The Alpine Menace Part 23

Officer O'Brien was thorough. After checking IDs, taking down our addresses and occupations, she sought out the most recent details first-our time of arrival, our reason for being at the murder scene, if we'd seen or heard anything, and finally, how we knew the victim.

Vida started to answer, but for once, I interrupted, and with a question of my own. "Are you aware that another murder took place next door about three weeks ago?"

O'Brien nodded slowly. "It wasn't on our shift, but we know about it."

"My cousin Ronnie Mallett was accused of the crime," I said, going on to describe how I'd gotten involved. "My colleague"- I gestured at Vida- "and I have been doing some investigating of our own because we don't believe Ronnie's guilty. I think Ms. Altdorf's murder proves our point."

O'Brien made no comment. Isaacs had now joined us, but didn't sit down. "You say you only met the victim a few days ago?" he asked.

"Yes," Vida replied, jumping in before I could say anything. "This past weekend. I might point out-since Carol Stokes's murder wasn't on your shift-that Henrietta wasn't home at the time of the slaying. She told us she'd been working that night at the hospital."

Both Isaacs and O'Brien remained impa.s.sive. I a.s.sumed they understood her point, which was that if there was a connection between the two killings, it wasn't because Henrietta had been an eyewitness. At least not as far as we knew.

"Are you planning to leave town soon?" O'Brien asked.

"Yes," Vida answered. "We're returning to Alpine later this afternoon. I must say, the city is a very violent place. I can't imagine living here. I'd never feel safe."

The remark didn't go down well. Isaacs scowled and O'Brien's eyes hardened. At least they owned a couple of expressions besides those of department-store dummies.

"You'll have to make a statement at the station," Isaacs said. "Do you know where the north precinct is?"

I did. It wasn't far from the Greenwood district, and just west of the Northgate shopping center.

"Can we do that now?" I asked.

"We'll go with you," O'Brien said. I thought she seemed pleased by the idea. Maybe she was fantasizing about shackling Vida to a tree while we waited. "The detectives are on their way, along with the ME and the photographer. Do you know if the victim had any family?"

"A son, in Puyallup," Vida replied. "His name might not be Altdorf. I believe Henrietta had been married more than once. You might try her address book. There's also a wife and grandchildren."

Isaacs gave an abrupt nod just as the teakettle finally sang. It struck an odd note, a painfully happy death knell burbling Henrietta's demise.

"What about Mr. Rapp?" I asked. "Does he have to come, too?"

O'Brien glanced out into the living room, where Mr. Rapp was still talking to the medics. "Yes. He reached the scene first, didn't he?"

"We all discovered the body at the same time," Vida said. "Surely he can be left at home. He's quite old and frail."

"We won't use a rubber hose on him," O'Brien said, though there was no humor in her tone. "Hey, Dave," she said to her partner, "here come the 'tecs."

Tony Rojas and a burly fair-haired man in his late forties lumbered into the apartment. They were trailed by a young woman with photographic equipment and a much older man who carried a black satchel.

"Your turn," Rojas called to the officers. "You missed the first one." He seemed inappropriately cheerful.

"Just when we were going to lunch, too," Isaacs shot back. "You owe us, Tony. Why not send for a pizza?"

"Oh!" Vida looked furious. "Can you imagine?" she said to me in her usual stage whisper. "Would Milo act like this? He has more sense."

The police contingent ignored us and went about their business. I made tea, but wasn't allowed to enter the living room to offer Mr. Rapp a cup. Since the apartment was getting crowded, the firefighters stepped outside. Maybe, I thought as my nerves steadied and my temper frayed, they were going for a smoke.

Tony Rojas frowned when he finally saw me. "I know you. What's your name?" he demanded. "You some sort of ambulance chaser?"

"Emma Lord," I replied. "We met at your office. Are you going to arrest Ronnie Mallet for this murder, too?"

Rojas turned his back on me and went into the living room. O'Brien and Issacs joined the rest of the police contingent. There were more ribbings and chuckles. Vida looked fit to spit.

"This is dreadful," she said. "How can they make jokes when poor Henrietta is lying there dead?"

"It's how they survive," I said. "Would you want their job? They have to put distance between themselves and the cruelty they encounter every day." It was true of journalists, too, which is why many reporters are considered hard-bitten and cynical.

Given Vida's career as House and Home editor, she couldn't quite empathize. "Callous, that's what I call it," she declared.

The kitchen was growing warm, oppressive. At last the detectives, the ME, and the photographer finished their tasks. Rojas returned to the kitchen.

