Of course I'd have to look. I was the boss. It was my job to deal with this kind of disaster.
Disaster it was. An almighty ugly one.
With me on the threshold and using his body to block the view of anyone passing, Derner reached in and flicked the light switch.
Alan Caine had his back to me, slumped awkwardly over his dressing table. There was a big mirror above it, and I couldn't chance Derner noticing my lack of reflection.
"Gimme a minute," I said from the side of my mouth, then stepped in and shut the door on him before he saw. If only I could hypnotize without hurting myself, then I wouldn't have to be alone in a room with a fresh corpse.
I chanced to take in a whiff and got what I expected: talcum powder, grease paint, and sweat mixed with the stink of urine and crap. Death had been brutal to Caine, and once relaxed, his body had given way with everything. No sweet peace here.
Fists in my pockets, I kept my distance. Had to bend low to check his face. What I expected: bloated and purple, broken blood vessels in his bulging eyes, tongue sticking out as though to offer a final opinion to the world.
Something that looked like a blue necktie but wasn't was wound tight around his throat, the middle part almost lost in the folds of violated skin. Whoever had done it hadn't wanted noise and was strong enough to make it quick. No signs of a struggle anywhere else; the only evidence of the violence was the body itself.
"Damn."
The guy had been abusive, obnoxious, and alive not too many minutes ago. I hadn't liked him, but to take the life out of another this swiftly and easily was just wrong. Having killed as well as been killed, I understood how little effort was needed to do that which should be unthinkable. We unite to build towers to the sky, make music and art to feed our souls, can sacrifice selflessly to help others, yet cling with a lover's greedy passion to the to the lowest and darkest of our emotions. Most of us don't act upon that hate-driven force. We resist.
But for someone... not this time.
That blue thing on Caine's neck. Jewel had worn a blue dress. I didn't want her to be involved. A quick check of the closet turned up nothing of similar color.
Ah. Coatrack by the door. There was a blue satin smoking jacket hanging from a peg. Same color as the tie. Empty loops on the garment. Same material. Good. But Jewel wasn't off the hook entirely.
The killer must have stood here, watching Caine, maybe listening, but looking for something to use against him.
Something quiet. A .22 being fired might not be heard, or the sound misinterpreted. Knock a wooden chair over the right way and it makes more noise. But the killer might not have known that or possessed so small a gun. Most of the guys in this outfit never went with anything less that a .38.
Why not a knife, then? Plenty of them in the club's kitchen and simple enough to boost one and walk out. Or bring your own.
They can take time to do the job, though. You have to know what you're doing. Human skin is tougher than one would think, and dragging even a razor-sharp blade through a couple of inches of muscle and cartilage of a throat takes effort. The victim doesn't die instantly. There can be messy thrashing around; the killer can get splashed with telltale blood.
But strangulation, it's very intimate. That's one way to feel the whole progression of things shutting down as the life goes out of the body. There's no doubt about death. If you have the strength and speed and cut off the blood to the brain quick, a few moment's effort will do it. After that, then only forty pounds of pressure to crush what needs to be crushed, and it's over and done, make a quiet exit.
Freeing up one of my hands, I lifted one of Caine's by the shirt cuff and checked his manicured fingernails. Small dark crescents were under those nails, but not dirt-bloodsmell. He'd managed to dig in deep in his last struggle and left marks someplace on his killer's body. The wrists...
Looked the rest of the small room over. No cover, no place to hide. Just me and what Caine had left behind of himself.
Bobbi had also used this as a dressing room at one time. And Adelle Taylor. And lots of others I knew by name or in person. Their ghosts seemed to shift uneasily around me, disliking what had happened in their sanctuary. I stood and was dizzy from the shift, staggering a step. Waited, expecting another fit to sneak up from within, but it didn't happen. It was the air here. The presence of death. I didn't have to breathe to be overwhelmed.
I got on the other side of the door, met Derner's and Strome's gazes.
"Yeah," said Derner, apparently agreeing with whatever he saw on my face.
"Any ideas?" I asked.
" 'Bout what?"
"Who did it."
He shrugged. "Try a phone book."
"Not good enough. Show me your hands, both of you. Push your sleeves up."
They were mystified. Good.
"We don't shoot dope, Boss," said Strome, misinterpreting.
Derner was clean. Strome's knuckles were banged up and raw, but that was from the fight last night with Hoyle.
