“What is it you want me to do, Mr. Krochek?”
“Find Janice. Find out what happened here.”
“I don’t know that I can do that. It may not be possible.”
“But you can try. You can try.”
His eyes pleaded with me. He was close to the edge of panic; you could see it in the twist of his expression, the tautness of his body, the compulsive face-rubbing. I didn’t much like the man-weak, selfish people leave me cold-but from his actions and emotional reactions I was pretty sure he wasn’t responsible for whatever had gone down here yesterday or last night. And he did seem to have some feelings left for his wife and her safety, despite all she’d put him through. I had sympathy for him, as I did for any poor schmuck who found himself backed into a corner through the actions of others. I could not walk away from him, much as I would have liked to.
“I can try,” I said. “On three conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“First, that everything you’ve told me is the truth. If you lied about any of it, if you’re withholding anything, I’ll find out. And that’ll be the end of it.”
“I’ve told you the truth, I swear it. One hundred percent.”
“Second condition. You don’t clean up any of those bloodstains in the kitchen. Leave them just as they are. Cover them up with something if you can’t stand to look at them.”
“All right.”
“Third condition. Your wife may be dead; we both know that. If I find any conclusive evidence of foul play, or if her body turns up somewhere, I’m obligated to go straight to the police and tell them what I know. I could lose my license if I didn’t.”
“Where would that leave me?”
“With a choice. Do the right thing and I’ll back you up. Otherwise you’re on your own.”
He agonized over it, but not for long. “Agreed,” he said. Then, “So what do we do now?”
“Call the hospitals first. If she’s not in any of them, find out if any of your neighbors saw or heard anything and what time. Call me right away if there’s anything I should know-I’ll give you my cell phone number. After that, stay put for the rest of the day.”
“I don’t know if I can stand to be cooped up here any longer…”
“Force yourself. For all we know, your wife could walk in any minute. If that happens, or you hear from her, or if there are any calls for her, let me know right away.”
“What’ll you be doing?”
“The best I can,” I said, and let it go at that.
Before I left, I let Krochek give me five hundred dollars in cash and had him write me a check for another five hundred. Money isn’t everything, but on a lousy case like this, on a lousy hump day, I figured it was a matter of entitlement.
10
The musty furniture in the lobby of the Hillman had one occupant today, an elderly woman knitting what appeared to be a white shawl or afghan with an air of bright-eyed, scowling concentration, like one of the French Revolution ladies waiting for the guillotine blade to lop off another head. The same rusty-haired clerk was behind the desk, playing solitaire with a chewed-up deck. When I got close enough I could see that the backs of the cards were mildly pornographic. He gave me a bored look and made no effort to hide his playthings.
I said, “Ginger Benn. Is she in?”
“Nope.”
“Know where I can find her?”
“Nope.”
“She works as a waitress. You must have some idea where.”
The bored look modulated into one of wariness; he’d recognized me. He quit fiddling with the cards, laid his hands flat on top of them. “You’re that cop who was in here last week.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“No? That’s what you said.”
“Wrong. That’s what you assumed. I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh, one of those,” he said with a half sneer.
“We were talking about Ginger Benn.”
“You were talking about her, not me.”
“What’s your name?”
“… My name? What you want to know that for?”
“So I can report you to the management for being uncooperative. Or to the police for withholding information, if it comes to that.”
“Hey,” he said, “hey.”
The knitting woman had been listening; she made a cackling sound. I turned away from the desk and said to her, “Excuse me, ma’am.” She looked up from her clicking needles. “What’s this man’s name?”
The clerk said, “Don’t tell him.”
The woman said, “Mister Phil Partain. He’s an asshole.”
“Hey,” he said again.
“Something wrong with the heat in my room,” she said. “That’s why I’m down here. Mister Partain won’t have it fixed.”
“Not my problem, Mrs. Grabowski. I told the management about it last week.”
“Says he told the management,” the woman said to me. “Probably didn’t. Doesn’t care if old people like me freeze to death.”
“Nobody ever froze to death in this hotel.”
“Not yet, Mister Partain. No thanks to you.”
“Old bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
Nice place, the Hillman. Homey.
“All right, Phil,” I said. “One more time. Ginger Benn.”
He hesitated, and I looked hard at him until his eyes shifted. Then he said, “Benjy’s Seven. North Beach.”
“Topless club?”
“I never been there, I wouldn’t know.”
“Okay. Now let’s talk about Janice Stanley.”
“Who?”
“Ginger Benn’s roommate. The woman I came here to see last week.”
“What about her?”
“Last time you saw her was when?”
“I don’t remember. Couple of days ago. Why?”
“Saturday?”
“Might’ve been.”
“Sunday?”
“I don’t work Sundays.”
“Monday morning?”
“No.”
“Was Ginger Benn here Monday morning?”
“They come in, they go out. Half the time I don’t even see ’em.”
“Ginger say anything to you about her roommate moving out?”
“No. She don’t talk to me much.”
“So as far as you know, the two of them are still sharing her room.”
