he ran down the judge.
But how would Armstrong know where to find him? Figuring out which hotel was hosting the conference would be easy, but how could he possibly know that the judge he wanted would be crossing the parking lot at 6:30? A lucky guess? A stakeout?
Well that was something he could ask the twerp when they picked him up. He called for his partner to meet him at Jonah’s and gladly left the hospital and its depressing smells behind.
As Detectives Edwards and Wall entered the restaurant, the perky young waitress at the reception stand said, “Two? Inside or out?” Then she giggled at her own question. “Sorry. It’s just automatic to ask. Obviously you don’t want to sit out in the rain.”
“Naw, we left our umbrellas in the car,” said Andy Wall, shaking raindrops from his iron-gray hair. He was eight months away from retirement and not out to risk anything by calling her honey or flirting with her as he once would have, even though she was terminally cute with those two ponytails on either side of her head that bounced when she moved.
As did other things.
They identified themselves and her blue eyes widened. “Oh, wow, yeah. I heard that one of our customers was killed and dumped in the river. I had the weekend off and missed it all.”
“We need to speak to Kyle Armstrong again. Is he here?” Edwards asked.
“I don’t think he’s working lunch,” she said. “Let me check.”
She returned a few moments later, followed by a stocky middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt and a loosened tie that he was tightening as he walked toward them.
“I’m the manager here,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“We’d like to speak to one of your waiters,” Edwards said. “Kyle Armstrong?”
“He doesn’t come in till four.
“If?”
“He was supposed to work the dinner shift last night, and he never showed up. Kids today! They work when they want to, take off when they want to, never think twice about if they’re screwing up everybody else’s workload. He don’t show up at four on the dot, though, his ass is so fired.”
“Does he still live at—” Edwards fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper he’d written the address on and read it off.
The manager shrugged. “So far as I know. What’s this about? More questions about Saturday night?”
“Something like that,” Edwards said.
“Y’all come back now,” said the bouncy waitress as they trudged back out into the rain.
“Kyle?” said the young man who opened the door to the walk-up apartment two blocks off Market Street. “He moved out in February.”
A very pregnant brunette appeared at his elbow. “Y’all looking for Kyle? He’s got a place near the Cotton Exchange.”
No, she did not know the address, but it was one block up Walnut Street and there was a hardware store on the ground floor.
“He still have that red Geo?” Edwards asked.
“So far as I know,” the former roommate replied.
They circled the block before pulling up in front of the circa-1920 brick building. No sign of a red Geo. As always, it was a toss-up as to whether to risk getting soaked or struggle with an umbrella. This time they found a parking space right in front, close enough that they could make a dash for it.
The tiny lobby showed remnants of bygone glory. The outer door was bronze, tarnished now, as were the filigreed mailboxes, but still bronze. The grungy floor was white marble with a long crack across the middle. Three names were listed for Apartment F: G. Smith, K. Armstrong, and R. Loring. No response when they pressed the buzzer, but the inner door wasn’t locked and they were able to walk up the four flights without challenge.
It took several loud knocks to get a response.
“Yeah?” said the beefy thirty-something man who opened the door in boxer shorts and a faded blue BORN TO RUMBLE T-shirt. They had evidently awakened him from a very deep sleep and he stared at them with bleary eyes. “Whas’up?”
“Smith?”
“Loring. Who’re y’all?”
Andy Wall flashed his badge. “We’re looking for Kyle Armstrong.”
“He ain’t here, man. He’s gone.”
“When do you expect him back?” asked Edwards.
“I told you. He’s cleared out. Split. And don’t ask me where ’cause he was gone when I got back.”
Loring told them he was a long-haul trucker. He had gotten in from Arizona around two a.m. to find all of Kyle’s things gone from his side of the room. “Clothes, CD player, clock radio, toothbrush, razor, his stupid bicycle, everything.”
“When?” they asked.
“How the hell do I know when he left? I told you. I just got in.”