His arms were free of nail gouging and scratches. I needed these two to be in the clear. On the other hand, they might have ordered someone else to strangle Caine, though the why of it was a mystery. I could settle such questions easy enough, but at the cost of collapsing in agony at their feet. Bosses weren't supposed to do that in front of the hired help.
Until I knew better, I'd just have to keep shut. "Who knows about this? Who found him?"
"Stage manager, just a few minutes ago," said Strome.
"Did he see anyone else in or out?"
"Nope. I asked him special. He knocked on the door, it opened, and he saw, then locked up and went for me and Derner. He won't say nothing."
"We gotta get Caine out of here," Derner advised, casting a glance up and down the hall. "The next show starts soon, there's no backup act-"
"Where's Jewel Caine?" I asked.
"What? His ex? She's here?"
"She was when we opened. Came back here to talk with friends. See if she's in with the dancers."
He did so, banging once on their dressing room door and barging in. No one screamed a protest, and I heard their negative replies to his question.
"She left just a little bit ago," someone within volunteered. "What's the idea locking us up? Hey-"
He returned. "You think she did it?"
Strome nodded. "She was plenty burned with him last night."
"I don't know," I said. "We'll figure that later. Where's the stage manager?"
Derner got him, explained that Alan Caine had come over sick and had to leave. The manager nodded slowly, rightly taking this to be the blanket explanation he would pass to others. After that, we did some fast shuffling to fill out the second show for the evening. An apologetic announcement was to be given to the house. One of the dancers also sang, so she'd have to change to a gown and do some solo numbers to keep things going. The other dancers had a hoofing routine already worked up that would pad the bill. The manager went off to fix things.
"What if the audience wants a refund?" Derner asked me.
"Give 'em their money, we can afford it." We sure as hell wouldn't be paying the star. I turned to Strome. "Hoyle might have tried collecting markers again and got too rough. I want to see him before we call the cops."
They were shocked. "The cops?"
"You heard."
"But we can't," said Denier.
I almost demanded to know why not, then bit it off. The Nightcrawler was already a favorite target for easy headlines; a murder under its roof just couldn't happen. Too many of the people here had records, and I wasn't about to draw official attention to myself if I could help it.
The trump card against bringing in the law was Gordy. If I didn't clean up this mess, he could get hauled off by the cops. He was in no shape to deal with even routine questions.
I debated over which course to go with, and not for the first time settled things by thinking, "What would Gordy do?"
"All right," I said. "We take care of it ourselves."
"Take care of what?"
None of us were virgins when it came to dealing with death firsthand, but the three of us gave a collective jump at that mildly put question from an outside party.
Kroun stood rather close to our group, and no one had heard his approach. "Take care of what, Fleming?" he repeated.
Now I knew how Derner and Strome felt when I'd turned up. "We got a problem."
"What problem?" Kroun's tone indicated he would like a full and truthful answer.
I didn't want to say it out loud, so I opened the dressing-room door. The light was still on. Kroun looked in, but did not go in.
"That's a problem," he agreed. "What are you going to do about it?"
Strome said to me, "Boss, I can disappear him like the others and no one's the wiser."
"No," I snapped.
"The others?" asked Kroun.
"Like Bristow," I said, to explain. "We're not dumping this guy in pieces for fish food. He can't just mysteriously disappear, or we'd never hear the end of it. He's too famous."
Kroun gave me a long look and nodded in thoughtful agreement. "What, then?"
"We smuggle him out after closing. Put him in his own place without anyone seeing. He can't be found in the club.
We just say he walked away and stick to that and not know anything else. The cops will come by and ask questions, but it won't be on the same level as it might if they knew he'd died here. Strome, you pick some guys who can keep their yaps shut, and I mean buttoned tight. They do the job, then forget they ever did it."
"Right, Boss."
"He was killed with something off his smoking jacket, make sure the jacket is taken to his place along with anything else he might normally have along with him. Make sure his wallet, keys, and stuff like that is on him. Take his hat and overcoat, and don't touch the tie around his neck. Don't just dump everything, make it look like he went home, and that's where he bought it. Everyone wears gloves."
"Right, Boss." He went inside the dressing room, shut the door, and from the sound of it, was preparing things for departure. He would have to work quick before the body stiffened up.
"Derner, find out where Caine hung his hat and case it. Figure the best time to get him inside. Arrange for a closed truck, something that won't stand out. No speeding, no busted lights, or whoever screws up will take the fall. Anyone too stupid or too nervous is on their own."
