“He’s dead,” said Niedermeyer.
LaVonda pressed her fingers to her mouth and stared down at the picture. “Oh my. He’s dead. Really? But how?”
“Somebody killed him,” said Delgado as he took back the flyer. “Dumped his body in the schoolyard. Since he lived down the block, we’re just canvasing the neighborhood.”
LaVonda looked from one detective to the other. “But when? I just saw him yesterday.”
Yesterday, he had been with Toby, the live-in boyfriend of her upstairs neighbor, Allie. In the wee hours, when the pain in her back had forced her from her bed, LaVonda had gone to sit outside in the dark and had seen them, Ronnie and Toby, skulking about, getting into only god knows what kind of trouble. Toby spent more time with Ronnie than he did with Allie.
“Do you know who he associates with?” Niedermeyer asked.
LaVonda shrugged. “Ronnie knows everybody.”
“And you saw him yesterday?”
LaVonda nodded.
“Did you see him with anyone in particular?”
“Well,” she said, “sometimes he hangs out with Toby. My neighbor. Well, sort of neighbor. Toby lives upstairs with Allie. He and Ronnie hang out together sometimes.”
Niedermeyer stood. “So, we can find this Toby upstairs?”
LaVonda shook her head. “I doubt it. At least, not right now. He doesn’t have a regular gig but he gets those day jobs — you know, where you show up for same-day work. He’s basically a temp.”
“And his girlfriend — your neighbor — is named Allie?”
LaVonda nodded. “She works full-time. She’s a few years older than Toby, in her thirties.”
Niedermeyer wrote steadily on his legal pad.
LaVonda turned to Delgado. “Ronnie wasn’t really a bad guy. I wish I knew more.”
Both detectives pulled business cards from their pockets, and LaVonda took them. “In case you hear anything,” Delgado said.
“We can see ourselves out,” said Niedermeyer, turning toward the door.
Delgado took a last swig from his coffee, then stood. LaVonda held out her hand. He clasped it and LaVonda squeezed. It was warm and slightly moist; his grip was firm. She realized he was looking beyond her, at the pictures on the wall of her with friends, most of whom she hadn’t spoken to for the better part of a decade. She released his hand and followed the men to the door.
“You both have a nice evening,” she said as they made their way down the weathered steps of her porch. She stared at Detective Delgado’s back.
Turn around, she thought. If he turns around, it means he’s thinking of me.
LaVonda watched as the two men left her yard. They headed toward the end of the block without turning around.
LaVonda tossed Niedermeyer’s card on the coffee table. She brought Delgado’s card to her nose and inhaled deeply. Her stomach fluttered. She hadn’t been this excited since the regular UPS driver had gone on vacation and his replacement had brought a package to her door. She had been entranced by his hazel eyes, his 1970s ’stache, the way the muscles in his arms rippled. For weeks, she had yearned for his body, longed to feel his touch. Now she had a new man to fantasize about.
In her mind’s eye, she could see Delgado’s hands — those large hands, covered with a layer of smooth black hair. Hands that should be holding her, touching her. She needed to attract his attention, but how? Maybe if she had some key information about Ronnie’s murder, she could call him and he might come back to see her. But what if he didn’t come alone, or worse, asked her to go downtown to make a statement? She had learned from watching dozens of true crime shows that it was rarely wise to inject yourself into an investigation. And this wasn’t some TV show, this was real. Someone was dead — murdered. Someone she knew.
LaVonda burrowed into her stash, which she kept hidden in a small alcove in her dining room, and retrieved her bottle of pills. She struggled momentarily with the childproof cap, pressing and turning until the lid popped off in her hands. Her back was screaming. She knew it was best to try to stay ahead of the pain but she had delayed taking her meds for a couple of hours — hours spent sitting on the porch in a straight-backed wooden chair, watching folks meander by, taking little heed of the eclectic architecture that marked this community. Victorian mansions over a century old reigned, though many had been converted into office buildings or multifamily dwellings. They retained their majesty despite being nestled between twenty-first-century apartment buildings and overlooked by ever-invading condominiums that deigned to scrape the sky.
LaVonda lived in a historic house that had been subdivided into four family units. It had been affordable while she was working, but her settlement couldn’t cover the annual rent increases forever. Nonetheless, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The apartment had three bedrooms, a dining room and living room, a cavernous kitchen with minimal counter space, a good-sized bathroom, and laundry facilities in the basement. She had access to a small garage in the back — which she cherished, as street parking was practically nonexistent. She lived just off Thirteenth Avenue, so she was far enough south to see young professionals jogging or out walking their dogs, but close enough to East Colfax that a few people living on the streets shambled by each day. A decade ago, the city got serious about cleaning up Colfax and tried to shunt most of the transients away from the Hill, but LaVonda felt they were more than part of the local color — it was their neighborhood as much as hers.
East Colfax had once been a haven for prostitutes and drug dealers — and it still had its share of those — but now Denver’s main drag also featured ethnic eateries, trendy boutiques, and even a recreation center. Coffee shops, restaurants, and a couple of clubs were all within walking distance. But it wasn’t the shops that made Capitol Hill what it was — it was the people. The neighborhood was filled with young people, sharing apartments and group homes; urban professionals who enjoyed the easy commute to downtown; lovers of every gender and shade who entwined their hands as they crossed each crack in the sidewalks. It was a place for bohemians, for the colorful and the eccentric, the shady and the urbane, the lovers and the lost.
What you didn’t see here on the Hill were women pushing fifty, alone and barely getting by. Women like her.
LaVonda placed one tablet of oxycodone on her tongue and washed it down with a flat Diet Coke that had been sitting out since morning. She hadn’t gotten these pills from Ronnie, but from the pharmacy a few blocks east. There had been a short while when she had turned to Ronnie. Her pain-management doctor had suddenly closed his practice and it had taken her a few weeks to find a new one. Ronnie had sold pot before it was legalized and now dabbled in opiates. She hadn’t thought of Ronnie as her dealer, just a friend of Toby’s who was able to help her out in a time of need.
Toby, was, well, he was little more than a boy, and not a particularly bright one. Her maternal urges kicked in whenever she saw him. He was nice and well mannered, in his midtwenties, with unruly hair and a crooked smile. He was one of those kids who needed to wake-and-bake just to face the day. He was also a cigarette smoker, and even though she had quit five years ago, LaVonda looked forward to his visits and the few drags he let her take from his Camel Lights.
In her bedroom, LaVonda closed the blinds, then unzipped her jeans, shimmied out of them, and unrolled her Spanx. She felt an almost instant sense of relief as her belly fell free. Now she could breathe. She removed her blouse and unclasped her bra. As she reached for her shift, she caught sight of herself in the freestanding mirror. Her stomach wasn’t huge, but it was soft, flabby, and lined with stretch marks from the days when she was more than seventy pounds heavier. Even though her breasts were small, gravity had done its damage and, without support, they sagged. She stood in front of the mirror naked, examining her body. The ever-present pain she endured had ruined her appetite, and at first she had been thrilled to lose so much weight. She had not anticipated how much her body would change. She was no longer curvy, at least not in the right places. Her ass, once high and round and firm, was now flat and wrinkled. Her stomach was marked by a fifteen-year-old hysterectomy scar. It had been a bikini cut, but it had still created a line on her stomach, creasing it unattractively. Her thighs were dimpled and the flesh beneath her arms jiggled. She averted her gaze. Who could possibly want me? she thought.