K is for Killer (6 page)

“K-SPELL, I think.”

I knew that much. Thinking to save time, I said, “Janice?”

“What about the disc jockey? You know his name?”

In the background, somewhat muffled, Perry said, “Which one? There's a couple.” Dishes were clattering, and the speaker system was pumping out a version of “Up, Up, and Away” with stringed instruments.

“The one Lorna hung out with. 'Member I told you about him?”

I cut in on Janice. “Hey, Janice?”

“Perry, hold on. What, hon?”

“Could it be Hector Moreno?”

She let out a little bark of recognition. “That's right. That's him. I'm almost sure he's the one. Why don't you call him up and ask if he knew her?”

“I'll do that,” I said.

“You be sure and let me know. And if you're still out running around town after that, come on up and have a cup of coffee on the house.”

I could feel my stomach lurch at the thought of more coffee. The cups I'd consumed were already making my brain vibrate like an out-of-balance washing machine. As soon as she hung up, I depressed the lever and released it, letting the dial tone whine on while I hauled up the phone book on its chain and flipped through. All the radio stations were listed at the front end of the K's. As it turned out, K-SPL was only six or eight blocks away. Behind me, from the car, I could hear the opening bars of the next jazz selection. I found another quarter in the bottom of my handbag and dialed the studio.

The phone rang twice. “K-SPELL. This is Hector Moreno.” The tone was businesslike, but it was certainly the man I'd been listening to.

“Hello,” I said. “My name is Kinsey Millhone. I'd like to talk to you about Lorna Kepler.”

M
oreno had left the heavy door to the station ajar. I let myself in and the door closed behind me, the lock sliding home. I found myself standing in a dimly lit foyer. To the right of a set of elevator doors, a sign indicated K-SPL with an arrow pointing down toward some metal stairs on the right. I went down, my rubber-soled shoes making hollow sounds on the metal treads. Below, the reception area was deserted, the walls and the narrow hallway beyond painted a dreary shade of blue and a strange algae green, like the bottom of a pond. I called, “Hello.”

No answer. Jazz was being piped in, obviously the station playing back on itself.

“Hello?”

I shrugged to myself and moved down the corridor, glancing into each cubicle I passed. Moreno had told me he'd be working in the third studio on the right, but when I reached it, the room was empty. I could still hear faint strains of jazz coming in over the speakers, but he'd apparently absented himself momentarily. The studio was
small, littered with empty fast-food containers and empty soda cans. A half-filled coffee cup on the console was warm to the touch. There was a wall clock the size of the full moon, its second hand ticking jerkily as it made the big sweep. Click. Click. Click. Click. The passage of time had never seemed quite so concrete or so relentless. The walls were soundproofed with sections of corrugated dark gray foam.

To my left, countless cartoons and news clippings were tacked to a corkboard. The balance of the wall space was taken up with row after row of CDs, with additional shelves devoted to albums and tape cassettes. I did a visual survey, as if in preparation for a game of Concentration. Coffee mugs. Speakers. A stapler, Scotch tape dispenser. Many empty designer water bottles: Evian, Sweet Mountain, and Perrier. On the control board, I could see the mike switch, cart machines, a rainbow of lights, one marked “two track mono.” One light flashed green, and another was blinking red. A microphone suspended from a boom looked like a big snow cone of gray foam. I pictured myself leaning close enough to touch my lips to the surface, using my most seductive FM tone of voice. “Hello, all you night owls. This is Kinsey Millhone here, bringing you the best in jazz at the very worst of hours. . . .”

Behind me, I heard someone thumping down the hall in my direction, and I peered out with interest. Hector Moreno approached, a man in his early fifties, supported by two crutches. His shaggy hair was gray, his brown eyes as soft as dark caramels. His upper body was immense, his torso dwindling away to legs that were sticklike and truncated. He wore a bulky black cotton sweater, chinos, and penny loafers. Beside him was a big reddish yellow dog with a thick head, heavy chest, and powerful shoulders,
probably part chow, judging by the teddy bear face and the ruff of hair around its neck.