"Right, Boss."
"I want to know who was where from the moment Caine walked off the stage-wait-was Evie Montana in the dancers' dressing room?"
"I didn't notice."
"Find out. I saw her follow Caine when his act was over. Where is she now?"
Derner cut away to bang on the chorus dancer's door again and looked inside. He traded words, then withdrew, shaking his head at me. "None of the girls have seen her since the end of the first show. They said Jewel came by to shoot the breeze. She stepped outside to have a smoke. Not allowed to smoke backstage."
"See if she's still outside, then."
He tapped on Caine's door, and Strome emerged. If I expected him to be pale and shaken from his grim work, I was disappointed. This wasn't anything disturbing to him. Derner explained what was wanted, but Strome paused.
"Boss-there's something gone from there." He gestured back toward the room.
"Yeah?"
"I looked, but Caine's overcoat's gone."
I digested this a few seconds. "Maybe the killer took it."
"Ya think?" Kroun put in. "You're sure it's gone?"
Strome nodded. "Not that big a place, and it's a hard-to-miss coat. Tan-colored vicuna. Real flashy, expensive.
Someone could get some money hocking or selling it."
"It'd be too hot an item. Why else would they take it?"
" 'Cause it's cold?"
Kroun look at me. I shrugged. "As good a reason as any. It'll make a search easier. Strome, go check the alley for Jewel Caine and see if you spot anyone dumb enough to have that coat."
Strome shot off, moving casual, but not wasting time.
With this kind of distraction I'd forgotten about my internal cold. It flooded its way back, and I had to fight to keep from visibly shivering. Evie Montana and Jewel Caine were gone, and the man between them thoroughly dead. I didn't think either or even both working together would be strong enough to strangle him like that, so quickly. As for motive... well, Jewel had none to speak of; Caine alive meant money to her. Unless my loan of forty bucks had taken the pressure off, and she'd come back to have a gloat and one thing had led to another. If so, then why had Caine turned his back on her? He liked baiting people face-to-face to enjoy their reaction. Of course, he could have watched the reflection in the big mirror, but then he might have seen the attack coming and put up more of a fight.
Where had Evie gotten to, anyway? The way she dogged him, she might as well have been on a leash. Had she seen him killed and run? That was my main worry. If either of them saw something she shouldn't, she was dead, too.
Derner went off to arrange details, leaving me and Kroun in the hall.
"You handled that," he said, "like you had it written out on a chalkboard."
I shrugged. "Just trying to anticipate. If I left anything out, I wanna know."
We looked at each other a minute. I knew for sure that Kroun hadn't personally done it since he'd been in my sight all during the break in the show. But Mitchell could have managed, and he'd been missing for a long time.
"Where's your boy?" I asked.
"You think Mitchell pulled this?" Kroun didn't seem angered by the implied accusation, only curious.
"He and Caine had a history, what was it?"
"Damned if I know." The deadpan look moved back in. He should charge it rent.
"How can you not know?"
"Mitchell's job is to watch my back and run errands, I don't need his life story for that."
"He was throwing looks at Caine."
"He does that for everyone. You, too, I noticed."
"Yeah, but I'm not strangled yet."
Kroun pushed the dressing-room door open. "Is that how it happened? He was strangled?"
"Yeah. Quiet."
"Knives are quiet, too."
"No knife, or I'd have sme-seen the blood."
He backed out. "Look, Fleming, you got a half-assed reason against Mitchell, and I'll admit it's a possibility. Who else is on your shit list?"
"A guy named Hoyle. We'll find him before the night's out."
"There must be others. From what you've said there could be a hundred people all wanting Caine dead. You said he owed markers?"
"To this club, maybe others. The money was coming out of his pay. He was more valuable alive."
"Not to one person." From where he stood Kroun took another look at the room, a long one, then shut the door.
"That's all it takes."
"Figure the cops are going to go in big on this," I said. "Caine was popular. Catch his killer fast, and they get approving headlines. We gotta hand them someone. Preferably the right someone."
"His ex-wife or girlfriend? There's usually a dame behind these things."
I told him why I didn't think they were likely prospects.
He was unimpressed. "Maybe you haven't seen how worked up a woman can get when she's mad enough. I have, and it's damned scary."
Actually I had seen a small woman take on two grown men and nearly win before the handcuffs were safely in place and we could call the cops on her. Escott still had the scars. Mine had healed. "I don't get that feeling here."
