Fixed in Blood (9 page)

“She said they’d branded her. And she was being shipped to market.”

“A bad credit score is a tough brand to wash off. She’s probably feeling like a failure.”

Lydia wasn’t buying it.

“And how old did you say she was?” Paul asked.

“I didn’t. Let’s say early twenties.”

Paul leaned back in mock chagrin. “You telling me this post-adolescent impulsive girl would be the first young woman you’ve encountered who was melodramatic enough to talk about being shipped off or ruined for life?”

Lydia stared at her own mug of now-cold coffee. What Paul said made sense. But she knew Delbe Jensen in a way he didn’t. Delbe was in trouble. And neither Paul nor the police could be of any help.

Paul stood, grabbed both their mugs, and put them in the sink. He turned back toward Lydia, reached for her hands, and pulled her to her feet. He drew her into his embrace and hummed an old Smokey Robinson tune as he danced her around the kitchen. Lydia felt herself respond. She leaned her head against his chest and for a moment allowed herself to melt into the steady arms of a good man.

He nuzzled her hair away from her ear and leaned in. “I don’t have to be to work till nine thirty.” His whisper rumbled against her neck. “How about you?”

She inhaled. The fragrance of sea breeze emanated from his skin. It would be so easy to let go and let this man love her.

But she couldn’t do that. Not to him.

She stiffened her spine. “Tempting, Detective Bauer.” She pushed herself free of his arms. “But if you’re not going to help me fix this, then I’ve got work to do.”

He used the damn spy phone again, bopping his head along as he counted the rings. As usual, she picked up on the third. Man, this chick needed some kind of surgery to take that stick out of her ass.

“What is it?” she asked.

He put on his best cheerleader voice. “We’re growing again. I think this one will be a wonderful employee. A great colleague for the other girls, too.” He accented the word “colleague.” He heard it on some television show last night and thought it might work on her. “Her name’s Delbe Jensen. Twenty-four years old. Works as a waitress, but she got herself in some money trouble, and not just with us.”

“She’s interested in this work? She has time for it?”

He wondered what kind of idiot he was dealing with. Did she really think any woman woke up thinking,
Hey, maybe hooking is the career path for me
?

“She’s troubled.” He tried to sound concerned as he read the notes he’d jotted to himself from last night’s TV show. “We talked at length. She weighed her options. She sees this as a viable opportunity at this juncture.”

There was silence on the other end. Maybe he’d laid it on too thick. She was a broad like any other, but for now she was sitting where she was sitting and he was down in the street running whores. He’d have to be more careful.

“What are her hopes?” the woman finally asked.

He remembered Delbe standing in front of her house when he picked her up. One suitcase and a guitar slung over her shoulders. He’d thrown the bag in the trunk, but she’d insisted the guitar stayed with her.

“She’s a musician.” He let the lie grow. “I’d love for you to hear her play. I promise you, she’s gonna be a star one day.”

Mort waited until Bruiser was settled in the backseat and Jimmy had himself buckled in. “What the hell was yesterday about? You busting Schuster’s chops.” He backed his Subaru out of his designated spot at the police department.

Jimmy checked the side-view mirror. “Guy rubbed me wrong. Don’t worry. I know his history. He’s quality.”

“So what got your goat?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I didn’t like the way he was all flirtatious with Micki. And from where I was sitting, she was giving it right back at him.”

Mort glanced toward his partner. “We’re not rolling down this road again, are we? I thought you were over your infatuation. Do I need to get my calendar out? Maybe remind you she’s got about the same number of years to her fortieth birthday you have to your sixtieth?”

“You’ll be celebrating that milestone right along with me, pal. I’m not the only geezer here.”

Mort shook his head. “Give it up, Jimmy.”

Jimmy twisted in the passenger seat to face Mort. “Micki’s a doll. Smart, funny…she’d do anything for anybody. That smiling-beauty thing doesn’t hurt, either. She deserves better than Schuster, is all I’m saying.”

“Better than an Ivy-educated lawyer who’s working on our side of the system when he could be making the big bucks with some firm downtown?”

Jimmy resettled himself and stared out at the morning traffic. “She deserves better than a cop. And before you get all psycho-shit on me for what that might mean about my own self-esteem or what have you, admit it. Cops make lousy husbands.”

Mort thought of his years with Edie. All the times he’d left her alone with the kids while he was out there chasing. It didn’t matter if it was bad guys or gold shields. He was always on the run and she was the one keeping the home life steady. He wanted to believe Jimmy was wrong. But he was too smart for that.

