he say?”
Blessington shrugged. “He growled. I couldn’t understand him.”
Lee raised her eyebrows. “He tends to drop into dialect when he’s distracted.” Gelert had put his nose down to the sidewalk, and his pace was speeding up: he was nearly to the end of the block.
“Lee, you want us to keep this end of the scene locked down for a while?” Blessington said.
“It’s a good idea. I need to talk to the people at Parker and have a look at the victim’s profile and recent history before I come back for another look.”
“Okay. Bensen, Echevarria,” Blessington called over to two of his people as Gelert turned left around the house on the corner lot and vanished from sight, “better go with the gentleman and keep people out of his way while he’s working.” The two uniforms nodded to their boss and headed off after Gelert at a dogtrot.
“You know this neighborhood at all?” Lee said to Blessington.
He gave her an amused look. “I lived here before I was married.”
“What’s around the corner?”
“A nightclub: a couple of restaurants. It was the nightclub dil’Sorden came out of. He’d come in earlier, alone. Had a snack and a few drinks, listened to the jazz combo that was playing there last night, paid his bill, and left.”
“He didn’t meet anybody?”
“Not according to the club owner.”
“Did he go there often?”
“The owner said he saw him occasionally. Not a regular, but he would drop in for something to eat after working late. The place has a rep for its ribs.”
Lee nodded. “Jim, he was already running as he came around the corner. Whoever shot him came around after him, fast. He had to have been waiting for dil’Sorden in one of the doorways that face onto Wilshire: I’m going to have another look at that later. Here’s how it went—”
She and Blessington went up to the corner, and Lee reenacted for Blessington what she had seen. At the end of it all they stood there again over the tarp, looking down at the spot where dil’Sorden had fallen.
“Contract job?” Blessington said at last.
“I can’t see why, but then I only had time to skim his profile on the way over,” Lee said. “There seemed to be some urgency ‘Upstairs.’ ”
Blessington made that sour face again. “Which smells weird to me to start with,” he said, “but then I’m just a detective.” The delivery was ironic but not hostile: Lee smiled slightly. “Speaking of smells,”
Blessington said, and grimaced. “Bensen, what the hell are you guys up to?”
He listened for a moment, face immobile. “How about that,” he said. “Yeah, bring it back. Be careful about how you wrap it; it might have been handled two or three times before it got there, and maybe after.”
Blessington looked over at Lee. “He’s good,” he said. “He found the murder weapon three blocks over and two blocks up, in somebody’s front yard, two feet deep in pachysandra.”
“You owe him one, then,” Lee said. “Think how many manpower-hours he saved you.”
“He’ll remind me of it, I’m sure,” Blessington said.
Down the street, Gelert and the two uniforms were coming around the corner again: one of them, Echevarria, was carrying an antistatic evidence bag, glancing back smoky silver reflections in the hot sun as they approached. Gelert was trotting along with his tongue hanging out, looking to Lee’s eyes unusually pleased with himself. As the officers stowed the shotgun in the car, Gelert sat down beside Lee and Blessington.
“The murderer caught a bus,” Gelert said. “About twenty minutes after the killing: one of the night buses down Melrose.”
“Stupid,” Blessington said. “Too many witnesses.”
“He seemed willing to take the risk,” Gelert said. “Forensically it was smart: his lifetrace got tangled up with a lot of others, fresh and stale. And by the time we pull that bus out of service so that I can go over it, there’ll be more overlay still. But it won’t
Blessington shrugged. “He growled. I couldn’t understand him.”
Lee raised her eyebrows. “He tends to drop into dialect when he’s distracted.” Gelert had put his nose down to the sidewalk, and his pace was speeding up: he was nearly to the end of the block.
“Lee, you want us to keep this end of the scene locked down for a while?” Blessington said.
“It’s a good idea. I need to talk to the people at Parker and have a look at the victim’s profile and recent history before I come back for another look.”
“Okay. Bensen, Echevarria,” Blessington called over to two of his people as Gelert turned left around the house on the corner lot and vanished from sight, “better go with the gentleman and keep people out of his way while he’s working.” The two uniforms nodded to their boss and headed off after Gelert at a dogtrot.
“You know this neighborhood at all?” Lee said to Blessington.
He gave her an amused look. “I lived here before I was married.”
“What’s around the corner?”
“A nightclub: a couple of restaurants. It was the nightclub dil’Sorden came out of. He’d come in earlier, alone. Had a snack and a few drinks, listened to the jazz combo that was playing there last night, paid his bill, and left.”
“He didn’t meet anybody?”
“Not according to the club owner.”
“Did he go there often?”
“The owner said he saw him occasionally. Not a regular, but he would drop in for something to eat after working late. The place has a rep for its ribs.”
Lee nodded. “Jim, he was already running as he came around the corner. Whoever shot him came around after him, fast. He had to have been waiting for dil’Sorden in one of the doorways that face onto Wilshire: I’m going to have another look at that later. Here’s how it went—”
She and Blessington went up to the corner, and Lee reenacted for Blessington what she had seen. At the end of it all they stood there again over the tarp, looking down at the spot where dil’Sorden had fallen.
“Contract job?” Blessington said at last.
“I can’t see why, but then I only had time to skim his profile on the way over,” Lee said. “There seemed to be some urgency ‘Upstairs.’ ”
Blessington made that sour face again. “Which smells weird to me to start with,” he said, “but then I’m just a detective.” The delivery was ironic but not hostile: Lee smiled slightly. “Speaking of smells,”
Blessington said, and grimaced. “Bensen, what the hell are you guys up to?”
He listened for a moment, face immobile. “How about that,” he said. “Yeah, bring it back. Be careful about how you wrap it; it might have been handled two or three times before it got there, and maybe after.”
Blessington looked over at Lee. “He’s good,” he said. “He found the murder weapon three blocks over and two blocks up, in somebody’s front yard, two feet deep in pachysandra.”
“You owe him one, then,” Lee said. “Think how many manpower-hours he saved you.”
“He’ll remind me of it, I’m sure,” Blessington said.
Down the street, Gelert and the two uniforms were coming around the corner again: one of them, Echevarria, was carrying an antistatic evidence bag, glancing back smoky silver reflections in the hot sun as they approached. Gelert was trotting along with his tongue hanging out, looking to Lee’s eyes unusually pleased with himself. As the officers stowed the shotgun in the car, Gelert sat down beside Lee and Blessington.
“The murderer caught a bus,” Gelert said. “About twenty minutes after the killing: one of the night buses down Melrose.”
“Stupid,” Blessington said. “Too many witnesses.”
“He seemed willing to take the risk,” Gelert said. “Forensically it was smart: his lifetrace got tangled up with a lot of others, fresh and stale. And by the time we pull that bus out of service so that I can go over it, there’ll be more overlay still. But it won’t
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