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Authors: J. A. Jance
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perfect until I walked around to the other side and discovered that the door on the rider’s side had been badly smashed.
“What do you think happened here?” I asked.
Nick Wallace poked his head out from under the hood of the other van. “You talkin” to me?“ he asked.
“Yes. I said what do you think happened here?”
“Looks to me like he ran it into a post of some kind. Not only that, the stupid son of a bitch bled all over it like a stuck hog without ever bothering to try to clean it up. He just parked it out there on the lot and took off. It was hotter’n hell around here yesterday. The sun cooked it up real good. It was a real mess when I opened her up this morning.”
“Did you clean it up yourself?”
“Some. But there’s a detail place down on Westlake that’s got a steam-cleaning process that’s better on floor mats and upholstery than anything I can do by hand. I took it down there first thing.”
“Did anyone tell you to do it?” I asked.
“Tell me? You mean like order me to get it cleaned up?”
I nodded.
“Look,” he said. “When it comes to the trucks, I’m the boss, see? I got it cleaned up, and I’ll straighten out the door, too, when I get half a chance.”
“Didn’t it cross your mind that with all that blood maybe you should report it to the police?” I asked.
Wallace left what he was doing and walked over to us, wiping his hands on the towel dangling from his hip pocket. “Why should I?” he asked.
“Why not? If one of your vehicles shows up covered with blood, it seems reasonable to me that you might think it would be of interest to us.”
Al nodded his head in agreement.
“Look, fellas,” Nick Wallace said, drawing himself erect. “I got myself a fine job here, understand? Mr. Damm pays me a fair amount of money to keep all his trucks running and looking good. He don’t pay me to butt my nose into other people’s business, no-sir-ee. The trucks come in broke down, I fix ”em. They come in dirty, I clean ‘em up. I don’t ask no questions, I don’t hassle nobody, and I get a paycheck every single Friday.“
That speech probably comprised more words than Nick Wallace had ever strung together at one time in his whole life. There was no point in antagonizing the man. We needed him. Since both the exterior and the interior of the van had been washed, and since we couldn’t see the bloodstains in the van for ourselves, we would have to depend on Nick Wallace’s recollections and goodwill for details about the condition of Larry Martin’s truck when it was found that morning.
“Would you mind telling us a little more about it, then?” I asked, in my most conciliatory manner. “Detective Lindstrom and I are here investigating a homicide. We have reason to believe that this truck was somehow involved.”
“There was blood all over the seat,” Wallace answered.
“Both sides?”
He nodded. “Both sides, driver’s and rider’s.”
“What about the door handles?”
“Both of them were bloody, too. Beats me how he managed to make that much of a mess without ending up dead himself.”
I looked at Big Al. “Maybe there were two people in the van,” I suggested.
“Could be,” he agreed.
I turned back to Wallace. “After Larry Martin brought the truck back here, how did he leave?”
“In his car, I guess,” Nick answered. “I mean, it ain’t here this morning.”
“What kind of car?”
“A VW bug, ”68 or “69 probably. Runs real good for as old as it is.”
“A bug? What color?”
“Red. Bright red. I helped him repaint it just a few months ago.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember the license number, would you?” It was a hopeless question. I knew it when I asked. Nick Wallace shook his head in reply.
“Got enough trouble remembering my own,” he said.
“Was there anything unusual in the van when you opened it up?” I asked. “Anything out of place, or anything there that shouldn’t have been?”
“Well, the
“What do you think happened here?” I asked.
Nick Wallace poked his head out from under the hood of the other van. “You talkin” to me?“ he asked.
“Yes. I said what do you think happened here?”
“Looks to me like he ran it into a post of some kind. Not only that, the stupid son of a bitch bled all over it like a stuck hog without ever bothering to try to clean it up. He just parked it out there on the lot and took off. It was hotter’n hell around here yesterday. The sun cooked it up real good. It was a real mess when I opened her up this morning.”
“Did you clean it up yourself?”
“Some. But there’s a detail place down on Westlake that’s got a steam-cleaning process that’s better on floor mats and upholstery than anything I can do by hand. I took it down there first thing.”
“Did anyone tell you to do it?” I asked.
“Tell me? You mean like order me to get it cleaned up?”
I nodded.
“Look,” he said. “When it comes to the trucks, I’m the boss, see? I got it cleaned up, and I’ll straighten out the door, too, when I get half a chance.”
“Didn’t it cross your mind that with all that blood maybe you should report it to the police?” I asked.
Wallace left what he was doing and walked over to us, wiping his hands on the towel dangling from his hip pocket. “Why should I?” he asked.
“Why not? If one of your vehicles shows up covered with blood, it seems reasonable to me that you might think it would be of interest to us.”
Al nodded his head in agreement.
“Look, fellas,” Nick Wallace said, drawing himself erect. “I got myself a fine job here, understand? Mr. Damm pays me a fair amount of money to keep all his trucks running and looking good. He don’t pay me to butt my nose into other people’s business, no-sir-ee. The trucks come in broke down, I fix ”em. They come in dirty, I clean ‘em up. I don’t ask no questions, I don’t hassle nobody, and I get a paycheck every single Friday.“
That speech probably comprised more words than Nick Wallace had ever strung together at one time in his whole life. There was no point in antagonizing the man. We needed him. Since both the exterior and the interior of the van had been washed, and since we couldn’t see the bloodstains in the van for ourselves, we would have to depend on Nick Wallace’s recollections and goodwill for details about the condition of Larry Martin’s truck when it was found that morning.
“Would you mind telling us a little more about it, then?” I asked, in my most conciliatory manner. “Detective Lindstrom and I are here investigating a homicide. We have reason to believe that this truck was somehow involved.”
“There was blood all over the seat,” Wallace answered.
“Both sides?”
He nodded. “Both sides, driver’s and rider’s.”
“What about the door handles?”
“Both of them were bloody, too. Beats me how he managed to make that much of a mess without ending up dead himself.”
I looked at Big Al. “Maybe there were two people in the van,” I suggested.
“Could be,” he agreed.
I turned back to Wallace. “After Larry Martin brought the truck back here, how did he leave?”
“In his car, I guess,” Nick answered. “I mean, it ain’t here this morning.”
“What kind of car?”
“A VW bug, ”68 or “69 probably. Runs real good for as old as it is.”
“A bug? What color?”
“Red. Bright red. I helped him repaint it just a few months ago.”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember the license number, would you?” It was a hopeless question. I knew it when I asked. Nick Wallace shook his head in reply.
“Got enough trouble remembering my own,” he said.
“Was there anything unusual in the van when you opened it up?” I asked. “Anything out of place, or anything there that shouldn’t have been?”
“Well, the
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