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Authors: Joseph Hansen
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the ostrich-hide folder that held his license fall open for her to see. “I’m a private investigator, assisting the Los Angeles police looking into the murder of Cricket Shales.”
She started to turn back to her work. “Police already been and gone.”
“I’m the second wave.” Dave put the license away. “It’s about Rachel Klein—who works here.”
“She hasn’t come back,” the woman said, “if that’s what you mean. After what she did? She’s no genius. If you know singers, especially wanna-be singers, you know they don’t run to brains—but she’s not an idiot.”
“She had a friend on the staff here called Karen,” Dave said. “Does she still work here?”
“Can’t get much work done, police always bothering her.”
“I don’t think they did,” Dave said. “I’m told somehow they missed her.”
“She’s in and out quite a bit.”
“She was with Rachel at a bar called Shadows the night Rachel first saw Cricket,” Dave said. “That’s why I need to talk to her.”
“That Cricket. He was nothing but trouble and misery for Rachel when he was alive. Looks like dead it’s no different—like there’s no end to it.”
“Maybe this time she was the troublemaker. He was alive and well till he met her again.”
“She never shot him,” the woman scoffed. “Rachel Klein? That helpless, simple little thing? No way.”
“Drugs changed her,” Dave said. “Cost her her job here, didn’t they?”
“Like I say—all Cricket’s fault. When they locked him up, she was all right again. Men.” She wagged her head grimly. “Nothing but bad news. I know. I had my share.”
Dave moved toward the hallway that was bringing the faint music. “Where do I find Karen?”
The woman picked up a telephone receiver, punched an extension number. “Karen? A Mr. Brandon here to see you. A private investigator. About Rachel.” She looked Dave over. “No, lean, blond, blue-eyed. And I’d say, just offhand, could take you to lunch at 72 Market Street if you smile pretty for him. Most likely in a Mercedes.” She hung up. “She’ll be right out.”
“It’s a Jaguar,” Dave said. He’d kept an old prejudice. He didn’t like it for anyone to think he’d buy a German car. Or a Japanese one for that matter. “What’s her last name?”
“Goddard.” The woman put on the red-framed glasses again and went back to work.
And Karen Goddard appeared. Dave didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. She was tall, rangy, masculine in her walk and voice and dress. Her handshake was strong. She led him along the hallway. They passed a recording studio door with a red light glowing above it. And a moment later, at his back, came that blast of music he’d expected earlier. But it didn’t last. The thick studio door thudded shut again. Karen Goddard showed Dave into an office where young women moved busily among ferns and ficus trees, working computers, answering telephones, ripping pages off whining printers, turning green for split seconds in the light of copiers. Pop music posters and album covers decorated the walls. Karen Goddard led him to an office of four desks cut off from the bigger room by metal and glass partitions. No one else was in the office. She closed the door and said:
“Sit down, Mr. Brandon. What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Leppard of the homicide division was here day before yesterday to ask about Rachel Klein.”
She sat down and smiled faintly. “So they tell me. I was out of the office. At a meeting. Settling the details of a Triceratops concert at Universal Amphitheater. It’s not important. I couldn’t have told him anything.”
“You could have told him one thing,” Dave said. “He was here about the murder of Cricket Shales, Rachel’s onetime boyfriend. And you were with Rachel the night she met him. At a club called Shadows. Maybe you introduced them.”
She looked startled, and something more. But only for a second. She smiled.
She started to turn back to her work. “Police already been and gone.”
“I’m the second wave.” Dave put the license away. “It’s about Rachel Klein—who works here.”
“She hasn’t come back,” the woman said, “if that’s what you mean. After what she did? She’s no genius. If you know singers, especially wanna-be singers, you know they don’t run to brains—but she’s not an idiot.”
“She had a friend on the staff here called Karen,” Dave said. “Does she still work here?”
“Can’t get much work done, police always bothering her.”
“I don’t think they did,” Dave said. “I’m told somehow they missed her.”
“She’s in and out quite a bit.”
“She was with Rachel at a bar called Shadows the night Rachel first saw Cricket,” Dave said. “That’s why I need to talk to her.”
“That Cricket. He was nothing but trouble and misery for Rachel when he was alive. Looks like dead it’s no different—like there’s no end to it.”
“Maybe this time she was the troublemaker. He was alive and well till he met her again.”
“She never shot him,” the woman scoffed. “Rachel Klein? That helpless, simple little thing? No way.”
“Drugs changed her,” Dave said. “Cost her her job here, didn’t they?”
“Like I say—all Cricket’s fault. When they locked him up, she was all right again. Men.” She wagged her head grimly. “Nothing but bad news. I know. I had my share.”
Dave moved toward the hallway that was bringing the faint music. “Where do I find Karen?”
The woman picked up a telephone receiver, punched an extension number. “Karen? A Mr. Brandon here to see you. A private investigator. About Rachel.” She looked Dave over. “No, lean, blond, blue-eyed. And I’d say, just offhand, could take you to lunch at 72 Market Street if you smile pretty for him. Most likely in a Mercedes.” She hung up. “She’ll be right out.”
“It’s a Jaguar,” Dave said. He’d kept an old prejudice. He didn’t like it for anyone to think he’d buy a German car. Or a Japanese one for that matter. “What’s her last name?”
“Goddard.” The woman put on the red-framed glasses again and went back to work.
And Karen Goddard appeared. Dave didn’t know what he’d expected, but not this. She was tall, rangy, masculine in her walk and voice and dress. Her handshake was strong. She led him along the hallway. They passed a recording studio door with a red light glowing above it. And a moment later, at his back, came that blast of music he’d expected earlier. But it didn’t last. The thick studio door thudded shut again. Karen Goddard showed Dave into an office where young women moved busily among ferns and ficus trees, working computers, answering telephones, ripping pages off whining printers, turning green for split seconds in the light of copiers. Pop music posters and album covers decorated the walls. Karen Goddard led him to an office of four desks cut off from the bigger room by metal and glass partitions. No one else was in the office. She closed the door and said:
“Sit down, Mr. Brandon. What can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Leppard of the homicide division was here day before yesterday to ask about Rachel Klein.”
She sat down and smiled faintly. “So they tell me. I was out of the office. At a meeting. Settling the details of a Triceratops concert at Universal Amphitheater. It’s not important. I couldn’t have told him anything.”
“You could have told him one thing,” Dave said. “He was here about the murder of Cricket Shales, Rachel’s onetime boyfriend. And you were with Rachel the night she met him. At a club called Shadows. Maybe you introduced them.”
She looked startled, and something more. But only for a second. She smiled.
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