Auburn went back to the workshop and picked up a bundle of discount coupons from Hick’s Red Carpet Transmission.
“Are they making them electronic now?” he wondered out loud.
Stamaty grunted. “Let’s go find the building manager.”
The woman who answered the door marked “Office” froze up when Auburn showed his I.D. She seemed inclined to feign feeblemindedness until he explained why they were there.
She said Brendel had lived in the building about a year and a half, was prompt with his rent, and didn’t give wild parties or feud with other tenants. She didn’t know of any relatives and couldn’t identify any regular visitors. She thought he sometimes worked on TV’s or stereos in his spare time but didn’t feel he was running a business from the apartment.
It took all of Stamaty’s very considerable finesse and diplomacy to persuade her to accompany him to the county morgue to identify the body. Before they left, Auburn asked her for directions to the garage Brendel had used.
“He didn’t have a car,” she said. “Just a motorcycle. It’s around in the back with a tarp over it.”
That explained the last key on Brendel’s ring, but raised the question where he’d kept the sports car. “Are you sure he didn’t park a car on the street?”
“That I couldn’t say, but he woke me up every morning at six thirty starting his motorcycle to go to work.”
After she and Stamaty left, Auburn had a look at the motorcycle and then called headquarters from a pay phone. First he reported the closet full of stolen property in Brendel’s apartment. The man on the desk in Robbery promised they’d wait until Auburn returned to headquarters with the keys before going to the apartment. Then he requested background checks on Neldrick, the Roetherls, and the Raysters, including finding out if any of them had recently reported thefts to the police. Finally he asked to be connected with Kestrel in the lab.
“Did you find anything in his car?” he asked.
“Not yet. I got some latent prints and the usual bags of dirt. Dollinger just drove it in to the Sixth Street garage.”
“Did you notice the garage door opener on the passenger side visor?”
“Robina model AA. I’ve got the serial number here if you want it.”
“You would. What would it be if it wasn’t a garage door opener?”
In the ensuing silence Auburn could almost see Kestrel’s scowl of impatience through the telephone wire. “Why wouldn’t it be a garage door opener?”
“Because he didn’t have a garage. Not at his apartment, anyway.”
“Well, it’s a remote switch for something. I opened it to check for drugs and test the batteries. They’re good, and it’s got all the original circuitry.”
Auburn decided to let word of Brendel’s hoard of stolen property reach Kestrel through Robbery. “I’ll get back to you later.”
Hick’s Red Carpet Transmission was in a part of town where prudent people didn’t go after dark and nervous people didn’t go at all. There were cars on hoists in all six bays, but only two or three mechanics were at work. A broad “carpet” of red paint led from the parking area to the office door.
At Auburn’s entry a man stood up behind a massive steel desk littered with work orders, car keys, and Styrofoam cups. “What can I help you with today, sir?” Auburn recognized the voice from the answering machine recording. Hick was a big man with deep-set eyes and a waxed mustache.
His mercenary exuberance evaporated as soon as Auburn showed identification. “Just a routine investigation. Does Lee Brendel work here?”
“He does when he ain’t chucking beer and chasing women.” He hitched up his trousers belt and left his thumbs inside. “You know where he’s at?”
“How long has he worked here?”
“About three years. He’s my best transmission builder when he shows up. Is he in jail?”
“No, sir. He was found dead along Route 5 this morning.”
Hick sat down again and recited the names of one or two biblical figures with explosive fervor. “He get hit by a car, or what?”
“We think it’s a homicide. Blunt injury to the head. Would you know offhand of anybody who might have wanted him out of the way?”
“No. No, I sure wouldn’t. He got along good with everybody here. My guys’ private life I don’t mess with.” The phone rang and he made an appointment for a transmission tuneup the first of the following week.
“What can you tell me about a TV repair service Brendel ran on his own?”
“He had some kind of a thing going, Hot Rod Enterprises, something like that. Lee was handy. He could set up a torque converter in the dark. I ain’t so sure about TV, though. I thought it was custom cars.”
“What kind of car did he drive?”
“Lee was mostly a biker. Sometimes he showed up in different cars, but most generally it was a ’cycle. You can lose five or six minutes of a lunch hour just waiting to pull a car out in that traffic at noon. He used to shoot out of here on his bike every noon and ride along the lane markers between the cars. You sure he didn’t get hit?”
“We’re sure. Did he have any special friends here at the shop?”
“Not special. Like I said, he got along good with all the guys.”
“You mentioned women. Would you know any by name?”
Hick stood up again, put his thumbs back inside his belt, and shook his head. “Their name,” he said with a hoarse chuckle, “was legion.”
Although there was no departmental regulation on the subject, officers working on a homicide were encouraged to attend the autopsy whenever possible. Unfortunately it usually wasn’t possible without delaying critical steps in the investigation. At two o’clock Auburn reported to the county morgue to witness the autopsy on Lee Brendel, whose body had been formally identified by his apartment manager.
Dr. Valentine, the forensic pathologist, was just taking photographs of the head wound with the help of his assistant, an ancient, wizened man in a rubber apron with tattoos all over both arms. Auburn stood outside a chest-high Plexiglas partition that enclosed the autopsy table. Next to him Stamaty, the only other observer, was busy shuffling papers and making notes. He told Stamaty about his visit to Hick’s transmission shop.
On the strength of several years’ experience as a beat cop in another city, Stamaty fended himself a pretty good detective. “I would have talked to all the guys in that shop,” he said. “You can bet they know more about Brendel than his boss does. They could probably put a name to that woman on the answering machine, too. And one of them probably helped him steal all that stuff we found in his closet.”
“If he did, he isn’t going to tell me about it. But I see Brendel working as a lone wolf.”
“Somebody got close enough to him last night to give him a terminal headache,” objected Stamaty.
“But why in that particular place? There’s got to be a reason why he ended up on that path, ten miles from his apartment and twelve or thirteen from where he worked.”
“Maybe the girl lives around there.”
“Or anyway her dad. Let’s watch the show.”
After an hour and a half of meticulous examination, Dr. Valentine concluded that death was due to laceration and hemorrhage of the brain in an otherwise healthy adult male.
Auburn was back at his desk updating his memoirs when, around four, background checks came in on the residents of Roseland Court. Conrad Neldrick, Ph.D., was a licensed clinical psychologist. Blind from birth, he had an IQ that was off the charts, spoke four languages, and carried on an international practice by telephone. His sister Beth, widowed for years, traveled widely as the spirit moved her.