story warehouse in a sun-struck, beachside district of Santa Monica, where the only traffic seemed to be made up of seagulls and trucks. He left the Jaguar on tarmac gritty with blown sand and bleached and cracked by weather, and climbed steps to a block-long loading dock. He walked this dock, peering at signs beside or above or riveted to painted metal doors—signs for commercial photographers, advertising agencies, illustrators, magazine publishers, layout and design studios, mail-order merchandisers, TV production companies—until he found SAY WHAT? RECORDS, INC .
He pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a long hallway handsomely wall-painted in bright, clean geometric shapes, and lit by fluorescent tubes suspended from studded steel rafters under a pitched metal roof. The floor of the hallway was color-coded in stripes—red, yellow, blue, green, brown, white. He blinked around him and found a directory. The blue stripe would lead him where he wanted to go. He followed it along the hallway, around several corners into other hallways. At last the blue stripe veered and climbed beside a door to a bell button. He pushed the button. A latch clicked. He stepped inside.
He had braced himself to be met by loud music, but the only music came faintly from some far-off room. This office was quiet except for the click of computer keyboard keys under the fingers of a hefty black woman whose red-framed spectacles had thin gold chains hanging from the bows and around her neck. She turned from putting green letters on a monitor, let the glasses fall to the vast shelf of her bosom, and cocked her head at him. Plainly she didn’t know what to make of him. “The photographer for Gentlemen’s Quarterly is at the other end of the building,” she said.
Dave grinned. “I’m not a fashion model. My name is Dave Brandstetter.” He let
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