The Bar Watcher (8 page)

Jared gave me the sketchy details from the short article in the paper. Richie had been found dead in his closed garage with the car engine running. A neighbor had called the police at around midnight, a little more than an hour after we saw him screaming at the guy in Glitter.

“Pretty odd coincidence, huh?” Jared said.

“Yeah.” But it struck me as a little more than coincidence.

“You suppose…?” Jared asked, apparently reading my mind.

“No idea,” I said. “But do me a favor, will you? Keep your ears open today and see if you can find out anything at all about that incident at Glitter last night.”

“Will do. Now that I think of it, I saw a couple guys I know down on the floor right near where we saw Ritchie go into his number. I'll see what I can come up with, and I'll give you a call later, okay? Right now, I've got to get back to work.”

“Thanks for the call, Jared,” I said.

As soon as we hung up, I checked the paper I'd just bought—it was the early edition, so I went back downstairs to see what time the late edition arrived. Fortunately, Charlie, the guy who ran the newsstand, was just cutting the string on a newly arrived bundle. Making sure it was the late edition, I bought one and returned to the office and my by now cold coffee. I immediately turned to page 3 and found a two-paragraph article on the lower right part of the page under the headline “Man, 27, Found Dead.”

The article said basically what Jared had told me. Richard Eugene Smith, 27, had been found dead in the garage of his home at 1414 Greenbriar around midnight by police, who had received a call from a neighbor walking his dog. The man had heard a car running inside the closed garage and smelled exhaust fumes.

My gut told me those two paragraphs only hinted at the real story, and that Richie's death, so closely following Barry Comstock's, went beyond coincidence. I wanted very much to find out more of the details but wasn't sure where to find them.

My contract with O'Banyon did give me the leeway to look into “other possible connections” to my investigation of Comstock's death, and I strongly felt this qualified. While I didn't want to start running to O'Banyon every time I came across a problem, and I knew neither he nor I wanted to get involved in any way with the police, he might possibly have some connections in the department that could allow me to tap into more of the details of Richie's death.

I called his office and left a message requesting that he call me when he had the opportunity. In the meantime, I decided to start my first official report, even though it wasn't due for several days.

I began by outlining in detail everything I'd done (except for Troy, of course) and discovered in the course of my investigation thus far. I'd still not reached a number of Rage members who'd been in the bath when Comstock died. While I was almost positive they couldn't tell me anything, I couldn't dismiss the possibility, however remote. But I didn't want to tie up the phone until after talking to O'Banyon, and most of them probably wouldn't be home until evening, anyway.

*

My stomach was starting to growl around 11:30 when the phone rang. “Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, this is Glen O'Banyon. I've just gotten in from court. What can I do for you?”

Not wanting to take up too much of his time, I told him I was working on my first report then quickly outlined the facts of Richie Smith's death—his having been one of Comstock's stable of porn stars, and my suspicion his death might very well be somehow related to Comstock's murder. I asked if he might have a police connection he'd feel comfortable allowing me to contact.

O'Banyon was quiet a moment, and I was afraid I might have crossed some sort of line, but at last he spoke.

“Well, there is one I can think of—he's straight, but an excellent policeman with an open mind and a lot of empathy for what the community's gone through over the years. But we're walking on eggshells here, you realize. We don't want to even hint at the possibility of a link between Barry's death and this Richie character. Let me think a moment.” Another pause, then: “Okay, here's what we'll do. I'll call him—his name is Mark Richman. He just got a promotion to lieutenant and a transfer to administration, but he keeps a pretty sharp eye on what's going on in the street.

“I'll tell him you've done some work for me in the past, and I'd appreciate it if he could provide some non-classified information on the circumstances of Richie Smith's death. I've not seen the paper, but I hope it didn't mention any suspicion of foul play, or anything about an investigation.”

“No,” I said, “it was just a few paragraphs, and there was no implication that it might be anything other than an accidental death.”

“Good,” O'Banyon said. “That should make it easier. What will you tell him if he asks why you're looking into this particular death?”

“I'll just tell him Richie was a personal friend, and I wanted to be able to give his family all the information I could on how he died.”

“Hmm,” O'Banyon said. “Okay. That should work. But I'm relying strongly on your discretion to avoid even mentioning Barry or his death.”

“You have my word.”

“All right. I'll get to him as soon as I can, and I'll have Donna call you to let you know if he agrees.”

“I really appreciate it, Mr. O'Banyon,” I said.

“Glen,” he corrected. “And you're welcome.”

*

I went downstairs to the coffee shop for a quick lunch—soup and a sandwich. Returning to the office, I'd just finished my detailed report on the progress of the case when the phone rang.

First ring. Second ring.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, Jared. I've got the scoop on the dance floor incident. Can't go into detail right now—my truck's double-parked. But my last route stop today is Ramón's—you want to meet me there around four?”

“Sure,” I said.

*

I managed to reach another two of the guys who had been in Rage the night of Comstock's murder. Neither had noticed anything at all out of the ordinary or had any other pertinent information. Oh, well.

That left only eight I had yet to talk to. I jotted down their names and numbers and put the slip in my wallet so I could call after I got home. I also made a note to drop by Rage and pick up a list of who had been on duty that night. I could just have called Troy for it, of course, but it was my slut phase, remember? I didn't want to miss a chance to see that little room up close again.