"Okay, Emma Lord, how come you happened to show up just as another body hit the deck?"

Since Rojas was looming over me, I stood up. I'm a boss, I know how to use intimidating body language. I rarely do it, of course, because it wouldn't work with my small staff. Especially with Vida. She looms when she's sitting down.

"You may have given up trying to find Carol Stokes's real killer," I said, "but I haven't. If you ask me, whoever it was has struck again." I jerked one hand in the direction of the living room, where ambulance attendants were removing the body even as we spoke.

"You didn't answer my question," Rojas said, un-fazed. He still loomed, being a good eight inches taller. "How did you end up with another corpse?"

"I was trying to explain that," I said, keeping my voice even. "I've been conducting my own investigation. Henrietta Altdorf had been very helpful, and we were meeting her here for lunch. I talked to her on the phone about eleven o'clock. She was fine, and heading for the grocery store with her neighbor, Aldo Rapp." I nodded in the direction of the living room, where Mr. Rapp was now talking to Isaacs and O'Brien. "We got here early and found Mr. Rapp at the door. Ms. Altdorf hadn't come to get him yet and he was worried."

"How'd you get in?" Rojas asked.

"Mr. Rapp has a key. He and Ms. Altdorf each had a key to the other's apartment. I gather they sort of looked out for each other."

Rojas glanced into the living room. Maybe he was a.s.sessing Mr. Rapp in terms of his fitness as a murderer.

The poor old guy didn't look like he could pick up a golf ball, let alone a bowling trophy.

"Did Mr. Rapp hear anything, see anything?" Rojas asked.

"Not that he mentioned," I replied. "Anyway, he's quite deaf."

Vida had also risen. "Could we move along now? It's almost two."

"I can tell time," Rojas retorted.

In her big plumed hat, Vida actually stood taller than Tony Rojas. "Need I point out," she said at her most caustic, "that you might consider how these two murders in adjoining apartments could be linked."

Rojas shot Vida a baleful look, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the kitchen.

"Really!" she exclaimed. "The man has no manners. Why, if I thought my nephew Billy ever treated a witness so disrespectfully, I'd-"

"Vida," I interrupted, "don't make things worse. Do you want to get locked up for impeding an investigation?"

"Impeding?" Vida cried, her voice carrying not only into the living room, but possibly all the way to the Satellite Room down the street. "We're solving it for them." She yanked off her hat, sat back down, removed her gla.s.ses, and began punishing her eyes. "Oooh! I hate the city! It makes me cross!"

Fifteen minutes later Mr. Rapp was able to return to his apartment, where Vida insisted he call his daughter to let her know what was going on. We were then directed to head for the north precinct to write up our statements. Apparently Mr. Rapp had been allowed to give his verbally.

Vida and I saw him to the door of his unit. "Promise you'll phone your daughter right away?" she said to Mr. Rapp. "And you might consider checking in with your doctor. You've had a very nasty fright."

"I'm feeling better," Mr. Rapp said, though I noticed that his hands still trembled slightly on the walker. "I hate to bother people. Dr. Fitzgerald still makes house calls, but I wouldn't want him to come until he's seen his patients at the clinic."

Vida's eyes grew wide. "A doctor who makes house calls? In the city? He must be very old-fashioned."

Mr. Rapp smiled feebly. "He is. Dr. Fitzgerald should have retired years ago, but he still sees his longtime patients. Such a wonderful man. Henrietta recommended him when my doctor died. She worked for an obstetrician at the same clinic before she took the job at the hospital."

"Remarkable," Vida murmured as we walked to the car. "Even young Doc Dewey has had to give up making house calls. My, my."

The statements turned out to be a cut-and-dried affair. Rojas and his partner didn't accompany us, and Isaacs and O'Brien apparently returned to their regular patrol duties. We were out of the precinct station by two-thirty, heading back to the Shear Beauty Salon.

This time, we both went inside to see Maybeth Swaf-ford. She was cutting an elderly Vietnamese woman's hair and refused even to look at us until she'd finished.

"I don't like being stood up," she declared in a low, angry voice after her client had headed up front to pay the bill. "Especially when I'm doing you a favor. What do you want? Make it quick."

"I think we'd better speak privately," Vida said, looking solemn.

"Why? I don't have any secrets around here." May-beth swung a hand in the direction of the three other hairdressers who were plying their trade along the mirrored wall.

"Trust me," Vida urged. "We have shocking news."

Maybeth looked taken aback. "About what?" Her belligerence faded.

Vida gestured toward the rear of the salon. "Is there a room back here where we could speak? It won't take long."

