Cold In The Grave_A Kilroy Mystery Page 3

  Joe considered that.

  “Could've happened that way, except that Somerset isn't married and that's usually a prerequisite when a hooker tries blackmail.”

  “Maybe he made the hit for someone else.”

  “Which tosses it right back in your and Pierpont's court,” said Joe. “Maybe Pierpont hired Somerset to do it and came to us to build himself an alibi. By the way, have you got that note he found in her place?”

  “I do.”

  I slipped the piece of paper from my pocket where I'd been carrying it. Joe took it, gave it a quick glance and put it in his own pocket.

  He said, “We'll search her apartment. It'd be nice if we found a typewriter there that matched this typeface. That would explain things.”

  “But not nearly enough. What about Somerset?”

  He looked back in the direction of the interrogation.

  Leon Somerset now sat in the back seat of the cruiser, signing something on a clipboard held for him by one of the patrolmen. In the glare of the cruiser's dome light he looked pasty pale, like someone who had just suffered a profoundly awful experience. The stylish casual clothes I had noticed in the bar now looked wrinkled and slept-in

  Joe said, “Vehicular manslaughter could be peanuts compared to what he might be getting away with. I'll see to it that he's questioned downtown, but if he is a paid hit man he'll be a tough nut to crack. That's quite a distraught performance he's putting on, if it is an act. So, Pierpont is next. Care to tag along?”

  I said, “Try and stop me.”

  4

  Robert Pierpont lived in Rolling Green Manor, a sprawling apartment complex out on the west end of town. He opened his door at Joe's first knock, meticulous in a narrow, striped shirt and pressed slacks. He seemed surprised to see Joe and me together. He looked from one of us to the other and back again.

  “Mr. Kilroy . . . Lieutenant Gallegos. Is something wrong?”

  Joe was All Cop.

  “Mr. Pierpont, I have to ask for your whereabouts this afternoon after you spoke with Mr. Kilroy, here.”

  “Of course . . . I went back to the office where I work. Mr. Murdock and Mr. Watson were both there; I'm sure they could verify it for you. Why? What's happened?”

  “Do you know a man named Somerset? Leon Somerset?”

  “No, I don't. Why are you asking me these questions? It's Cheryl, isn't it? Something's happened to her.”

  Once we were inside, Joe broke it to him quickly and compassionately. All I could do was sit there and listen and watch Robert. This was an official investigation now and I was present only out of Joe's courtesy. Then Joe told him the hard part. All about the real Cheryl Kaplin. Or at least, the side of her that Robert Pierpont did not know about; not the sensitive woman who would sit with him and watch squirrels in the park, but the whore who turned tricks over a Colfax Avenue dive.

  By the time Joe left us a few minutes later, I could tell he didn't know what to make of Robert Pierpont. Joe hadn't put on too much pressure. Pierpont's responses had been too true. His pain and sense of loss filled the apartment like a tangible thing.

  Robert remained seated, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes that did not blink while I walked Joe to the door.

  Joe didn't say a word when I let him out. He didn't have to for me to read the glance he shot me before the door closed between us. The look told me why he'd suggested we drive here in separate cars. He'd had his talk with Robert. Now it was my turn.

  When we were alone, Robert looked up from where he sat on the couch. He had aged during the past thirty minutes from young to very old. His eyes followed me as I sat down across from him.

  “You knew,” he said softly, slowly, part accusation but mostly not sure what to make of the truth.

  “I'm sorry, Robert. I didn't like sitting here just now, listening to another man do my job for me. If it means anything, or even if it doesn't, I'll find out what happened to Cheryl. I promise.”

  If he heard me, it went right by him.

  “Cheryl . . . I can't believe she's dead.” His eyes stared into mine. “Do you think it was an accident?”

  “I don't know. I’ll find out.”

  “I loved her, Kilroy.” His eyes drifted to the floor as if following the descent of a falling leaf. “A fella like me, I've always been shy. Even in high school, I never went out on dates, never. I . . . just . . . always had trouble getting along.”