When the phone rang next, I was surprised to hear a woman's voice on the other end of the line.

“Mr. Hardesty, this is Donna Evans, Mr. O'Banyon's secretary. He asked me to call and tell you Lieutenant Richman will be expecting your call. You can reach him at the department, extension four-eight-two-one.”

“Thank you, Donna,” I said, “and please thank Mr. O'Banyon again for his help.”

*

I had to look up the department's number, but when I asked for Richman's extension, the phone was answered on the first ring.

“Lieutenant Richman,” the voice said, sounding very much like a police lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Richman, this is Dick Hardesty,” I said. “Glen O'Banyon told me you might be willing to talk with me, and I won't take up much of your time.”

“How can I help you?”

“Well, sir,” I said, lying through my teeth, “my friend Richie Smith was found dead last night in his garage, and I'd like very much to be able to tell his family exactly what happened. It might help them deal with it.”

“I understand,” Richman said. “I have the investigating officers' report here on my desk, and the coroner's preliminary report just came in. I'm not sure Mr. Smith's family will find much comfort in them.”

I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Well, your friend Mr. Smith appears to have been a walking pharmacy. He had traces of no fewer than three different controlled substances in his system, not to mention a blood alcohol level considerably above the legal limit. It's a wonder he even made it home without killing himself or someone else.”

I felt it wise to do some fancy back-stepping. I waited a moment before giving a large sigh.

“To be honest with you, Lieutenant, I was afraid that was what you might say.”
HA!
“Richie and I have been growing apart recently. I saw that he was headed for disaster, and I tried to warn him, but…” Another significant pause, then: “So, exactly how
did
he die, if I may ask?”

Richman, too, was silent for a moment before saying, “From what we can determine, he made it home, into the garage, lowered the door with his remote, then probably passed out before he could turn off the engine. Apparently, he came to long enough to get out of the car and head for the door to his apartment, but he fell just short of it, and hit his head on the stoop—he had a bad gash on his forehead. The official cause of death is carbon monoxide asphyxiation.”

Yet another pause as I absorbed everything Richman had told me.

“Well, thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant. You're right, it won't be of much comfort to the family. I appreciate your talking with me.”

Well, so much for that
, I thought. There was absolutely nothing to indicate Richie Smith hadn't died exactly the way Richman had said. Maybe I was getting a little jaded, seeing sinister plots where there were none. There
are
such things as coincidences.

But in the deep recesses of my brain and my gut, I still didn't believe it.

*

I walked into Ramón's at 3:45—a tad early for the happy hour crowd. Hell, a tad early for me, too. There were three or four guys there, and I didn't allow myself to speculate why.

Jimmy was behind the bar. He grinned and waved when he saw me, and I returned both. “Bob's in the office, if you're looking for him,” he said.

I suddenly remembered with no little embarrassment I'd been carrying around a check I'd written to reimburse Bob for the bond he'd posted to get me out of jail and had completely forgotten about it

“Thanks, Jimmy. If Jared comes in, will you tell him I'm in with Bob?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said, then turned his attention to a patron waving his empty glass for attention.

I walked to the back of the bar and knocked on the office door.

“Come on in.”

The office was, like the offices in most bars, small and crowded but oddly comfortable. Everything in it was relatively new, of course, since reconstruction following the fire that had gutted the building some time before, and it was surprisingly neat.

On the wall above Bob's desk were several photos of him and Ramón, taken in happier days.

Bob turned around in his chair then got up to greet me.

“Dick!” he said, actually sounding happy to see me. “Come on in.”

We shook hands, and I reached for my wallet to get the check.

“Here,” I said sheepishly. “I should have gotten this to you sooner.”

Bob nodded in mock seriousness as he took the check and put it into his shirt pocket without looking at it.

“Yeah,” he said. “It's been all of…what…three days?”

“Still too long. And, again, I don't know what I'd have done without you being there for me.”

“As if you've never done anything for me.” He sat back down and pointed me to a folding chair against the far wall. “So, what are you up to?”

“Well,” I said, pulling the chair out and setting it across from him, “this is just between you and me, but I'm looking into Barry Comstock's murder.”

“I assume you have a client, rather than just running around trying to do it all yourself?”

I nodded, and started to speak, but he raised a hand to forestall me.

“No, no, I don't need to know who the client is. That's your business. But have you learned anything yet? The police sure aren't saying much, from what I hear.”

“I'm on to a couple things,” I said, “but nothing that'll nail the guy who did it. I was wondering if you might have heard anything more about Comstock's death that might help.”

“I'm afraid not,” Bob said. “Other than the fact nobody has been weeping much over him. Sorry.”

I shrugged. “No problem.”

“So, what are you doing here at this time of day?” Bob asked. “Not planning on getting sozzled again, I hope.”

“No,” I said with a grin. “I'm supposed to meet Jared Martinson here at around four.”

“Jared? The how-in-the-hell-does-anybody-have-a-right-to-so-many-muscles delivery guy?” Bob returned the grin and shook his head. “That boy does get around. From what I hear, he's got a basket of goodies that would put Santa Claus to shame.”

“All true,” I said, smiling. Bob just gave me a raised-eyebrow look. “Speaking of which, I hear you've jumped back into the pool. No disrespect to Ramón, but it's about time. He wouldn't have wanted you to become a monk.”