Maybeth sighed. "Yeah, the coffee room. Come on."

The coffee room was small, windowless, and dirty. Maybeth sat down at the Formica-covered table. We sat opposite her, where used paper cups, empty snack-food bags, and soda-pop cans cluttered the scarred surface.

"What's shocking?" Maybeth asked.

Vida cleared her throat. "Henrietta Altdorf has been murdered."

Maybeth's stare was incredulous. "No s.h.i.t!" she exclaimed.

Before Vida could reprimand her for her language, before I could explain, Maybeth slid off the chair and collapsed in a dead faint.

A WATERCOOLER STOOD at the far end of the room under a calendar with the theme of World Wrestling Federation Hunks. I filled a paper cup from the cooler and dumped it over Maybeth's head. It probably wasn't Red Crossa approved first aid, but Maybeth twitched, sputtered, and flailed her arms.

"Jesus!" she gasped. It had taken her at least a couple of minutes to become oriented and coherent. "What is this? A serial killer?"

"Probably not," I said. "Here, let me help you back into the chair." Putting one arm around her waist and the other under her armpits, I managed to hoist her into a sitting position. "Do you have any idea who might be killing your fellow tenants?"

Maybeth, who had started to tremble, shook her head. "No. G.o.d. No."

Vida, who had remained seated, shoved some of the debris out of the way and leaned across the table. "Come, come, Maybeth," she said, not unkindly, "you must have some idea why Carol and Henrietta were murdered. It can't possibly be a coincidence or the work of a madman."

Maybeth didn't reply. She sat there staring at the battered Formica, looking as if she might cry. We waited at least a full minute, but Maybeth remained silent.

"How about this?" I finally said. "Has anybody moved 243 out of the building in the last few months? A disgruntled tenant, let's say?"

Slowly, Maybeth shook her head. "No," she said at last. "Everybody there, even the college kids, have been renting for at least a year."

"A stalker?" Vida suggested.

Again, Maybeth shook her head. "Not that I ever heard of. We found a homeless guy pa.s.sed out by the Dumpster, but that was months ago."

"Were Carol and Henrietta close?" I asked. "I mean, closer than just neighbors?"

Maybeth frowned at me. "What do you mean by that? Something kinky?"

"No," I replied. "I mean, did they share confidences?"

"Not that I ever knew," Maybeth said, drawing herself up in the chair. "Jeez, I could use a drink. I wonder if Annabelle would let me go home? I only got two more clients today."

"But there must be a connection," I insisted.

Maybeth, however, didn't answer. Instead, she got up on wobbly legs and left the coffee room.

"The police will question her," Vida murmured. "No doubt they'll interview everyone in the building."

"I don't think anybody was around, except Mr. Rapp," I noted. "Wasn't Henrietta's the only car in the parking lot?"

"You're right," Vida agreed, getting up from the table. "I certainly hope those detectives do a more thorough job this time. They ought to be ashamed of themselves."

We went out into the salon, where Maybeth was talking to a hawk-faced woman at the front desk. Presumably it was Annabelle, and she was the boss or the owner or maybe both. Annabelle, however, didn't seem very sympathetic.

Maybeth saw us and made a face. "I have to stay until four," she said. "You'd better go."

We didn't have much choice. Annabelle was glaring at us with beady black eyes. I apologized to Maybeth for bearing bad news, then we exited the Shear Beauty Salon.

"We should head home," Vida said, but the words weren't convincing.

"What can we do if we stay in Seattle?" I asked, and then suddenly remembered what I could do. "Alvin," I said, getting behind the wheel. "He should know about this. Maybe he can get Ronnie out of jail."

I dialed the young attorney's number. He answered on the third ring, sounding frazzled. The news of a second murder didn't seem to cheer him.

"Gosh, I don't know... I mean, like I'd have to file a motion and... maybe I can get around to it tomorrow. What's tomorrow, anyway? I can't find my calendar."

"It's Thursday," I said, never knowing whether to feel sorry for Alvin or charge into his office and give him a swift kick. "Come on, Alvin, do you still believe your client is guilty?"

"Well... no, I don't know if I was ever... I mean, it's my first criminal case and... Tell you what, I'll go see Ronnie tomorrow morning. No, it'll have to be tomorrow afternoon. I've got... hey, who was this other woman anyway?"

I explained. Alvin left me with a vague promise that he'd do what he could. When he could. If he could.

"I have to let Ronnie know," I said. It was an afterthought, and I felt guilty. Ronnie always seemed to be an afterthought. "I hate to say it, but I think we should go back to the jail."