  “Robert--”

  “That's the main reason I left Lincoln, why I moved somewhere else,” he went on. “You can't grow, can't change when everyone around you has this fixed idea in their heads about who you are and how you're expected to act. But I wanted to change. I . . . don't like being a fella who's always a little out of it. I don't know why I'm the way I am, but I thought if I could just meet some new people, search out new experiences, then everything would be all right. That's why I came to Denver. Cheryl . . . I could be anything I wanted to be with her. She did so much for me.” He caught himself. His eyes flashed to me again. “Does Lieutenant Gallegos think it was an accident, what happened to her?”

  “He's like me,” I said. “He's not sure yet. If I find out that Cheryl's death was premeditated murder, I'll nail whoever did it. For you and for me. But let's clear the air, okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, do you stand by your story that you had no idea what Cheryl was really doing for a living?”

  “I really didn't know,” he said. “And . . . it wouldn't have made any difference, once we started getting truly close.” He shook his head. “I just don't understand--”

  “That note that you found in her place. Do you want to tell me anything more about that?”

  “Why? I told you all about it this afternoon. “

  “It's just that blackmail is a pretty old-fashioned crime,” I said. “This is the day of X-rated movies and a lot more. It's hard to shock people.”

  “But if Cheryl was a . . . a prostitute,” the word came out like the most difficult three syllables he'd ever pronounced, “maybe she would pay to keep her family from finding out. Maybe that's it.”

  Sure, I thought, maybe that is what happened . . .

  “I'm going to shake this thing apart, Robert.” I told him. “Then we'll both know.”

  I started to leave.

  He followed me to the door, the tight line of his mouth quavering, his eyes glassing, but for now he kept what he felt under wraps inside.

  At the door, he said, “This afternoon I asked you to kill a man for me, Mr. Kilroy, remember?”

  `'I'm trying to forget. There's been enough killing, guy. One is too many. We want the truth, not more death.”

  “Tonight, I'm asking you again, Kilroy. When you find him, kill him for me. Name your price. Anything you ask.”

  “Cork that,” I said. “Do yourself a favor and don't even think like that or you get yourself into trouble you'll never get out of.” I studied him for a moment to see if my words had sunk in, but he was too distraught for me to tell. “I'll be in touch,” I said.

  The door closed after me. Then I heard the muffled sobs that couldn't stay pent up any longer.

  5

  The Tattle Tail was doing a full house business that night. The Coors clock over the bar read nine-fifteen when I walked in and the place was already packed for the first show. The atmosphere was close, dark, and smoky with wall-to-wall people, making it seem like a totally different place from the sleepy bar of that afternoon. The only similarity was the blaring jukebox, but the music was nearly lost beneath the noise, only the pounding bass line cutting through the cacophony of hundreds of upraised voices simultaneously chattering. A lively crowd.

  Ms. Gia Passionne, The Everything Girl was advertised on the marquee out front as appearing for a Limited Engagement Only!

  The club featured four topless dancers every evening.

  I wasn't sure what my second visit here would accomplish, if anything, but this was where Cheryl Kaplin had pl
ied her trade, and this was where I would start playing detective. Most women working the exotic scene are local and for one of the dancers to get top billing over the others meant that she must be something special. But that wasn't the only reason I wanted a chat with “Gia Passionne,” whoever she was. Headliners in joints like The Tattle Tail usually are not local, like the other girls who would be working there. The “stars” work a circuit, usually based out of Reno or Las Vegas or Tahoe, traveling from city to town, staying on for anywhere from one to four weeks before moving on to their next gig.

  My reasoning was that if Cheryl had something on her mind, if something was troubling her inside, something like a relationship problem that she might want to talk about, especially to another woman--or something like blackmail--then she probably would not confide in any of those were regularly employed where she worked. That could be too close to the problem. But she might confide in someone who was just passing through; only on the scene temporarily, like Gia Passionne.