They spent the rest of the drive in silence. Mort knew this part of town well. Ethnic restaurants and social clubs served Seattle’s large Russian population. They’d first settled here to work in the factories and mills of the old economy. Today young and smart immigrants flooded the same neighborhood, keeping the old traditions alive after a long day in Microsoft’s high-tech corridors. Mort drove down Thirteenth Avenue, past a bakery his kids used to love. Allie’s favorites were the tea cakes rolled in confectioner’s sugar. He shoved the thought of his daughter’s snow-powdered grin aside and parked across from Saint Nicholas Orthodox Church, in front of the Shoe Stop where Crystal Tillwater had been employed. It was two minutes before nine. Bruiser climbed out of the backseat and the three of them walked to the front door just as a man wearing gray sweatpants and a long silk shirt patterned with tropical flowers turned the key from the inside to open the store. The man’s expression turned from bland to irritated when he saw Bruiser sitting at attention next to Jimmy. He shoved the door open but blocked the entrance with his considerable girth.

“Which one of you is the cop who had all the questions for my girls?” Mort pegged him at five-nine, 220, maybe 225 pounds. Mid-forties would be Mort’s guess, but it was hard to tell with someone that out of shape. His moon face was scarred from what must have been a nasty case of teenaged acne. His thin hair was a nondescript shade of brown. He wore it long; his ponytail smaller around than Mort’s pinky. “They said you had a dog.”

“That would be me.” Jimmy showed his badge and identified himself before pointing over his shoulder. “This is Mort Grant, Chief of Detectives. My partner here is Bruiser. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The man crossed his arms and rested them on his belly. “You got a warrant? I don’t talk to nobody without no warrant.”

“You’re a little rusty on the rules.” Mort smiled his best. “We’re investigating, as I’m sure you’re aware, the murder of one of your employees. We’d need a warrant if we wanted to search the premises. We want to ask you a few questions.” Mort paused. “That is, unless we
need
to search the premises. The only choices you get to make are (A) do we do that here or down at the station and (B) do you feel the need for an attorney or should it just be us guys chatting like old friends?”

Two of the store’s clerks wandered over. Mort and Jimmy both made a show out of wishing them a good morning, but made no effort to step past the man blocking the entrance. A small middle-aged woman approached from the street and pushed her way behind them. “Can you let a lady by, please?” she asked. “I got business to take care of and my boss will go apeshit if I’m late.” She stopped in front of the man in the doorway and held up a plastic bag. “You got some nerve, Chris. These pumps didn’t make it past the second dance before the heel snapped off. Right there at my niece’s ten-thousand-dollar Saint Sava’s wedding. In front of God and everybody. I’m limping back to my table while my no-good sister’s already pointing and whispering to that bitch Jasmina Milkovich. You’re giving me a full refund and I don’t want any lip.” She shoved herself under his arm and marched in. “Sasha!” she yelled into the store. “Meet me at Customer Service and get ready to give me cash. No stinking store credit this time.”

Mort looked him in the eye. “What’ll it be, Chris? Station’s looking pretty good about now, huh?”

The man stepped clear to admit Mort and Jimmy. “But the dog stays outside. Health code violation or something.”

Bruiser trotted in behind Jimmy and made his way to the first sales clerk he saw, tail wagging in his well-rehearsed “Give me a treat” pose.

“Bruiser is a sworn officer of the Seattle PD,” Mort said. “He goes where we go.”

The man led them down a wide central aisle separating tall racks heavy with inventory. The air smelled of glue and disinfectant. Every third row or so was labeled with a large number indicating the shoe size to be found there. Overhead bulbs were in widely spaced utility cages. Mort assumed that was an important part of the store’s marketing plan. It might look to the customers that the store spent so little on retail frills they could pass along the savings. But in actuality, dim was the most advantageous lighting in which to showcase the shoddy merchandise.

They passed through a heavy curtain at the back of the sales floor and entered the storeroom. A framed-in staircase rose to the left. As they climbed Mort worried the scarred lumber wouldn’t support the full weight of the three of them and Bruiser. But they made it to the top and entered a wide but shallow room. A row of windows offered a view of the entire sales area. Mort pictured Chris up here keeping a watchful eye for shoplifters or lazy employees. A large metal desk was in the center, cluttered with papers and files. An oversized coffee mug proclaimed him to be World’s Best Boss. Stacks of boxes, about evenly divided between file and shoe size, balanced precariously along both side walls. The wall opposite the bank of windows was lined with three banquet-sized folding tables where an outdated microwave the size of a small hatchback was positioned next to piles of plastic plates, red Solo cups and rolls of paper towels. Bags of cookies, crackers, and chips, along with giant-sized bottles of soft drinks, completed the kitchen area of the space.

Chris took a seat behind his desk. Mort and Jimmy sat on the worn leather sofa facing it and Bruiser settled on the floor between them.

