Stuart Kaminsky - Denial

“If it will make Dorothy feel better and you don’t disturb any of the residents and you don’t run into the boss,” she said. “But believe me, everyone is accounted for. Nobody died.”

“Could someone have come in to visit a resident during the night?”

“Till eleven,” said the redhead patiently. “After that, no visitors. Doors are locked for the night. You have to ring to get in. Emmie Jefferson’s note said Dorothy’s murder happened at a little after eleven.”

“Could she be a few minutes off?” Ames asked.

“Possible,” said the redhead. “Does it make a difference?”

We thanked her and went down the corridor and out the door to the parking lot.

“Must be ways to get in here without ringing,” Ames said. “I’ll scooter back on my own later and check.”

“Right,” I said. “Gregory Cgnozic was a famous poet?”

I was driving now down the narrow road, past a trio of ducks quacking near the pond.

“No,” said Ames. “Just a poet. Happened to catch him that one night in Butte. He was a last-minute fill-in for another Gregory, Corso.”

“Was he good?”

“My opinion? Yes. That night in Butte he said John Lennon was the greatest poet of the twentieth century,” said Ames. “Audience applauded. Don’t think they believed it, though, but he wasn’t joking.”

“You believe her, about the murder?” I asked.

“Woman saw what she saw,” he said.

We went back to the Texas. It was crowded. There was no chicken salad on the menu. Just the items listed on the blackboard above the bar. Burgers of large size with whatever you wanted and chili as hot as you wanted. Ames went to work. I stood at the bar, made a phone call, went for the chili and corn bread, worried about Dorothy Cgnozic and drove over to Bank of America two blocks away to cash my check.

Then I drove down Main, parked in the public lot on Main and 301 and headed for the office of Detective Etienne Viviase.

The plaque on his desk read: DETECTIVE ED VIVIASE. His real name was Etienne Viviase, but even his wife called him Ed. He was a little under six feet tall, a little over fifty years old, and a little over two hundred and twenty pounds. Hair short, dark. Face smooth, pink. He was wearing a dark rumpled sports jacket with a tie the color of Moby Dick.

He was seated behind his desk, one of three in the office. The other two were, at the moment, unoccupied, though the closest had a tall pile of reports that was doomed to topple.

“You called?” he said, mug of coffee in one hand, a scone with raisins or chocolate chips in the other.

I looked at the chair across from him and he nodded to let me know it was all right to sit.

“Scone?” he asked. “Coffee?”

“No thanks,” I said.

“Am I going to enjoy this conversation?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He looked at his wristwatch, which resulted in crumbs falling in his lap, which resulted in his brushing away the crumbs, which resulted in him spilling some coffee, which missed his pants leg by inches.

“Five minutes,” he said.

“Kyle McClory,” I said.

Viviase smiled, but not much, shook his head, but not much, and said, “Not my case.”

“Who should I talk to?”

“Me,” he said. “I don’t think anyone here, especially Mike Ransom, whose case it is, will talk to you.”

“His mother asked me to look into it,” I said.

“You’re not a detective,” he said. “You are a process server.”

“She asked me. Private citizen.”

“Is she paying you, private citizen?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why don’t you branch out into skip tracing?” he asked, taking a bite of scone and examining it to see how much he had left.

“I have enough work. Too much.”

“Well, I told you. Mike Ransom’s working on the Kyle McClory case,” he said. “The father’s a big-time radiologist. The mother’s a local celebrity. She’s got a lawyer with a little clout.”

“Tycinker,” I said.

“We’re working on it.”

“Can’t hurt if I ask some questions,” I said.

“It could hurt, but then again it might help,” he said. “What do you want from me?”

“What do you know? I mean, what do you know that I can have? I understand there was a witness.”

“Hold on,” Viviase said, finishing his scone and putting his coffee mug gently on the desk.

He walked over to the file cabinets, opened one in the middle, pulled out a file and came back to his desk. He sat, wiped his fingers and turned on his computer after checking something in the file, which now lay open in front of him.

The computer hummed. He entered something and sat back to wait.

“How’s the kid?” he asked.

“Adele?”

“Yeah, and the baby.”

“Both fine.”

He was about to speak again, but I could see something popping up on the screen. Viviase reached into his pocket, pulled out his glasses, put them on and looked at the words in front of him.

“Looks like…,” he said, reading what was in front of him and then checking the open file. “After ten, guy walking past the park saw it.”

“Guy?”

“His name is Arnoldo Robles,” said Viviase. “He works at a Mexican restaurant, El Tacito.”

I said nothing.

“You turn up anything on who killed the boy, you turn it over to me, right?” Viviase asked, leaning back.

“Right,” I said.

“Mr. Robles lives on Ninth,” Viviase said, scanning the file. “He was on his way home from work, walking up Gillespie past the park. Let’s see. Saw the kid running past him, thought maybe he was about to be mugged. Kid turns down Eighth. Robles hears a car behind him. Robles reaches Eighth. Car turns behind the kid, who’s in the middle of the street. Kid is running. Car’s lights hit him. Kid stops. Holds up his hand. Car nails him. Driver gets out to look at the body, then gets back in the car and drives off.”

“Why was the boy in the middle of the street?” I asked.

“To get to the other side. I don’t know.”

“What was he doing in a blue-collar Hispanic neighborhood at that hour?”

“Don’t know,” said Viviase.

“Anyone ask his friend Andrew…”

“Goines,” Viviase said, reading it from the file. “Yep. Mike asked him. Goines kid said he had no idea.”

“Robles see any other traffic, cars?”

“Doesn’t say,” said Viviase.

“How fast was the car going?” I asked.

“Doesn’t say, but Robles didn’t think he was speeding.”

Viviase gave me a long look, lips pursed, and removed his glasses.

“He ran the boy down,” I said.

“I didn’t say that. The report doesn’t say that. Right now it’s a hit-and-run. Something else turns up, we’ll look into it.”

He gave me a long quiet look. He wasn’t quite encouraging me, but he was a long way from telling me to mind my own business.

“Did Robles describe the car?”

“Let’s see… Sedan, probably late model, probably four doors.”

Viviase closed the file, reached over to put his computer to sleep and said, “Five minutes are up.”

“I think I’ll talk to Detective Ransom,” I said.

“Your funeral,” he said. “That’s his desk.”

Viviase pointed with a pencil at one of the other desks. “He’s probably at the hot dog cart outside. Late lunch.”

I went in search of Detective Michael Ransom.

The hot dog pushcart was on the sidewalk at the corner of Main and 301. You could see the Hollywood 20 theater across the street.

Two men, both big, both in their thirties, one with short dark hair, the other with even shorter blond hair, were standing by the cart with a hot dog in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other.