  It was a long shot, sure, but I had to do something and right then I couldn't think of anything else.

  Inside the club, I stayed back amid the shadows along the wall, and nursed a beer I ordered from a waitress. There were plenty of singles moving between the tables, checking the action, so I easily stayed lost in the crowd.

  There was no sign of Limp Gallagher.

  Another fifteen minutes and the lights went down. The crowd up front began hooting and whistling. A baby pink spot cut through the haze and the crowd quieted down. A sense of expectancy fell over the place.

  The Everything Girl was about to do her thing.

  There was a small stage set low, almost level with the front tables. The recorded music came first. A soft, subtle blend of Eastern Rhythms; flutes and exotic sitar-like instruments weaving a melody that was suggestively erotic.

  Then the woman appeared, moving to the music, from stage left; one with the music, each movement and gesture attuned perfectly to it. She was of medium height. The pink lights gave her skin a soft warmth all over, smoothly curved and enticing. She wore her hair long, midnight black, the lighting catching it and causing it to shimmer with a life of its own, cascading onto bare shoulders, framing a high-cheekboned face highlighted by dark, smoldering eyes and pouty, moist lips. She wore one of those sheer wraparound things that cling to each curve, hill and valley and let you see everything, yet nothing. Her number had more class to it than any I've ever seen along Colfax, the piped-in Eastern music swirling, increasing its tempo and so did she, all graceful yet carnal motion that seemed to suspend time and space.

  Ravel would have understood.

  Without a doubt, the patrons that night in The Tattle Tail sure did.

  Her dance ended with the dripping of the final wisp of her costume to the stage, the briefest glimpse of snowy, desirable nudity, a sharp cry, more animal than human, of undeniable sexuality and release and then the lights went off, pitching the club into momentary, total darkness.

  When the lights came on, Gia Passionne was gone. The place exploded with applause and I clapped right along with the rest of them.

  It had been quite a show.

  I finished my beer and brought my elbows into play to make it to the other side of the packed room. A new dancer had stepped onto the stage. I made it to the same doorway that I had used that afternoon on my way upstairs to see Cheryl. This time I noticed that while a turn to the left would take me to the massage joint next door, or to the stairway to the rooms above, a right turn took me down the width of the building, here on the ground floor, to a metal fire door that probably led out to an alley that I recalled ran alongside the building. There were doors along either wall of the corridor.

  A big guy lounged on a barstool just short of the fire exit. When he saw me, he straightened to his feet and ambled forward, a bored air about him, a wee bit smaller than Limp Gallagher but not much. He shook his head before I could say anything

  “Wrong turn, pal. The door you want is on the other side of the bar and says 'Men' on it.”

  I brushed by him like I owned the place and when his hand reached out to stop me it couldn't help but feel the Magnum beneath my jacket. I’d armed myself before coming in.

  “Limp sent me,” I said. “I've got a message for one of the girls.”

  I kept going past him as if that were that, and the dummy stepped aside just like he was supposed to. With so many people working different shifts, you could pull in a lot in a place like The Tattle Tail just by knowing a name or two. The bouncer was still a tad uncertain, so I didn't give him any time to think about it.

  A smudged square of paper in a metal holder was on one of the doors. It read Miss Passionne. I went over to it and knocked briskly. I didn't wait for a response or a backward glance at the guy. I opened the door and walked in.

  It was a ratty little room of peeling plaster. Exposed pipes along the ceiling. A private exit leading out to the alley. Mismatched odds and ends of furniture.

  But I only had eyes for the one who billed herself as Gia.

  She was seated before a mirrored makeup table when I walked in, brushing that midnight black hair, her figure ensconced in a thin dressing robe. She sat there with her legs crossed, causing the robe to fall away, and even without the baby pink stage lights her flesh looked warm and vibrant. The leg view disappeared abruptly when I came upon the scene. She dropped her hairbrush onto the table with a clatter and stood up, whirling to face me, angry and very beautiful.

