Ten minutes later I stopped by Federated. Bobby Lee was typing and listening to Merle Haggard. Him I liked. When she saw me she frowned. “We said we’d call you.”
“I need to get into my locker.” Bobby Lee had the key that let you into the cage. With the twins after me, and God knew who else, I felt in need of the Smith & Wesson that was a holdover from my days on the force. I had stashed it there yesterday, following the murder, not thinking I’d need it.
“Why?”
“I don’t need to tell you why.”
“Then I don’t let you in.”
“We’re talking about things that I happen to own.”
“Tough.”
“Bobby Lee. Somebody’s following me.”
From the doorway Becker said, “Who?” His hands glistened with glue. He was working on his model airplanes again.
“It’d take too long to explain,” I said.
He shook his head. “You aren’t still working on that thing that started at Channel Three, are you?”
“Afraid I am.”
“Dwyer, they’ve got their killer. He’s already in jail.”
“He’s not guilty.”
“Then who is?”
“I’m beginning to think Fitzgerald is.”
Blood flushed his face. “Are you talking about Robert Fitzgerald?” Whenever he mentioned anybody who paid him money, a kind of reverence came into his voice.
“Yes I am.”
“Dwyer, do you realize he’s our biggest client?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re still bothering him?”
“I’m trying to get to the truth.”
“Doesn’t that sound noble, though?” He paused and looked at his glistening hands as if he wanted badly to wipe them on something. Then he looked back up at me. “You’ve forced me into a decision, Dwyer. An irrevocable one. You’re fired.”
“Then I can get into my locker?”
To Bobby Lee, he said, “Get Inspector Kelso on the line.” Kelso was one of his buddies, a very political cop who didn’t like me at all.
“I have a right to the stuff in my locker.”
Bobby Lee started dialing.
“It’s my locker.” I sounded as if I were about five years old.
“Inspector Kelso’s office, please,” Bobby Lee said.
I got out of there. Fast.
He didn’t come on until five o’clock, which meant that I had to hide out in the lobby until then.
When he saw me he looked afraid. He started walking away, dragging his mop and bucket as fast as he could.
I reached him and touched his elbow. “I know you’re afraid. So am I. I only want to ask you a few more questions.”
“They was coming in the other night. They saw me talking to you.”
“They hassle you?”
“Them twins, man, they don’t have to hassle you. They just give you that look.” For the three dollars and change I’d given this janitor the other night, I was sure he didn’t feel he owed me a beating. I didn’t blame him. He put a strong hand to his face and said, “I’m scared to say anything now. They might be watching.”
“Just listen to me. Please.”
Condo dwellers came in and out of the lobby. It was a warm spring evening. They exuded a festiveness I wished I could share.
“You remember the kid we talked about, Stephen Chandler?”
He nodded.
“You remember the night he died?”
“I guess. But he didn’t die here. He died at that halfway house.”
“Falworthy, yeah. But he took the overdose here from what I can gather, and then he went back to Falworthy.”
“If you say so.”
“I want you to think about that night.”
“All right.”
“Do you remember if that apartment had any visitors that night?”
He looked around. Fearfully. Outside the plate-glass windows that fronted the lobby an early twilight was making the world gorgeous and melancholy.
“Yeah.”
I wanted to make sure he wasn’t just being obliging. “Why would you have such a clear memory of that night?”
“Well, for one thing, that’s the night the Chandler kid died. I saw his picture on TV. I figured the cops would ask me questions, but they didn’t. ’Nother reason was the guy with the limp. I ain’t likely to forget him. ’Specially the way he talked to me. Real arrogant when I asked him if I could help him.”
“Tell me about him.”
“I don’t know. I only saw him once. Like I said, he was kinda mean, that’s why I remember him and that night ’specially.”
“Which, means that Stephen Chandler let him in, right?”
“Yeah. He must have buzzed him up.”
“Why wouldn’t the twins have buzzed him up?”
He shrugged. “They was gone. Out for a good part of the night.” He smiled. “They got a lot of lady friends.”
“How long did he stay?”
“The guy with the limp?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “Half’n hour maybe.”
I wanted to make sure. “Can you describe anything else about the guy?”
“Not really.”
“Think about his hair.”
He closed his eyes a moment. This was the worst part of police work. People just didn’t notice things.
“Dark, I guess.”
“Anything else?”
“About his hair you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, could’ve been curly.”
“How tall was he?”
“That’s one thing I do remember.”
“What’s that?”
“He wasn’t tall at all. He was short.”
Short with dark curly hair and a limp. There couldn’t be many Robert Fitzgerald look-alikes around.
He snapped his fingers. “Shit, now I remember. The kid had another visitor that night, too.”
“Who?”
“This blonde.”
“Before or after the guy with the limp?”
“After.”
“Can you remember anything about her?”
“I couldn’t see her face. I tried.” He offered me a sly smile. “You know, even at my age I like to look at the ladies.”
“Short or tall?”
“Medium, I’d say.”
“Younger or older?”
“Like I said, I couldn’t really tell.”
“But she definitely came after.”
“Yeah.”
“And she was blond.”
“Very blond.”
An image of Marcie Grant formed. I saw her walk, the way her blond hair swung with such glistening casualness.
“You ’bout done?” he said.
I nodded. “Thanks.” I patted my pocket, reached down to see if I had any money.
“Forget it.” He grinned. “All the money you gave me the other night, I don’t have to work no more anyway.” Then he nodded back to his mop and bucket. He wanted me gone.
23
Twilight had turned The Castle into something resembling its real name. Long shadows hid the plastic look of the place. When you came over the hill and looked down into the valley and saw it there, you could almost imagine what real castles must look like.
A parking attendant took my car. He was a kid, and he grinned when he saw the towel I had over the tear in my seat. It wasn’t an arrogant grin. He probably had a towel over his car seat, too.
You crossed (inevitably) a moat via a drawbridge, and then you went into a gravel area where two big guys got up in armor stood on either side of a huge door, and then you entered the restaurant beneath an arch of crossed swords. This place was a kind of Disneyland for the stomach.
The drunk I saw just inside spoiled the goofy innocence of the place. He was wide and mean and he looked as if he was about to punch out the smaller man he waved a fist at. His about-to-be victim was Hanratty, the singing weatherman.
Hanratty had apparently been coming out of the john when the guy cornered him. The guy’s wife had hold of his elbow, and now the maitre d’ was jumping in. Hanratty, embarrassed, kept his eyes on the floor while the man ranted.