gloves?”
“Center compartment.”
I pulled out my nylon gloves, noticed she’d brought hers, too—black leather with rabbit lining.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion. This skirt is a Gucci.”
Laura’s partially open winter coat exposed a black knee-length skirt that matched the color of her low-heeled pumps. Hardly down-and-dirty wear, unless one had a serious school marm fantasy. Which this Deadhead boy might’ve had if he’d been stuck in jail another day. Instead, I’d morbidly fantasized about her rejection of my marriage proposal. If I’d been released last night, instead of barely over an hour ago with minutes to throw on a suit and race to the courthouse, I’d have already asked her why. Right now, we had work to do.
“Just keep the motor running, I’ll do the dirty work.” I pointed to an upcoming on-ramp. “Take 6 East.”
As she took the exit, I scanned the list of CrimDefs and their addresses that she’d printed for me. Being a third-generation Denverite, I knew my way around the city and its ‘burbs the way Jerry knew his way around a riff. Checking Lou’s street address, I knew he lived in a cushy suburb of Lakewood, Iris in culturally diverse Wash Park, south of downtown Denver. Lou’s address was closer, so he’d be first.
“Those bags will be full of…” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll never get the smell out of here.”
“Just crank up the heater and drive with the windows down. After a day or two, you’d never know the Durango went undercover as a trash truck.”
“But there’ll be…gunk on the back seat.”
“Most people put their stuff in plastic bags.”
Checking the side mirror, she switched lanes. “Isn’t it illegal taking someone’s trash?”
“Lakewood and Denver deem curbside trash public property. Of course, we don’t know if today’s their pick-up day, but it’s possible their trash is accessible anyway. If either of them threw out anything after last Friday night that links them to Wicked or her murder, today’s a primo day to check.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of Lou Reisman’s home, a palatial number with rolling lawns and a garden sculpture that looked like a weathervane on growth hormones. All behind a massive wrought-iron security fence.
No visible trash cans. None in front of the other mansions, either.
“Drive down the alley,” I said, “let’s see if there’s a dumpster.”
There were none. I gave Laura directions to Iris’s home.
Half an hour later, we arrived in Wash Park, a sprawling residential area that boasted the second-largest city park in Denver and the largest number of jogging bodies stuffed into overpriced designer running duds. Back in the day, my dad’s bookie had lived a block down. A simple brick home with a view of the park. Had probably sold for a small fortune to some overpaid thirty-something who’d razed the lot and built a glass-and-stone monstrosity that were all the rage these days.
Iris, to her credit, hadn’t gone the razing route. Her single-level home was constructed of concrete in an Art Deco style popular in Denver after the Great Depression. Jack Kerouac, my teenage literary hero ‘cause he’d hung out in Denver and chased cool, had referred to a similar concrete building in his book
On the Road
, an eatery that had the balls to not put the sign “white trade only” in its window.
Cacti, yarrow, and yucca crowded Iris’s Xeriscaped yard. A closed one-door garage terminated the empty driveway.
I had an idea. “Pull up to that garage door.”
“But there’s no trash cans.”
“They’re probably inside that garage.”
“She could be home and her car’s in there.”
“She’s a public defender, which means she works eight to five and is at her office or in court.” I motioned for her to drive.
“But…opening that garage door is trespassing, right? Isn’t that a felony?”
“Misdemeanor.”
“Not a felony?”
“Only if we kill someone while
“Center compartment.”
I pulled out my nylon gloves, noticed she’d brought hers, too—black leather with rabbit lining.
“I’m not dressed for the occasion. This skirt is a Gucci.”
Laura’s partially open winter coat exposed a black knee-length skirt that matched the color of her low-heeled pumps. Hardly down-and-dirty wear, unless one had a serious school marm fantasy. Which this Deadhead boy might’ve had if he’d been stuck in jail another day. Instead, I’d morbidly fantasized about her rejection of my marriage proposal. If I’d been released last night, instead of barely over an hour ago with minutes to throw on a suit and race to the courthouse, I’d have already asked her why. Right now, we had work to do.
“Just keep the motor running, I’ll do the dirty work.” I pointed to an upcoming on-ramp. “Take 6 East.”
As she took the exit, I scanned the list of CrimDefs and their addresses that she’d printed for me. Being a third-generation Denverite, I knew my way around the city and its ‘burbs the way Jerry knew his way around a riff. Checking Lou’s street address, I knew he lived in a cushy suburb of Lakewood, Iris in culturally diverse Wash Park, south of downtown Denver. Lou’s address was closer, so he’d be first.
“Those bags will be full of…” She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll never get the smell out of here.”
“Just crank up the heater and drive with the windows down. After a day or two, you’d never know the Durango went undercover as a trash truck.”
“But there’ll be…gunk on the back seat.”
“Most people put their stuff in plastic bags.”
Checking the side mirror, she switched lanes. “Isn’t it illegal taking someone’s trash?”
“Lakewood and Denver deem curbside trash public property. Of course, we don’t know if today’s their pick-up day, but it’s possible their trash is accessible anyway. If either of them threw out anything after last Friday night that links them to Wicked or her murder, today’s a primo day to check.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of Lou Reisman’s home, a palatial number with rolling lawns and a garden sculpture that looked like a weathervane on growth hormones. All behind a massive wrought-iron security fence.
No visible trash cans. None in front of the other mansions, either.
“Drive down the alley,” I said, “let’s see if there’s a dumpster.”
There were none. I gave Laura directions to Iris’s home.
Half an hour later, we arrived in Wash Park, a sprawling residential area that boasted the second-largest city park in Denver and the largest number of jogging bodies stuffed into overpriced designer running duds. Back in the day, my dad’s bookie had lived a block down. A simple brick home with a view of the park. Had probably sold for a small fortune to some overpaid thirty-something who’d razed the lot and built a glass-and-stone monstrosity that were all the rage these days.
Iris, to her credit, hadn’t gone the razing route. Her single-level home was constructed of concrete in an Art Deco style popular in Denver after the Great Depression. Jack Kerouac, my teenage literary hero ‘cause he’d hung out in Denver and chased cool, had referred to a similar concrete building in his book
On the Road
, an eatery that had the balls to not put the sign “white trade only” in its window.
Cacti, yarrow, and yucca crowded Iris’s Xeriscaped yard. A closed one-door garage terminated the empty driveway.
I had an idea. “Pull up to that garage door.”
“But there’s no trash cans.”
“They’re probably inside that garage.”
“She could be home and her car’s in there.”
“She’s a public defender, which means she works eight to five and is at her office or in court.” I motioned for her to drive.
“But…opening that garage door is trespassing, right? Isn’t that a felony?”
“Misdemeanor.”
“Not a felony?”
“Only if we kill someone while
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