"Feeling. Uh-huh." Kroun clearly didn't think much of my instincts, and he was probably right. Just because I liked Jewel and thought Evie was cute was no reason to take them out of the running.
"Okay, they're on the list. Might as well add in the chorus girls and the band."
"The band was performing the whole time. Listen, let's just go find these two dames, have a talk, and settle it."
"Why are you so lathered to find the killer?" I asked.
More of the deadpan stare. "Why not?"
Couldn't think of a reply to that one. I'd rather have Kroun stay out of the way, but he was the big boss, and I still had to listen to him. It rankled not being able to influence him to my way of thinking. I'd gotten too used to the luxury of being able to order people around.
Derner came back to say arrangements were in hand, and he also had addresses for Jewel, Evie, and Hoyle. "I'm sending some of the boys for Hoyle. You want him alive?"
"Yes. Even if he didn't kill Caine, he owes me for those damn tires. What about Ruzzo?"
"They move around a lot. Landlords keep kicking them out."
"Lemme know when you bring 'em in. I need a car, too."
"Gordy's is back, but Strome took off to fix things. I can get another driver."
"I'll drive myself. You check everything on everyone who was backstage. Make up whatever story you need for cover and make it reasonable; don't leave them room to guess what really happened."
Derner nodded, then reached in again from the hall to shut the light off before locking up. Apparently he didn't like putting himself any closer to the dead man than the rest of us.
Kroun and I left by the club's back door. The outside cold abruptly and painfully meshed with my inside chill.
Ganged up on me like that, I didn't stand a chance and nearly doubled over from the shivering that hit like a gut punch.
"You okay? What's the matter?" Kroun paused from opening the passenger side of the Caddy, looking over the roof at me, half-annoyed, half-concerned.
"Freezing my ass off," I muttered, and slammed in behind the wheel. The keys were in their slot. No need to worry about anyone thieving this car. I tried to control the shaking to get it going.
"Stop," Kroun said.
I wasn't used to being ordered, even when I knew it was part of the job. "What?"
He made no reply, just walked around and opened my door. "Move over, I'll drive."
"But-"
"Do it."
I did it.
Kroun gave me an irritated up-and-down. "You got a fever or what? Only time I saw a man in your kind of shape he had the DTs. You sick?"
"I donno. Don't feel sick." I hated that he was picking me apart.
"You don't look sick. Not much." He figured out the starter, put the car in gear, and we glided forward. "Which way?"
"Left at the corner, then right."
He drove as directed, throwing a glance my way now and then. The car was still warmed up from taking Gordy to the Bronze Belt. Kroun fiddled with the heater and opened the vents wide. Hot air breathed on my feet and legs.
"Better?"
"A little."
He looked unconvinced but kept it to himself. "So what's really wrong with you?"
"Nothing."
"Fleming, you don't have DTs, St. Vitus Dance, or malaria, and that's the limit of my educated guessing. You know what's wrong."
"It's probably the shot I had."
He threw a hostile glare remarkably similar to Mitchell's. "Shot. There's no medicine makes a man cold like that. If it was the winter getting to you, then your teeth would be chattering, too. This has to do with what Bristow did to you."
I shook my head to mean I didn't want to talk about it.
"Yeah, and it's got you bad. I've seen guys just like you going right off the dock, but because they were in the War.
It did that to them. You didn't have the War; you had Bristow. The son of a bitch is dead, he can't come at you again."
Which I knew very well. Funny, but Escott had been on this same trail the night before.
"I told you to ease off on yourself, so when's it going to commence?"
No answer to that one, since I sure as hell didn't know. "Let's stick to business, if you don't mind."
"Business. That's what we call it. It's what got you where you are. It's what killed that guy back there, sure as shit.
Business." He sounded none too pleased with it.
What was this about? But he shut down.
The heater was a good one. Eventually the hot air blowing against my legs filled up the rest of the car, blunting the edge. The pain from the inner cold eased, whether from the warmth or Kroun trying to talk some sense into me, I couldn't tell.
He turned on the radio. "This okay with you?"
"Go ahead." I was surprised he'd bothered to ask.
We listened to Harry James. The music gave me something else to think about besides myself. I'd interrupt with directions now and then, as needed. Our route more or less followed the El line as we headed to Jewel Caine's home. It was the closest to the Nightcrawler.
