Always Kiss the Corpse (21 page)

“Was Sandro a threat to someone? Did someone hate him?”

“No sense of hatred.”

“A threat? To his family? Possibly. To a lover? Male, female, or as we've learned some other kind of other? Or a threat to a so-called friend?”

“Far as we can tell, not to Ursula or Brady. Or Cora or Rudy for that matter. Not Garth.”

“Okay, why did Sandro move to Whidbey? Did he decide on transgendering and move nearer the clinic? Or did he get to the island and the clinic was there?

“Worthwhile questions. Answer? I dunno.” They ate in silence for a while, looking out at the mist. The kind of moment Noel loved, the calm before collaboration. “So let's find out.”

They left, drove up the hill, sat in front of the sheriff's office. “We could track down the kid who found Sandro,” Kyra said. “Then we wouldn't have to meet up with the sheriff again.”

“True. But the sheriff is right through that door,” he gestured, “and we don't have the first idea where to find the kid.”

“His name would be in Sandro's file.”

“Which is sitting in the sheriff's office.”

“Okay.” She opened the Tracker door and slipped down. The mist had lightened, the clouds beginning to crack. Noel caught up with her. In the office she said to Brady, “Hi, we're back. We need to see the sheriff again, one very quick question.”

Brady, worry holding her bright lips low, said, “You really do? He's in the dumps.”

“It's important.”

“Gee, maybe we should just let Sandra be.”

“We can't, not yet. And we need information only the sheriff can give us.”

“Can I help? I keep my ear to the ground.”

Kyra glanced at Noel. He shrugged. Kyra said, “Okay. What was Sandro wearing when he was found?”

Brady closed her eyes. “I can see the file on his desk,” she muttered. Her eyes opened. “I've got a head like a sieve. Sorry. I'll tell him you're here.” She got up. “You'll be quick?”

“Even quicker than last time.” Noel grinned. “Say the civilians are here.”

Brady frowned. “You want to see that file or not?”

“Sorry, Boss.” Noel dropped his head pseudo-contritely.

Brady rapped on the inner door, opened, entered and closed it. Behind the door they heard large muffled sounds.

Noel said, “We'll locate Rudy again and talk to Ursula when we pick her up. Cora too?”

“Okay.”

“First to the cemetery.”

Brady came out. “He can give you a moment.” She gestured to the open door.

Sheriff Vanderhoek stood behind his desk, leaning forward on his knuckles, staring down at a file between his hands. “Blue T-shirt, blank on both sides. Old sweatpants, baggy, dirty at the knees. Three unused tissues in the right pocket. White socks and loafers.” He looked up at them, an irritated stare. “Body sitting on the ground of the blockhouse, leaning against the south wall.”

“Underwear?” Noel asked.

“Nope.”

“No underwear? Or the report doesn't say?” Kyra's irritation bristled.

The sheriff glowered. “No underwear.”

Noel asked, “Coat? Jacket? Hat?”

“Nope. Anything else?”

“How'd Sandro get to the cemetery?”

“His car.” To Kyra: “Didn't I tell you?” Vanderhoek thawed a fraction. “Ninety-eight Ford Fairlane.”

“Any prints other than Sandro's?”

“That's four or five.”

“What?”

“Questions.”

“Sheriff—”

“Okay, okay. No other prints.”

“Well. Thanks.”

As Kyra passed through the doorway the sheriff growled, “Close the door.”

In the waiting room Noel said, “Thanks, Brady.”

Kyra asked, “Are you coming with us to Sandro's place?”

“Sandra's. Yes.”

“A question for you too, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I know you don't believe Sandra would take heroin. But it was heroin that killed her. Can you think of anyone who might've been her connection?”

Brady thought hard, this time not closing her eyes. “No.” Her head shook. “Nobody.”

“How do we get to the cemetery? It's not on our map.”

“Easy as pie.” Brady gave them her heart-shaped smile.

Her directions wound them directly to the cemetery on the side of a hill. They drove up a dirt road. No parking area, so at the crest they pulled over and got out. Nobody around, lonely and misty. Gravestones dotted the slope below. Ahead on the left lay a pike-fenced space containing a stone pillar, some kind of memorial. Fifty feet to the right stood a small square structure with a doorless entry. They approached, checking the ground for anything the police might have missed. But they spotted only low daisies among grass and weeds.