“Hi, are you Hector? Kinsey Millhone,” I said. The dog bristled visibly when I held out my hand.

Hector Moreno propped himself on one crutch long enough to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “This is Beauty. She'll need time to make up her mind about you.”

“Fair enough,” I said. She could take the rest of her life, as far as I was concerned.

The dog had begun to rumble, not a growl but a low hum, as if a machine had been activated somewhere deep in her chest. Hector snapped his fingers, and she went silent. Dogs and I have never been that fond of one another. Just a week ago I'd been introduced to a boy-pup who'd actually lifted his leg and piddled on my shoe. His owner had voiced his most vigorous disapproval, but he really didn't sound that sincere to me, and I suspected he was currently recounting, with snorts and guffaws, the tale of Bowser's misbehavior on my footwear. In the meantime I had a Reebok that smelled like dog whiz, a fact not lost on Beauty, who gave it her rapt attention.

Hector swung himself forward and moved into the studio, answering the question I was too polite to ask. “I collided with a rock pile when I was twelve. I was spelunking in Kentucky, and the tunnel caved in. People expect something different, judging from my voice on the air. Grab a seat.” He flashed me a smile, and I smiled in response. I followed as he set his crutches aside and hoisted himself onto the stool. I found a second stool in the corner and pulled it close to him. I noticed that Beauty arranged herself so that she was between us.

While Hector and I exchanged pleasantries, the dog
watched us with an air of nearly human intelligence, her gaze shifting constantly from his face to mine. Sometimes she panted with an expression close to a grin, dangling tongue dancing as if at some private joke. Her ears shifted as we spoke, gauging our tones. I had no doubt she was prepared to intervene if she didn't like what she heard. From time to time, in response to cues I wasn't picking up myself, she would retract her tongue and close her mouth, rising to her feet with that low rumble in her chest. All it took was a gesture from him and she'd drop to the floor again, but her look then was brooding. She probably had a tendency to sulk when she wasn't allowed to feast on human flesh. Hector, ever watchful, seemed amused at the performance. “She doesn't trust many people. I got her from the pound, but she must have been beaten when she was young.”

“You keep her with you all the time?” I asked.

“Yeah. She's good company. I work late nights, and when I leave the studio, the town is deserted. Except for the crazies. They're always out. You asked about Lorna. What's your connection?”

“I'm a private investigator. Lorna's mother stopped by my office earlier this evening and asked if I'd look into her death. She wasn't particularly happy with the police investigation.”

“Such as it was,” he said. “Did you talk to that guy Phillips? What a prick he was.”

“I just talked to him. He's out of homicide and on to vice these days. What'd he do to you?”

“He didn't
do
anything. It's his attitude. I hate guys like him. Little banty roosters who push their weight around. Hang on a sec.” He slid a fat cassette into a slot and depressed a button on the soundboard, leaning forward, his
voice as smooth and satiny as fudge. “We've been listening to Phineas Newborn on solo piano, playing a song called ‘The Midnight Sun Will Never Set.' And this is Hector Moreno, casting a little magic here at K-SPELL. Coming up, we have thirty minutes of uninterrupted music, featuring the incomparable voice of Johnny Hartman from a legendary session with the John Coltrane Quartet.
Esquire
magazine once named this the greatest album ever made. It was recorded March 7, 1963, on the Impulse label with John Coltrane on tenor sax, McCoy Tyner on piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, and Elvin Jones on drums.” He punched a button, adjusted the studio volume downward, and turned back to me. “whatever he said about Lorna, you can take it with a grain of salt.”

“He said she had a dark side, but I knew that much. I'm not sure I have the overall picture, but I'm working on that. How long had you known her before she died?”

“Little over two years. Right after I started doing this show. I was in Seattle before that, but the damp got to me. I heard about this job through a friend of a friend.”

“Is your background in broadcast?”