  “Uh-uh, fella. Gia's finished until ten-thirty, so why don't you be a nice boy and get the hell out of here before I have you thrown out?”

  The voice was husky, the way I had guessed it would be.

  I stood where I was.

  ''My name is Kilroy--”

  “I don't care if it's Burt Reynolds! Can't you bozos get it through your horny skulls? That's just a show out front, bub. You paid to see a woman shake her tail feather and maybe send you home with some fantasies and that's what you got, okay?” When I just stood there with obviously no intention of leaving, she sighed and started past me, reaching for the doorknob. “Where the hell is that bouncer?”

  “It's about Cheryl Kaplin,” I said quietly.

  If I thought that would bring a reaction, I was right.

  She stopped, turned, and appraised me with narrowed eyes.

  “Who are you? Reporter? Police?”

  “Private investigator. I'm trying to find out what happened to Cheryl.”

  A pause. A moment of silence except for the muffled sounds of the jukebox and the crowd out front.

  Then she said, “What are you talking about? Everybody knows what happened to Cheryl. It was . . . an accident. Who are you working for? Who’d hire a private detective to investigate that?”

  “Someone who cared about Cheryl. He's hired me to look into it. Anything you know that could help?”

  She seemed to make up her mind about something.

  “Let me get dressed. I've got an hour on my own. We'll go somewhere and talk, okay? If you want to know the truth, I'll feel good being with a man. Some strange things have been happening lately. I mean, besides what happened to Cheryl.”

  She started to say something else but was interrupted right then by a sudden loud exploding sound from somewhere nearby.

  The woman named Gia let out a frightened shriek and suddenly, all those shapely almost naked charms hurtled forward into my arms, and I found her against me, shivering like crazy.

  “Oh my God--”

  “Relax, hon,” I said gently, holding her. “Just a backfire. Relax.”

  “Two men,” she whispered raggedly. “They've been following me all day.” The words came out in thin gasps, “Please get me out of here. Anywhere! I don't care where we go.”

  “Get dressed,” I said, wondering what I'd stumbled onto here. “We'll go somewhere quiet and have a few drinks. Then we'll talk.”

  “That sounds good. Would you mind turning your back while I --”

&n
bsp; “Nice,” a voice from behind her said. “Very nice.”

  There was that other door, I remembered now. The private entrance that led out to the alley; the door I'd forgotten about when this shapely honey in her contour-hugging thingy decided to leap into my arms. My flesh had never been weaker. And now it was too late.

  Limp Gallagher stood in that doorway, appearing extremely pleased with himself. The glint in those dull marble eyes of his and the big .45 automatic in his big fist said he remembered all too well our altercation of that afternoon.

  “Well well, the neighborhood punching bag,” was the best ad lib I could muster.

  “Don't put the brakes on for me, lover boy,” he sneered. He took in Gia’s near-nudity with an appreciative glance, the .45 never wavering from drawing its bead on my solar plexus. “If you and this honey was just getting warmed up, I don't mind a good show.”

  Gia glided to behind me.

  I shielded her with my body.

  Gallagher wasn't alone. A young black man in jeans and a well-worn fatigue jacked followed him in, holding a long-barreled revolver. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting constantly. Too much speed makes you like that. Speed or coke, or both.

  “See if he's heavy,” Limp grunted. “Looks like we got ourselves a doubleheader, Sparky.”

  Sparky was too high to reply. He quickstepped forward. I raised my arms without being told and he snaked a hand under my jacket, tugging my gun from its holster. He hopped backwards and handed my gun to Gallagher.

  The Neanderthal holstered his own weapon and hefted my .44.

  “Nice iron,” he snickered in my direction. “I'll take real good care of it for you, sucker.”

  “Let's talk,” I suggested, trying to keep the tightness in my gut from reaching my voice. “What's this all about? You're being paid, I'll pay you double.”

  Gallagher laughed.

  “Don't make me laugh,” he said. He nodded to Sparky. “Slug him.”