Part 23 (1/2)
”Will Manny make it?”
”Past Christmas?”
Rick nodded.
”I doubt it. But then, I wouldn't have bet he'd last as long as this.”
Forty-Eight.
At the morgue, there was a different kind of show-up-only one subject, one who wouldn't turn to offer his profile for identification. And a fearful witness-fearful for what she'd see, not for who would see her. Thinnes had been in the room a hundred times, and it was still unnerving.
He'd called Wisconsin and asked them to break the news to Redbird's sister and make arrangements for her to come to Chicago to ID the body officially. He'd picked her up at O'Hare. Now, in Room 131, he stood with her in front of the window into the cooler, the cold room where the dead awaited their ultimate disposition. The a.s.sistant medical examiner pulled the curtain, and they could see the gurney through the viewing window, with its shrouded burden.
She was dry-eyed, a lifetime older than the young woman in the photos. As she stood at the window, without fidgeting, and waited for the man on the other side of the gla.s.s to pull back the cover and make her brother's death real, Thinnes could sympathize with her lack of hurry.
Then the man lifted the cover, and Thomas Redbird's sister nodded and turned away. ”That's him.”
Thinnes signaled, and the AME re-covered the body and pulled the curtain closed. Thinnes opened the door into the next room and waved her in. Room 133. Gray-and-black furniture, built to withstand the onslaught of distraught humans; reddish carpet and orange door; tan walls and ivory curtains; and, near the ceiling, the preferred medium for introducing people to the hard facts-closed-circuit TV.
At his request, she sat on the sofa. He thought she fit the stereotype-the stoic red man. Or, in this case, woman. ”Do you have a place to stay?” he asked.
”Yes.”
”I'm sorry to have to ask you questions at a time like this, but I need help finding those responsible.” She nodded. ”When was the last time you saw him alive?”
”The morning after Thanksgiving. He came for dinner and left after breakfast the next morning.”
”Did he have any enemies?”
”No.”
”Anyone hate him enough to kill him?”
”No.”
”Can you think of anything that would help me?”
”I know why he was killed.” He waited. ”He knew who killed the artist. Bisti.”
”Who?”
”He wouldn't tell me. He knew, though.”
”Did he know Bisti?”
”He knew Mrs. Bisti. He loved her. He wanted to marry her-before she met Bisti. But she didn't love him. So she married Bisti. I told him, go to the police.”
”Was he afraid?”
”My brother was never afraid. But he should have gone to the police.”
Forty-Nine.
”Hey, Thinnes. Looks like we got a line on your dog.” Viernes slapped a note sheet down on the table in front of Thinnes. ”Beat copper-Noir-ran him down for you.”
”Dog?”
”Yeah, you know. The one that took a dump on your crime scene.”
”Oh.” Thinnes picked up the paper and read a name, Abner West. Address in Uptown. The address was familiar: an SRO-single room occupancy-hotel, an odd one in that its former suites had been converted to one-bedroom apartments. ”Noir still on duty?”
”Should be.”
”Do me a favor?” Thinnes waved the paper. ”Call over to Twenty and ask them to have him meet me.”
Gray and dismal even in summer, Uptown was h.e.l.l in December. Thinnes parked; before he and Oster could get out of the car, Officer Noir and his partner pulled up with their Mars lights flas.h.i.+ng.
Thinnes got out and walked over to the patrol car. ”Noir?”
”Yup.”
”Kill the lights, would you please?
”Sure.”
”You guys with us?” Oster asked.
Noir gave them a thumbs-up and got out of the car, closely followed by his partner. Young and blond and fit, Noir could have been a poster boy for the Hitler Youth. He was pressed and polished, clean-cut and clean shaven. And macho. His partner was dark, taller, heavier, and laid-back enough to seem half-asleep by comparison. He wasn't. He gave Thinnes a succinct account of their discovery of the dog's owner-from memory. Thinnes was impressed. An ”attaboy” was in order, he decided, maybe a good word to the team's supervisor.
The man who opened the office door looked like a h.e.l.l's Angel, from long, greasy hair tied back with a bandanna to chain-clad motorcycle boots. Dirty sleeves from his thermal unders.h.i.+rt showed below the rolled sleeves of a plaid work s.h.i.+rt, and his jeans were held by both suspenders and a belt with a Harley Davidson buckle.
”We're looking for an Abner West,” Oster told him.
”Yeah. Well, like I told the beat cop earlier...” He focused on something behind Oster-spotted Noir, Thinnes guessed. He seemed to calculate briefly whether Noir would consider it an insult to be called ”cop” by a civilian. Thinnes could almost see the wheels turning and the internal shrug as the man decided he didn't care. He brought his full attention back to Oster. ”I ain't seen him in a couple days.”
”That unusual?”
”Well...He's a boozer. You know how they are sometimes.”
”Tell us about him,” Thinnes said.
”Not much to tell. Lives alone-no family he's ever mentioned 'cept a nephew that's a b.u.m. Served in Korea. Pays his rent pretty regular.”