“Communications,” he said. “Radio and TV production; video to some extent, though it never interested me much. I'm from Cincinnati originally, graduated from the university, but I've worked everywhere. Anyway, I met Lorna when I first got down here. She was a night owl by nature, and she started calling in requests. Between cuts and commercials, we'd sometimes talk for an hour. She began to drop by the studio, maybe once a week at first. Toward the end, she was here just about every night. Two-thirty, three, she'd bring doughnuts and coffee, bones for Beauty if she'd been out to dinner. Sometimes I think it was the dog she cared about. They had some kind of psychic affinity. Lorna
used to claim they'd been lovers in another life. Beauty's still waiting for her to come back. Three o'clock, she goes out to the stairs and just stands there, looking up. Makes this little sound in her throat that'd break your heart.” He shook his head, waving off the image with curious impatience.

“What was Lorna like?”

“Complicated. I thought she was a beautiful, tortured soul. Restless, disconnected, probably depressed. But that was just one part. She was split, a contradiction. It wasn't all the dark stuff.”

“Was she into drugs or alcohol?”

“Not as far as I know. She blew hot and cold. She was nearly hyper sometimes. If you want to get analytical, I'd be tempted to label her manic-depressive, but that doesn't really capture it. It was like a battle she fought, and the down side finally won.”

“I guess we all have that in us.”

“I do, that's for sure.”

“You knew she did a porno film?”

“I heard about that. I never saw it myself, but I guess the word was out.”

“When was it shot? Any time close to her death?”

“I don't know much about that. She was out of town a lot on weekends, Los Angeles, San Francisco. Could have been one of those trips. I really couldn't say for sure.”

“So it was not something you discussed.”

He shook his head. “She enjoyed being tight-lipped. I think it made her feel powerful. I learned not to pry into her personal affairs.”

“Any idea why she did the film? Was it money?”

“I doubt it. Producer probably cleans up, but the actors get a flat rate. At least from what I've heard,” he said.
“Maybe she did it for the same reason she did anything. Lorna flirted with disaster every day of her life. If you want my theory, fear was the only real sensation she felt. Danger was like a drug. She had to boost the dose. She couldn't help herself. Didn't seem to matter what anyone said. I used to talk 'til I was blue in the face. It never made any difference as far as I could see. This is just my observation, and I could be all wrong, but you asked and I'm answering. She'd act like she was listening. She'd act like she agreed with every word you said, but then it washed right over her. She went right on doing it, whatever it was. She was like an addict, a junkie. She knew the life wasn't good, but she couldn't make the break.”

“Did she trust you?”

“I wouldn't say that. Not really. Lorna didn't trust anyone. She was like Beauty in that respect. She might have trusted me more than most.”

“Why was that?”

“I never came on to her, so I wasn't any kind of threat. With no sexual investment, she couldn't lose with me. She couldn't win, either, but that suited us both. With Lorna, you had to keep your distance. She was the kind of woman, the minute you got involved, it was over, pal. That was the end of it. The only way you could hold on to her was to keep her at arm's length. I knew the rule, but I couldn't always manage it. I was hooked myself. I kept wanting to save her, and it couldn't be done.”

“Did she tell you what was going on in her life?”

“Some things. Trivia, for the most part. Just the day-to-day stuff. She never confided anything important. Events, but not feelings. You know what I mean? Even then, I doubt she ever really leveled with me. I knew some things, but not always because she told me.”

“How'd you get your information?”

“I have buddies around town. I'd get frustrated with her behavior. She'd swear she was playing straight, but I guess she really couldn't give it up. Next thing you know, she'd be picking up guys. Twosomes, threesomes, anything you want. People would see her and make a point of telling me, worried I was getting in over my head.”

“And were you?”

His smile was bitter. “I didn't think so at the time.”

“Did the rumors bother you?”

“Hell, yes. What she did was dangerous, and I was worried sick. I didn't like what she was doing, and I didn't like people running in here talking about her behind her back. Tattletales. I hate that. I couldn't get them to quit. With her, I tried to keep my mouth shut. It was none of my business, but I kept getting sucked in. I'd be saying, ‘Why, babe? What's the point?' And she'd shake her head. ‘You don't want to know, Heck. I promise. It's got nothing to do with you.' The truth is, I don't think
she
knew. It was a compulsion, like a sneeze. It felt good to do it. If she held off, something tickled until it drove her nuts.”