“Let’s start with some ID,” Mort said. “We know you’re Chris. Fill us in with the rest.”

The man wiped a hand across the top of his head and sighed. “Chris Novak. What do you want? A business card? My driver’s license? What?”

Jimmy smiled. “We trust you. You’re the owner of this store?”

Chris shook his head. “My Uncle Pete owns ’em all. He’s old. I run things for him. Nine stores in King County, four down in Tacoma, and two in Olympia.”

“That’s quite an empire,” Mort said. “Are you the one who hired Crystal Tillwater?”

“Yeah. Took a chance on her and it worked out good. She was here for years.” Chris’s jowls shook as he nodded his head. “I could be flexible with the hours. She had a little girl. Poor kid. It’s gotta be tough, having your mom murdered and such.”

“Would you describe her as a good employee?” Mort asked. “She ever give you any trouble?”

Chris waved a heavy arm toward the windows overlooking the shop. “It’s me and fourteen women. We sell shoes to customers who expect Saks Fifth Avenue for less than what they’d pay for a pound of beets. Don’t go asking me about trouble.” He looked disgusted. “This one’s getting her period. That one’s breaking up with her husband. Another one’s thinking the other one got a little too chummy with her boyfriend when he came by with the lunch box. It never ends.” He smoothed a hand over his silk shirt. “You know, some folks may think I’m sitting in gravy with all these females paid to do what I tell ’em, but let me clear it up for you. It’s not all sunshine and cookies.”

Mort and Jimmy nodded their sympathy. “Were you and Crystal close?” Mort asked. “She worked here a long time, and like you said, you were a good boss to her. You two strike up a friendship?”

Chris drummed his hands on his desk. “I see where this is going. You wanna know maybe was I dating her or some such? Maybe try to tie me to her death in some way. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I know how to keep my work and personal separate.” This time he pointed toward the windows. “You have any idea the hell my life would be if one of them bitches thought I had an eye for someone other than them? I wouldn’t make it out of the store alive. The trick is to make them all think they’re your favorite. And you sure can’t pull that off if you’re nailin’ one of ’em. Besides, my wife would have my balls.”

“Actually we were wondering if Crystal might have confided in you,” Mort said. “Maybe talked about who she was dating or what she did with her time when she wasn’t working.”

Chris stared at Mort as though trying to assess his motivation. “Nah,” he finally said. “It wasn’t anything like that. Like I said, she had a kid. From what I know, that’s the end-all, be-all for her.”

“Do you know her friends?” Mort continued. “Did she go to church or bowl in a league? Anything you could give us would help.”

Chris shuffled a stack of papers around his desk. Yellow sheets on top of blue. Pink ones shoved into a folder. “Like I said, she came to work on time. Didn’t steal. Didn’t waste time in the break room gossiping. Beyond that, I got nothing.”

Mort turned to Jimmy and shrugged. “Man’s got nothing. Guess we better go.”

“That’d be good.” Chris continued his show of efficiency by opening a desk drawer and sliding an entire pile of paper into it. “Like you see, I got a business to run.”

Mort, Jimmy, and Bruiser stood in unison.

“Just one thing,” Jimmy asked. “Why were you so set on none of your employees talking to us?”

Mort watched the soft spot at the base of Chris’s throat pulse a bit quicker.

“What are you talking about? I answered all your questions.”

Jimmy nodded. “So answer this one. What made you tell your clerks to keep away from us? What was that about?”

Mort focused on Chris while Chris kept his attention on Jimmy. Chris’s left hand twitched while he wiped his right hand against his leg. He sucked in his lower lip as the soft spot on his throat continued to pound.

“Listen.” Chris tried to sound firm. “Like I said, I got nothing but gals here. They got complaints about anything and everything.” He turned to Mort. “You ever meet a woman who didn’t? Last thing I need is them thinking here’s someone in authority capacity who wants to listen to their every little gripe about maybe how they didn’t get paid time-and-a-half that week they worked fifteen minutes extra or maybe how they think the toilet paper in the crapper’s not soft enough.” He pushed himself free of his desk and stood. “I don’t need any workplace investigation, you know what I mean? Look, I’m sorry Crystal went and got herself killed. It’s a tragedy of modern urban life. But I got a business here and I need my ladies to stay focused.”

Mort had a sense he knew exactly what motivated Chris. The Shoe Stop was located across from Saint Nicholas Church, in the heart of Seattle’s Russian community. If Chris was willing to offer a job to a high school dropout single mother, he might also look the other way if an employee couldn’t come up with documentation proving she was in this country legally. Especially if the trade-off for his accommodation was a lower wage.

He thanked Chris for his time and led Jimmy and Bruiser down the stairs and out of the store.