The song ended, a grimly serious ad instructing everyone to use Bromo-Seltzer to fight off colds replaced it. Foiling the announcer, Kroun turned the sound down. "This is some car," he said. "Gotta plan ahead to make turns, but it's a smooth ride."
"It has truck shocks to take the extra load," I told him. So long as we kept the topic aimed away from me, I didn't mind socializing.
"That would be the armor plating making the weight?"
"Yeah. Top, bottom, and sides, with bulletproof window glass, special tires. This thing's built like a German tank.
Gordy had it done by this guy in Cicero. I think he was the same one who fixed up Capone's car likewise. Did a better job for Gordy, though."
"He fix the motor up, too? She runs easy for this kind of load."
"Some other guy did that. I'm not sure exactly how, but she'll do one-twenty on the flat and not raise her voice."
"Sounds sweet. Real sweet."
I could agree with that.
"This the place?"
"Yeah."
He had to circle the block to find parking. The neighborhood was run-down, but not quite on the skids. Sad old piles of brick made up the better buildings, jaded clapboard was on the rest. Even when new, the area would have been depressing, and I speculated whether the architects had been solitary drinkers.
A three-story brick was our destination. It had once been a hotel, but was converted to flats. Nothing fancy. No doorman, no night man out front to watch things. We walked in unchallenged and went up to the second floor. No elevator.
I heard radios tuned to different shows as we walked down a dim, door-lined hall. Someone with a fussy baby walked the floor in there, a couple traded opening salvos in that one, somebody snoring just here-the usual. Down at the end a radio was turned up loud, but not too loud. It was in Jewel Caine's flat.
Kroun did the honors, banging on the door. "Mrs. Caine?"
I stepped close to call through the thickly painted wood. "Jewel? It's Jack Fleming from the club. Open up, would you?"
We waited and tried again.
"This doesn't look good," said Kroun. "Why turn the radio on and go out?"
Had I been alone, I could have answered that for myself by vanishing and sieving inside. Without hypnosis to make him forget, I was crippled on what I could do.
Kroun reached up, feeling along the trim above the door. "No key. I don't want to bother looking for anybody who has one, either. We'll do it the hard way."
He dropped to one knee and pulled out a small case. Picklocks. A very nice set. He used them. To him it was the hard way, to me it was expertly and quickly done, and I was accustomed to Escott's skills. Even he couldn't work with gloves on.
"Turn it," Kroun said, holding two of the picks in place.
I turned it; the door drifted open. He withdrew the picks and put his kit away.
Lights were on, and a single window overlooking the front of the building on the right had its shade drawn. Jewel had left after dark, then. Or come home and left again. I hoped so. The radio was in a corner, a table model. Kroun started over, a hand reaching to perhaps turn it off, then stopped. He put his hands in his pockets.
"What?" I asked quietly.
He shook his head and seemed to be listening, but I couldn't hear over the radio noise. I took in the rest of the place. Jewel was an indifferent housekeeper. The room was small, a kitchen and parlor in one, with only the barest necessities, cheap stuff. Mail, opened and not, was scattered on what served as a dining table. She had a fine collection of sleeping and some other kind of pills for her nerves which made me uneasy. I knew what too many of those in one dose could do. Most of the containers seemed to have stuff in them. The bad thing would have been finding them empty. I wish I'd not thought of that angle.
Kroun went into her bedroom. I followed.
Unmade bed, clothes piled up. I took a whiff and got stale cigarette smoke, very heavy, some kind of perfume vainly fighting it, and the scent of desperation. I couldn't explain the last one; the feeling just swelled up in me.
And one other... oh, damn.
I slumped. We were too late.
The bathroom. Pushed the door open. It wouldn't go all the way. Her body prevented that.
Didn't want to, but I had to look, to make sure.
The bloodsmell overwhelmed even the old cigarette reek. It looked like she'd stood in front of the mirror over the sink, put the gun to her head, and that was it. No doubt about her being dead. The white-painted walls were splattered with blood and... and other stuff.
"What?" asked Kroun. He had to pull me out to see for himself.
She still wore her coat. Was that normal? If there was a normal. Didn't suicides prepare themselves? Write notes or something... ?
Distraction. It wasn't working. I backed away, going to the small kitchen, stood by the sink there, and waited. I was hot and cold both together, feeling the sweats you get as your body works itself up to vomiting.
That didn't happen, though. The sick weight stayed bunched in my throat, twisting through my belly. I wanted to throw up just to get it over with.
