By this time, I’d circled back to the Pleasure Bar, and as I walked past the front window, I saw Denny and his new friend getting up to leave. There was plenty of room between tables in the restaurant, but the woman still managed to brush up against Denny as she moved away from her chair. I’m a trained professional, so I notice these things. I went around to the parking lot to see if there was any more noticing of the woman that needed to be done, but Denny came out of the side entrance by himself. I was standing by his city-issued, nondescript sedan that, as far as the criminal element of the city was concerned, might as well have had COPS printed in neon letters on the roof. As he approached, Denny reached into his suit pocket for the car keys.
“So, you got that Pendleton thing nailed down yet?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “Everything except for the who-done-it-and-why part. And speaking of doing it, who’s the new flame in your life?”
“Name’s Crystal. Works as a buyer at Saks downtown. Told me she liked the cut of my, ah, suit. Said quality was always easy to spot.”
“Good God, Denny, did she really talk like that? I’m surprised the manager didn’t throw both of you out. Or at least hose you down. The cut of your suit? Jesus.”
Denny grinned and said, “We’re having dinner together tomorrow night. Her place. Seven-ish. And you’re just jealous.”
“Am not,” I said. “Could I be jealous of a man who’d break bread with a woman who said seven-ish, and in public yet? I think not. Did she happen to mention how many unpaid parking tickets she has? That would explain why she came on to you instead of me.
“Doesn’t work. How’d she know I was a cop?”
“Oh, please,” I said.
“Anyway,” Denny said, as he got into his car, “don’t bother calling to ask if I’m available to watch some old video with you tomorrow night. I’m otherwise engaged.”
Denny closed the car door and put down the window. As he started the engine, he looked up at me and said, “Let me know if I can help, JB, okay?”
“Thanks, Denny. I’ll be in touch.”
I watched as he pulled out of the lot and made an illegal turn to head back downtown. Should have made a citizen’s arrest, I thought. See how old Crystal would feel about going out with a convicted felon.
Maybe if I got one of those expensive haircuts.
Chapter 8
Denny had checked Wykcoff’s schedule and told me that he would be off at 7:00 that night, so for the second time that day, I called police headquarters, this time leaving my name and cell phone number. The sergeant on duty said he’d relay the information to Detective Wykcoff. As I pulled into my garage, the phone rang. When I answered, Wykcoff identified himself and asked who I was.
“My name’s Jeremy Barnes, Detective,” I told him. “I’m a private investigator, looking into the Pendleton murder. Dennis Wilcox is a friend of mine. He suggested I contact you, see if you could help me out. Any chance of us getting together for a few minutes sometime?”
“The Pendleton thing, huh? Jeez, I don’t know how much help I’d be. I mean, that was a pretty cut-and-dried affair, ya know? And my time’s pretty tight right now . . .”
Denny had also mentioned that Wykcoff had a reputation as someone whose best friends had names like Jim Beam and Jack Daniels, so I was pretty sure I knew where to take the conversation now.
“Perhaps I could buy you a drink when your shift ends today. I just need a few minutes of your time.”
“Yeah, well, okay. Do you know where Clancy’s is?”
I assured him that I did, and we agreed to meet there at 7:15 that night. I knew that sometime before then, he’d probably check with Denny to verify my identity, or he would if he was a good detective. Meanwhile, I had some time to kill, so I checked my answering machine for messages from Hollywood starlets looking for a security escort to the upcoming Oscar ceremonies in Los Angeles. Strangely enough, there were no messages from California. There hadn’t been any yesterday, either. Probably some kind of problem with the long-distance lines at AT&T, is what I figured. Or maybe the fact that it was still late morning on the coast. The starlets weren’t up yet.
There was a message from Angie, though, telling me she wanted to talk to me, asking if I could meet her at her place after school that day. I called the school and spoke to Mrs. Bavaro, the chief clerk, asking her to tell Angie I’d see her when she got home. That left me with a couple of hours, so I decided to walk over to my office. I hadn’t been there for a few days, so it was time to check my mail and air the place out a bit.
* * *
The warehouse where my loft/office is located is one of the oldest structures in the area, and every time I’m there, I expect to see a notice-of-demolition stuck on the lobby door. The notice wasn’t there today, but I knew it was only a matter of time. The yuppies are coming.
My office isn’t large, just one room, with a small washroom off to one side. In addition to my desk with its computer, there are two chairs for clients, a filing cabinet with a