The blockhouse, built of heavy timbers, the floor dirt, the space roofed but with open doorways on both sides and two windows without glass, was empty, not even trash or leaves blown in. Noel said, “We know he was found here. Did he die here?”

“He wasn't about to walk here dead. Or drive here dead.”

“Right. So either he died here or somebody brought him here.”

“As in, he came here to shoot up and happened to die? Then why no dope paraphernalia?”

Noel said, “The official theory is he got the dope from somewhere, was either using regularly or was so depressed he figured he had to kill himself. Why here?”

Kyra snorted. “So he could be buried close by.”

“Come on, we have to think as he would. He's depressed, the hope of becoming a woman fading fast. He needs to leave the physical pain behind, blow his mind so the psychic pain goes away. What would you do?”

“I'd go home, have two or three stiff drinks, maybe get into bed, get cozy, take a hundred sleeping pills and go quietly. Or if I was really brave, the drinks, a nice hot bath, and a razor blade to my wrists.”

“Yeah,” Noel folded his arms against the cold, “and keep warm.”

“So was he thinking he couldn't be a woman? It's a fairly standard procedure, right?”

Noel stared out across the rain-bleak landscape. “A man who wants to be a sexy pretty woman. He'd have given anything to look like Brady. Killing himself, wouldn't he try to look female-sexy in his last moment?”

“Hmm.” Kyra paused. “Except suicide would be an admission of defeat.”

“But dirty baggy sweats. No jockey shorts. Not even panties.”

“Maybe because of his bloated testes?”

“All the more reason for support.”

“I guess,” said Kyra.

“Mostly he dressed as Sandra. Why sweats, of all things?”

“And loafers. Look how muddy the path is. Was there dirt on his shoes? Mud?”

Noel said, “We could ask Sheriff Vanderhoek.”

“Maybe Brady could find out.”

“Give her a call.”

Kyra squinted at him. “Something wrong with your phone?”

“You like these toys.”

She rolled her eyes, found the phone in her purse resting on the Mace can, consulted her electronic address book and poked in the number. Brady agreed to check about the loafers. As Kyra broke the connection she said, “I've got messages.” She pressed number codes and listened. For a second she smiled. Then scowled, and closed up the phone.

“What?”

“Thanks from Mike for the potluck and greetings to you. And Sarah wants her and me to spend a few hours juggling together. And a less jolly one, Cora Lipton-Norton. She said she'd been threatened. A man telling her to keep her mouth shut about Sandro's sex-change operation. If she talks about it, she'll get hurt.”

“What did she do? Say?”

“First that she'd talk to whoever the fuck she wanted to.”

“And?”

“So he told her he'd burn her green hair out with lye. And a couple of other things she didn't want to repeat.”

“So she called you?”

“She didn't know what else to do.”

“Who was it?”

≈  ≈  ≈

Just before noon Nico had driven Vasily to a car rental in Oak Harbor; way too conspicuous driving a hearse. Nico would drive it back to Seattle by the bridge. Whatever, said Vasily.

Vasily didn't like Oak Harbor. An offensive place, the small-townness plus all the Navy types. Women, kids, all of them blobby. Waiting at home while their husbands went to war, watching TV or coming off base into Oak Harbor and stuffing themselves at one of these millions of fast food joints. But who the hell wants to live a whole lifetime on an island. Islands were great to take a girl to but settling down on one? No life on islands, no clubs, not a lot of unattached women, no great food.

Four people on his agenda, Sandro's buddies. Best find them unaware, then make them real aware. The green-haired one came first; he'd called the home numbers on Andrei's list and she was the only one who'd answered.

Amazing, that Andrei. Vasily had gotten the list of mourners from the creepy undertaker. One was the lovely Miss Adam, the sheriff's secretary, and that information made Vasily's afternoon. He'd read the list to Andrei. Andrei said only four names mattered, the man, Longelli, and the three women, Bunche, Lipton-Norton, and Adam. Vasily didn't need Adam's address, he knew where to locate her. It then took Andrei—actually the communications guys on the ninth floor—just minutes to find where the other three lived and worked.