The cold won out. I leaned forward and trembled from it. My knees started to go. Managed to fall onto one of the chairs by the dining table instead of the floor.
Kroun came out. Kept silent a while. I couldn't look at him. Too busy fighting off the shakes. I would not let myself give in into another damned fit with Kroun looking on.
"Wasn't anything you could have done," he said, after some moments.
"Gotten here sooner."
"I don't think so. Listen, someone makes up her mind to do that, she'll find a way no matter what."
I shook my head. Didn't quite know why.
"What is it?" he asked.
"She didn't kill herself."
"Looked pretty clear to me."
"Someone made it look that way." I sat up straight and did what I could to shove all the sick darkness within into a box and slam the lid. I needed to be thinking. "See if you can find her purse."
He moved around, turned up three purses. One was the same blue as her dress. I upended it on the table, amid the clutter of makeup, keys, tissues, matches, and crushed cigarettes-the twenty and two tens I'd handed over to help with the back rent.
"That's my loan to her." I gave him a short version of my talk with Jewel earlier. "The woman was cleaned up.
There's no booze here, check and see. She was sober and had some hope back, had a job waiting. She wouldn't have shot herself."
"She would if she'd murdered Caine."
True. Jewel could have killed her ex, then in a fit of remorse came back here to escape earthly justice. But everything in me said it was wrong. "He meant money to her. She had no motive."
"You don't know that."
"I was with her, she was-"
"Wise up, Fleming. You talk to her for half an hour and think you know what's going on inside her head? You can know a person a lifetime, and he'll still surprise you in ugly ways."
"She was murdered."
"Give me a reason to believe it."
Hell, I had to give myself one, besides the churning in my guts. "That gun, what kind is it?"
He went to look and came back. "Long revolver. A forty-five."
"That's a lot of iron for a woman to carry."
"So she kept it under the bed to scare burglars."
"A woman's more likely to have a smaller gun."
"So she was a tougher girl than most. I've met more than one broad carting a cannon around and not thinking twice about it."
"Me, too, but Jewel-" This was getting nowhere. I'd thought of a new angle for him. "Look at these."
He looked. "Pills. The sleeping kind. Okay. What about 'em?"
I shook one of the bottles. There were enough to do the job. "Lemme put it this way: given a choice, wouldn't you rather just fall quietly asleep to do your dying? Why put a big, noisy gun to your head?"
Kroun unexpectedly went dead white, his skin almost matching the streak in his hair. Maybe I'd dredged up a bad memory for him, of when he'd been bullet-grazed. "She... might have been in a hurry."
That wasn't funny. "I think someone else must have been instead." Evie Montana? Hoyle? Mitchell? Why, though?
"Someone made her kill herself? How? Holding another gun on her? 'Shoot yourself before I do it for you?' "
"I donno. She could have been knocked out, he stands her up, puts the gun in her hand, and-"
He shifted. Frowned. He went back to the bathroom again. When he returned his color was no better, but something had changed. "Okay. I'm convinced."
"Where did I go right?"
"The gun. It's in her hand. Her hand's relaxed around it."
"So?"
"When a shooter that size goes off, it's gonna kick like an army mule. It should be lying anywhere else, but not where it is. Somebody set her up all right."
Her hands... he'd reminded me. Wearily, I went and looked for myself. I made my gaze skip over the blood and mess and focus only on her hands. Enough of the skin was visible. No finger marks, no crescent-shaped cuts from Caine's nails digging into her flesh. She'd not done it.
"C'mon, let's get going," said Kroun.
I blinked, my mind trying to shift gears to keep level. "What?"
"That other dame you wanted to see. Let's find out if she's still breathing."
"Shit."
He snagged up the money. Shoved it at me.
"Hey, I don't-"
"If you don't, someone else will. Use it to buy her flowers, but don't leave it for the damn vultures when they come."
We'd kept our gloves on, so wiping away prints wasn't a problem. We left, moving quiet, but it seemed a wasted precaution. If the tenants here had been able to ignore a gun noise like that, they wouldn't pay mind to much else, including the radio we'd left on.
Kroun drove, with me muttering directions and trying to feel the heater's warmth again. There might not have been anything I could have done to prevent Jewel's death, but part of me thought otherwise, and was beating me up about it.
"Hey." Kroun broke in on the internal pounding.
"What?"
"She was dead before we could have gotten there."
