“Sure Guard comes in several sizes,” Sunny said. “I carry the seventeen-gram key-chain model. It has its own stainless steel quick-release loop, comes in an attractive leather case, and you get to choose from three decorator colors.”
“Gee, three colors.”
“You should try it out,” Sunny told me. “Make sure you know how to use it.”
I stepped outside, held my arm straight out, and sprayed. The wind shifted, and I ran inside and slammed the door.
“That wind can be sneaky,” Sunny said. “Maybe you should go out the back way. You can exit through the gun range.”
I did as she suggested, and when I reached the street, I rushed to my car and jumped inside lest any droplets of Sure Guard were hanging around, waiting to attack my neurotransmitters. I shoved my key into the ignition and tried hard not to panic over the fact that I had tear gas under 125 pounds of pressure per square inch, which in my mind spelled nerve bomb, dangling between my knees. The engine caught and the oil light came on again, looking very red and a little frantic. Fuck it. Take a number, I thought. On my list of problems to solve, oil wasn’t even in the top ten.
I pulled into traffic and refused to check my rear-view mirror for telltale clouds of smoke. Carmen lived several blocks east of Stark Street. Not a great neighborhood, but not the worst, either. Her building was yellow brick and looked like it could do with a good scrubbing. Four stories. No elevator. Chipped tile in the small ground-floor foyer. Her apartment was on the second floor. I was sweating by the time I got to her door. The yellow crime-scene tape had been removed, but a padlock was in place. There were two other apartments on the second floor. I knocked on each door. No one home at the first. A Hispanic woman, Mrs. Santiago, somewhere in her late forties, early fifties answered the second. She had a baby on her hip. Her black hair was pulled neatly back from her round face. She wore a blue cotton housecoat and terrycloth bedroom slippers. A television droned from the dark interior of the apartment. I could see two small heads silhouetted against the screen. I introduced myself and gave her my card.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you,” she said. “This Carmen only lived here a short time. No one knew her. She was quiet. Kept to herself.”
“Have you seen her since the shooting?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she might be? Friends? Relatives?”
“I didn’t know her. Nobody knew her. They tell me she worked in a bar… the Step In on Stark Street. Maybe somebody knew her there.”
“Were you home the night of the shooting?”
“Yes. It was late, and Carmen had the television on real loud. I never heard her play it so loud. Then someone was banging on Carmen’s door. A man. Turned out he was a cop. I guess he had to bang because no one could hear him over the television. Then there was a gunshot. That’s when I called the police. I called the police, and when I got back to my front door I could hear there was a big commotion in the hall, so I looked out.”
“And?”
“And John Kuzack was there, and some others from the building. We take care of our own here. We aren’t like some of those people who pretend not to hear things. That’s why we have no drugs here. We never have this kind of trouble. John was standing over the cop when I looked out. John didn’t know the man was a cop. John saw someone shot dead in Carmen’s doorway, and this other man had a gun, so John took matters into his own hands.”
“Then what happened?”
“It was real confusing. There were so many people in the hall.”
“Was Carmen there?”
“I didn’t see her. There were just so many people. Everybody wanting to know what happened, you know? People trying to help the dead man, but it was no use. He was dead.”
“Supposedly there were two men in Carmen’s apartment. Did you see the second man?”
“I guess so. There was a man I didn’t know. Never saw before. Skinny, dark hair, dark skin, about thirty, funny face. Like it’d been hit with a frying pan. Real flat nose. That’s why I noticed him.”
“What happened to him?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess he just left. Like Carmen.”
“Maybe I should talk to John Kuzack.”
“He’s in 4B. He should be home. He’s between jobs right now.”
I thanked her and walked up two more flights of stairs, wondering what sort of person would be willing and able to disarm Morelli. I knocked at 4B and waited. I knocked again, loud enough to bruise my knuckles. The door was thrown open and my “what kind of person” question was answered. John Kuzack was 6‘ 4“ tall, weighed about two hundred and forty pounds, had his graying hair pulled into a ponytail, and had a rattler tattooed onto his forehead. He was holding a TV
“John Kuzack?”
He squinted down at me. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to get a lead on Joe Morelli. I was hoping you could tell me something about Carmen Sanchez.”
“You a cop?”
“I work for Vincent Plum. He posted the bond on Morelli.”