'Dumb bastard had it coming,' the chief said. 'You can't fuck around with those people's women like he did. He was begging for it.'
'What people,' I said.
'The Colombians. You know what they're like.'
'There's a lot of Colombians here,' I said.
'Sure, about five thousand. Came up to work the mills, only the mills closed so now they mostly stay home and pump the old lady and collect welfare.'
'But no coke?'
'Sure, some coke, like I say there's coke everywhere. But there's no more here than anywhere else. If we had a bunch of Canucks here on welfare the question wouldn't even come up. But just because they're Colombian . . . does this look like Miami?'
'A lot of Miami doesn't look like Miami,' I said. 'What makes you think Valdez was killed by a jealous husband?'
'He was dicking everything that wiggled,' Rogers said. 'When we found him his nads were gone. What would you think.'
'Suspects?' I said.
Rogers spread his hands. 'We hauled a bunch of them in, sweated them, nobody would give us anything.'
'Anybody specific?' I said. 'I don't mean to be nosy, but if you know he was getting it on you must know some names.'
'Listen'-he glanced down at my card tucked under one corner of his desk blotter-'Spenser. You start asking around down in that neighborhood and you'll end up with your balls missing too.'
'League of Women Voters would sponsor a day of mourning,' I said. 'You got a name?'
Rogers shook his head. 'No, for your own good. You stay out of it. We've checked this out, and there's nothing there. I got no right to be giving out the names of people who've been cleared of suspicion so you and that fucking newspaper can harass them.'
'Bailey,' I said, 'I appreciate your position. Your position sounds to me like bullshit, but I appreciate it. On the other hand, you have to appreciate my position. I come in here friendly, even charming, respectful of your law enforcement experience, and ask you to help me solve a murder which took place in your jurisdiction, and which you haven't solved. You tell me to screw. Now if I go back to my employer and say I tried to solve the crime but the police chief told me to screw, what kind of a letter of recommendation do you think he'll write for me on my next job?'
'I don't give a fuck,' Rogers said.
'Bailey, I believe you. That's probably the department motto. But it's no help to me. What I'm going to have to do is stick around this Rural Roach Box and find out what's happening and maybe, because you are not pleasant, maybe I'll demonstrate, while I'm at it, that you are an incompetent horse's ass.'
The red tone of Rogers's fat face and neck deepened. 'You be careful,' he said. 'You be goddamned careful.'
I stood up and walked to the door. I opened it and stopped and looked back at him. 'You too,' I said. Then I walked out and closed the door, and giggled while I walked through the squad room. You too. Ah, Spenser, you thespian devil you.
Chapter 4
Valdez had stayed at the Reservoir Court, a three-story cinder block motel with a bar and restaurant in a one-story wing off the west end of the building. The cinder block was painted green and a fake mansard roof of plastic shingles modified the third floor. The plastic roof was some of its charm. The fact that there was no other motel for fifty-two miles was the rest of its charm.
I put my extra ammunition in a bureau drawer, put my clean shirts on top of it, put my shaving kit in the bathroom, and went down to the bar. A large blackboard on an easel at the entrance to the bar/restaurant had today's specials chalked on it. There was Salmon Loaf at $5.95 and a Polish Platter for $4.95. New Wave.
It was three-thirty and the place had two customers and a woman tending bar. I sat on a barstool and ordered a draft beer. The bartender drew it for me and put it carefully down on a little napkin that would, of course, stick to the bottom of the glass when I picked it up to drink.
'Run a tab?' she said.
I nodded and she rang up the drink and put the bar bill in front of me facedown. The room was paneled in dark plywood, grooved to look like planking. There were pictures of trout and eagles and bears and deer and hunting dogs on the wall. I drank a little beer. The napkin stuck to the bottom of the glass. I pulled it off, and crumpled it up and put it in an ashtray.
'Staying at the motel?' the bartender said. She was wearing black slacks and a white blouse with a canvas hunting vest that had ammunition loops sewn across the front. Her very bland hair was pulled back to a French twist, and her eyes were brightly underscored by powder-blue eye shadow. Her eyebrows were narrow and dark. She wore a small maroon nameplate that said 'Virgie' on it in white lettering.
'Yes, I am,' I said.
'Traveling through?'
'No, I'm in town for a while.'
'Really, business?'
'Un huh.'
'Surprise,' she said.