"How do you know?" And how was it this guy could read me so well? I might as well be wearing a sandwich sign.
"The way the blood was dried. I... got some experience about that."
I didn't care to ask for details. I had experience, too, and he was likely right, but her death hurt all the same.
"It's not fair," he said, as though agreeing to something I'd spoken aloud. "Not by one damn bit. We'll get the guy, though. Or girl. We will."
Cold comfort, Escott might have said. I wanted him here, but the less contact between him and my current business associates the better. I'd tell him about it later.
Evie's place was in another not-so-great neighborhood. Her flat was one of two above a street-level shoe store.
Other small businesses filled out the block, each apparently with living quarters a mere stair climb away. Convenient.
Kroun parked out front, and we hurried up to the tenant's entry. No need for picking the lock, the thing was open.
He banged on the flat's door, and I called Evie's name, a too-eerie reprise of what we'd done at Jewel's.
Thankfully I heard movement on the other side of the door. A groggy-sounding woman wanted to know what we wanted. I said I was Evie's boss and trying to find her.
"What's she done now?" the woman asked. Still through the door.
"She left without her pay."
The door was abruptly opened. A thin brunette, rumpled hair, no makeup, wrapped in a too-large flannel robe, peered out. She gave us the eye, a suspicious one. Kroun stepped diffidently back and looked surprisingly harmless and humble.
"Sorry to come by so late, Miss," he said, his smile matching his apology. "But we're trying to find Evie. It's important."
She blinked against the onslaught of charm, then shook it off. "What's that about her pay? She owes me back rent."
I pulled out one of the ten-dollar bills. "You know where she is?"
"At work, some club-if you're her boss, why don't you know?" She stared with unabashed fascination at the money.
"Evie left suddenly, before the show was over. We thought she might be ill or have an emergency. Is she here?"
"Of course she's not here, or she'd have answered the door. This is the middle of the night in case you haven't noticed."
"Yeah, sorry about that. Where would she go if she had a problem?"
"What kind of problem? If it's with a man, she moans to me about it. If it's about money, she moans to her boyfriend."
"The singer?"
"What singer? That creep Alan Caine? Not him. Her other boyfriend, the sailor."
What a surprise, but Kroun landed on his feet. "Is he that big blond Swede from Minnesota who stutters?"
The woman rolled her eyes. "She's got another one? The only guy I know is a bald Polack merchant sailor who talks smooth. He lives somewhere by the river-with his wife. Evie's got no more sense about men than-than I don't know what, but she's an idiot about anything in pants."
"So where do we find this Polack sailor?"
"Canada. He shipped out a week ago. He sent her a letter from some place. They were stuck in port because the weather delayed a shipment or something, and he said he'd be late getting back. He should be so considerate to his wife."
Probably wasn't, I thought. "You sure he's out of town?"
"Oh, yeah. Evie was in the dumps for a whole hour over it. I had to listen. Say, why are you so interested?"
"It's really important we find her. What other friends might she go to if she was in a jam?"
"That's it. She comes to me first, then her boyfriends. She's angling to be the next Mrs. Caine, you know. What a dope."
"You don't like him much?"
"He walks all over her and thinks it's funny. She doesn't want to see that, though. I don't care how handsome a fella is, if he doesn't treat you right, throw him back in the water, he's not worth the trouble. Is she in a jam?"
"We just have to find her."
"Then call the cops. If she's not here or with Caine or the Polack, then she's not anywhere. She's used up her favors with everyone else."
I pulled out a business card for Lady Crymsyn, penciled the lobby phone number and Escott's office number on the back, and handed it to her along with the ten-dollar bill. "If she comes home or calls, you ring any of these until you get an answer from someone."
She looked from the money to me like I'd just become her new best friend. "Well, sure!"
"And you don't have to say anyone was by looking for her."
"Sure!"
We said good night and started down the hall. When her door shut and the lock clicked in place Kroun signed for me to wait, then cat-footed back to listen, his ear to the keyhole. I should have thought of that. I'd have heard a lot more.
After a moment he returned, shaking his head. "I thought she might call someone, but no dice. I think she went back to bed. Any other ideas?"
"The Nightcrawler again. See if Derner came up with anything."
"There's another place to check..."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Alan Caine's."
Damn. I wish I'd thought of that, too. Evie might have taken refuge there given the chance. Strome and his men wouldn't get over for some hours yet. "I'll call Derner for the address."