on a Monday morning?” I asked.
Richard Damm’s whole manner changed abruptly. “I’m not stupid,” he said. “I had one of my guys drive by to check on him. His car wasn’t there, and nobody answered the door. That’s all I know.”
“You said something about him screwing up one of your trucks,” Al mentioned. “Tell us about that.”
“One of my installation vans. It’s a mess.”
“What about it?”
“He musta gotten in some kind of fight, that’s what we figure, or maybe an accident. All I know is there was blood all over the place, and one of the doors is bashed in. I guess I should be grateful, though. At least he didn’t steal it.”
“You say there was blood in the van?”
“You deaf or what? All over the seat, all over the floor.”
“We’d better have a look at it,” Big Al said, getting up and starting toward the door. “Where is it?”
“Nick took it down to Westlake to have it cleaned up and detailed. He’s probably back by now. It had been sitting out in the sun for a day and a half at least. Those stains really set up good. Nick says he doesn’t know if they can save the upholstery or not. He may have to tear it all out.”
“Who’s Nick?”
“Nick Wallace, my mechanic. We’ve got a whole fleet of vans. He’s in charge of keeping them all on the road.”
“And where is he?”
“Out back, in the garage. That’s usually where he is, him and his trucks—his babies he calls ”em. He couldn’t treat ‘em better if they all belonged to him personally, know what I mean?“
I got up and followed Al toward the fur-lined door. “So where’s the garage?”
“Straight through the warehouse. You’ll have to ring the bell for him to let you in.”
I stopped in the doorway door and turned back toward the room. The movie had returned to life on the television screen with all the moanings and pantings turned back up to full volume.
“Do you know Larry Martin’s address?”
Enthralled once more, Damm didn’t bother to look up. “Not off the top of my head. Get it from Cindy, my secretary. Tell her I said she should give it to you.”
“We may be back,” I added.
“Sure thing. I’ll be right here.”
Cindy gave us Larry Martin’s address and phone number up in Lake City, then she directed us through the warehouse to the garage at the far end of the building. She assured us that was where we’d find Nick Wallace.
“Do you believe that little shit?” Big Al asked as we made our way through canyons of carpet rolls. “Damm must not be getting any, or he wouldn’t have to watch that crap on TV.”
I certainly wasn’t getting any at the moment. The X-rated action on Richard Damm’s television set had made me painfully aware of my own particular lack.
“Probably not,” I said, and let it go at that.
Big Al is forever telling me that I need to get hooked up with some nice, warm-blooded Swedish girl like his Molly.
He could very well be right.
CHAPTER 6
Just as Richard Damm had warned us, we had to ring a bell to gain admittance to Nick Wallace’s garage. The door was locked from the inside. He came to open it himself. Nick was an older man, somewhere in his late sixties I’d say, with a ruddy complexion and thinning gray hair. He was wearing a pair of bright blue coveralls with a greasy towel hanging from one back pocket.
He opened the door, all right, but just a crack, enough for him to see us but not enough for us to step inside.
“Yeah?” he said gruffly. “Whadya want?” Al, leading the way, held out his ID. “Detectives Lindstrom and Beaumont. We’re with Seattle P.D. Homicide,” he explained. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your vans.”
Nick Wallace’s watery blue eyes narrowed slightly behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Which one?”
“The one Larry Martin was driving Saturday,” Al said. “The one with the bloodstains.”
“Oh, that one,” Nick said. He opened the door a little wider then and allowed us to
Richard Damm’s whole manner changed abruptly. “I’m not stupid,” he said. “I had one of my guys drive by to check on him. His car wasn’t there, and nobody answered the door. That’s all I know.”
“You said something about him screwing up one of your trucks,” Al mentioned. “Tell us about that.”
“One of my installation vans. It’s a mess.”
“What about it?”
“He musta gotten in some kind of fight, that’s what we figure, or maybe an accident. All I know is there was blood all over the place, and one of the doors is bashed in. I guess I should be grateful, though. At least he didn’t steal it.”
“You say there was blood in the van?”
“You deaf or what? All over the seat, all over the floor.”
“We’d better have a look at it,” Big Al said, getting up and starting toward the door. “Where is it?”
“Nick took it down to Westlake to have it cleaned up and detailed. He’s probably back by now. It had been sitting out in the sun for a day and a half at least. Those stains really set up good. Nick says he doesn’t know if they can save the upholstery or not. He may have to tear it all out.”
“Who’s Nick?”
“Nick Wallace, my mechanic. We’ve got a whole fleet of vans. He’s in charge of keeping them all on the road.”
“And where is he?”
“Out back, in the garage. That’s usually where he is, him and his trucks—his babies he calls ”em. He couldn’t treat ‘em better if they all belonged to him personally, know what I mean?“
I got up and followed Al toward the fur-lined door. “So where’s the garage?”
“Straight through the warehouse. You’ll have to ring the bell for him to let you in.”
I stopped in the doorway door and turned back toward the room. The movie had returned to life on the television screen with all the moanings and pantings turned back up to full volume.
“Do you know Larry Martin’s address?”
Enthralled once more, Damm didn’t bother to look up. “Not off the top of my head. Get it from Cindy, my secretary. Tell her I said she should give it to you.”
“We may be back,” I added.
“Sure thing. I’ll be right here.”
Cindy gave us Larry Martin’s address and phone number up in Lake City, then she directed us through the warehouse to the garage at the far end of the building. She assured us that was where we’d find Nick Wallace.
“Do you believe that little shit?” Big Al asked as we made our way through canyons of carpet rolls. “Damm must not be getting any, or he wouldn’t have to watch that crap on TV.”
I certainly wasn’t getting any at the moment. The X-rated action on Richard Damm’s television set had made me painfully aware of my own particular lack.
“Probably not,” I said, and let it go at that.
Big Al is forever telling me that I need to get hooked up with some nice, warm-blooded Swedish girl like his Molly.
He could very well be right.
CHAPTER 6
Just as Richard Damm had warned us, we had to ring a bell to gain admittance to Nick Wallace’s garage. The door was locked from the inside. He came to open it himself. Nick was an older man, somewhere in his late sixties I’d say, with a ruddy complexion and thinning gray hair. He was wearing a pair of bright blue coveralls with a greasy towel hanging from one back pocket.
He opened the door, all right, but just a crack, enough for him to see us but not enough for us to step inside.
“Yeah?” he said gruffly. “Whadya want?” Al, leading the way, held out his ID. “Detectives Lindstrom and Beaumont. We’re with Seattle P.D. Homicide,” he explained. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your vans.”
Nick Wallace’s watery blue eyes narrowed slightly behind his thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Which one?”
“The one Larry Martin was driving Saturday,” Al said. “The one with the bloodstains.”
“Oh, that one,” Nick said. He opened the door a little wider then and allowed us to
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