Vasily couldn't figure why these people kept on being friends of Sandro. For the women, some kind of sexist stuff like they were pleased they were getting one more for their side? But the guy, Longelli, he made no sense. Unless he was weird in some other way. All fuckin' confusing.

Well, whatever. Vasily had figured on being straightforward with them, just as Andrei would—polite, but let the inner strength show. Except it hadn't worked so well with the green-haired one, her filthy mouth rattled him. So he showed more of the inner strength than he meant, he made his point and she damn well understood it. No big deal anyway. She didn't have to do something, just keep from doing something.

With Rudy Longelli he needed a casual conversation, enough tone so the guy would get Vasily's intent. For half an hour he'd watched Longelli shift back and forth, construction site to van, getting some tool or piping from the back. Always other workers around. So Vasily was taking too much time for this guy, had to get back to Coupeville to take care of Nurse Urse. Miss Adam would finish at four-thirty or five. Okay, the plumber. Here he came again, over to his van, opening the back door, in, out again, a small package.

Make it happen. Vasily stepped out of his rented Taurus sedan and crossed the road. He kept the van, parked on oozy mire, between himself and the carpenter. He opened the van's rear door, stepped up and in, closed it behind him. No room to stand. He crouched in the corner behind the passenger seat. Not much light, but enough. A regular warehouse, pipes and fittings and do-hickeys.

Maybe ten minutes, and the door opened. Longelli stepped in. Vasily said, “Longelli.”

Longelli, startled, stood and bashed his head on the ceiling. “Shit! Who're you?”

“I represent the interests of the Vasiliadis family. The family of your friend Sandro.”

“What're you doing in my van?” He pressed hard on his head. “Damn!”

“Taking a few minutes of your time.”

Longelli squinted at him. “What for?”

“It's about Sandro.” This guy, Vasily figured, was pretty dim. “Like I said.”

“What about Sandro?”

“We're concerned, Sandro's mother, his uncle, all of us, that Sandro's good name and reputation stay unblemished.”

“Well sure, me too.”

“Rudy. Did you just hire detectives to investigate Sandro's death?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Okay. Just make sure you don't talk with anyone about his procedure.”

“His what?”

“The process he was going through.”

“What're you talking about?”

Dim wasn't the word, just plain slow. “You know what I'm talking about.”

“Honest, I don't have any idea.”

“His procedure. You get me? You don't talk to anybody about any of it.”

“I can't not talk about something when I don't know what it is.”

“Don't play games with me, Longelli. You could get hurt.”

“This is ridiculous. Get out of my truck.” He stepped backward.

Vasily reached forward and grabbed Longelli's forearm. “Listen, Rudy. You like your fingers? You need fingers for your plumbing, Rudy?”

“Let go—”

“Sure, Rudy.” He squeezed Longelli's arm hard. “As soon as I get your word, man to man—you get my meaning, Rudy?—that you shut your mouth forever about Sandro's procedure.”

“Ow! Stop it—Sure, I won't say anything.”

“Not to anybody.”

“Yeah, not to anybody.”

“That's good, Rudy, that's very good.” He relaxed his grip but didn't let go. “Because if you do, I hope you've got good insurance. Get what I'm saying here, Rudy?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“Excellent. Now go enjoy what you're doing. Be real pleased with your hands, Rudy.”

“Yeah.”

“I'll be watching. Listening.” Vasily grabbed Longelli's elbow, eased him from the van and stepped down after him.

“Okay, Rudy, back to work.”

“Sure. Right.”

Vasily watched as Longelli rounded the edge of the truck and walked away. He sat for a minute in his Taurus. Dumb plumber. Vasily drove away. But better than Green-hair. Now the nurse, then Miss Adam. Invite her for a drink, talk about the family's hope for respect and—what was that word?—closure, on behalf of Sandro. She'd be sympathetic, she'd smile pretty with those luscious lips, they'd have dinner together, and after dinner—well, take it one thing at a time. Miss Brady Adam would be his present to himself.