Mercy interrupted. “What about the others who visited her?”
He stopped, waited, reached for cigarettes. He offered them to us, and surprising myself, I was tempted. I shook my head. Thank you, no.
“She got the most visitors, that girl. For a while, before I learned she was an actress, I thought she was a whore. Pardon me. Hard to tell. Lots of young girls look like it. Now and then I get one here, got to boot them out. But she was more…what?…crazy than anything. I don’t mean crazy like oddball or, you know, wacky funny. Like Carole Lombard. No, this one was certifiable. All that walking at night, all the wandering in the hallways, unable to sleep, a woman with demons pursuing her. Still, I had to tell her to leave, but I never got around to doing it. Maybe I wouldn’t have. I felt sorry for her. A pretty girl and so crazy. Still, people like James Dean came to see her. What does that tell you? She told my granddaughter she was gonna marry James Dean, and my Connie started crying. But I told her that James Dean is not marrying Carisa. Not on this good green earth. Him, up there in the movies. Big time. All la-di-dah in his sunglasses. No way he’s marrying her. You know what she was? A failed actress. And let me tell you, there’s nothing more pathetic in this town than a failed actress. Pity and tsk tsk from everyone. You didn’t make it. Of course, they think they will. This town’s bottom heavy with sad lives.”
“Mr. Vega.” I cut into the monologue. “Someone killed her.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t believe it is James Dean.”
He nodded.
“Can you help us?”
He looked into my eyes. “I don’t think so. You see, Connie told me-and I told Cotton-that she saw Dean in the apartment the night Carisa died. She was watching for him. I believe what she’s told me.” He paused. “Connie said she heard yelling and screaming, the two of them. Probably just before she was killed.”
“And she told all this to Detective Cotton?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you recognize anyone else who came lately, a day or so before she died? Anyone who stood out?” Mercy asked.
He paused. “I told you I didn’t pay much attention.” He took a sip of lemonade. “But one day or so before she died, I was coming back home and Carisa was on the sidewalk talking to a man. Yelling and arguing.”
I sat up. “A man?”
“An older man, dressed up like he was going to a play. Tie, jacket. Man in his fifties, say. Very pompous.”
Mercy turned to me: “Jake?”
“Probably. Did you hear what they were arguing about?” I asked Vega.
“A little. The man was asking her to do something, and she was saying no. Kept turning away, but then coming back, baiting him. Cat-and-mouse game. He looked angry, I’ll tell you. Face all purple.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I went inside and seconds later I heard her running up the stairs.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Anyone else?”
“Lots of people. One guy a lot, back when she first moved in, before Texas. Very effeminate, don’t like his kind, to tell you the truth. He came a lot. Lately he stopped in again. One time with a pretty young boy. Maybe Mexican. I don’t like that stuff in my building. I say live and let live, but swishy is swishy, you know.”
“You talk to him?”
“Of course not.”
“Anyone else?”
He shook his head. “Lots. What can I tell you? I can’t help you. I hear footsteps up and down. Men, women. I don’t know. There was this other girl, an actress, I can tell, laughing too loud. But Carisa was okay until she got back from Texas. The first couple months here she was quiet. After Texas, she started to fall apart.” He bit his lip. “You know, one night, I couldn’t sleep and heard someone going up to her apartment, around three or four in the morning. A knock, real loud, and then someone running back down the stairs. I don’t like that.”
“Why?”
“I just felt he was delivering her some drugs. What else could it be at that hour? Not even there long enough, you know, for a-pardon me, ma’am-quickie.”
There was a gentle rapping on the door, and an old woman in a sagging housedress, her hair tied up in a kerchief, mumbled something in Spanish. While Mercy and I watched from the kitchen, Vega went into the living room and dialed the phone, speaking with his back to us. When he returned, he looked confused. “I’ve just called the police. Mrs. Sanchez tells me someone has slipped into Carisa’s apartment, past the crime tape that’s there.” Immediately I stood up and started to move. He waved me down. “No, sit tight,” he said. But I had to see. “Please. Would you get yourself hurt?”
Mercy touched my arm. “Let’s wait.”
But I stood in the outer doorway, door open, facing upstairs, waiting. The hallway was empty now, and I heard nothing from upstairs. All right, I wouldn’t tackle the stairs, not with an intruder there, but should anyone leave, I wanted a good view. Interesting, this intrusion; in broad daylight. Someone brazen and most likely desperate; after all, crime scene tape would deter most souls. I waited, impatient. Within minutes, the same two balding, beefy cops who’d come the night Carisa was murdered showed up, and, minutes later, surprisingly, Detective Cotton, out of breath, flew into the hallway. Without pretence I trailed Cotton up the stairs.
The door to Carisa’s apartment was wide open, the POLICE DO NOT CROSS tape dangling off the jamb, most of it bunched on the floor.
I stood at the top of the landing, with a skittish Mercy poised halfway up the stairs. Vega and Mrs. Sanchez, more sensible souls, remained in the apartment below.
The cops and Cotton led very boisterous and aggressive Max Kohl into the hallway. At least I assumed the muscular, hirsute man, then struggling with the cops, was the elusive biker. “I got a right to be here, dammit,” he was yelling. “I got a key.” He tried to show the officers the key in his pocket, but they held his hands pinned behind him.
“You broke into a crime scene.”
“I thought you just forgot to take it down.”
“What were you after?”
“I left some cash there, and it’s mine.” Kohl twisted and threw one cop off. Grappling and struggling with him, they managed to handcuff him, pushing him against a wall.
Cotton, perspiring and reaching for a handkerchief, turned and suddenly discovered me standing there. He looked astounded. “Oh my God. What?”
“What?”
Cotton looked from Kohl to me to Mercy, who’d inched up the stairs. “Do you all know each other?”
“I never met him before,” I announced.
“Did you come here together?”
“Of course not,” I said, indignant. “Do I look like his accomplice?”
“Last time you two looked like prom queens at a hooker convention.”
“Sir, you are…”
He cut me off. “And you’re in the hallway for what reason?” Perplexed, head shaking. He was not happy.
“We were talking to Mr. Vega about the murder.”
“You were what?”
“Unlike you, I’m convinced James Dean did not kill Carisa Krausse, and I’m convinced you’d like to see him charged, so…”
“So you’re doing my job?”
“No, only you can do that. Clearly.” I looked at the dumbfounded Max Kohl and back at Cotton, who was wiping his brow. “I’m just helping a friend.”
“Twice I come upon you,” he looked at Mercy now, “and you at a murder scene.”
I spoke sharply. “Only one murder scene. Mr. Kohl, if that is who I assume this young man is, still looks very much alive-though angry.”
Kohl narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? How do you know me?”
“I thought you arrested Mr. Kohl when he tried to escape questioning.”