Gurney reminded himself, however, that best guesses were still only guesses. He decided to move on to the next question. If the bullet couldn’t have come from that particular apartment, where might it have come from? He looked across the little river to Paulette’s blue umbrella, still open to mark the spot where Carl had fallen.
Examining the facades of the buildings along the avenue, he saw that the bullet might have been fired from virtually any one of forty or fifty windows facing in the direction of Willow Rest. Without a way of prioritizing them, they’d pose quite an investigative challenge. But what was the point? If gunpowder residue consistent with a .220 Swift cartridge had been found in the first apartment, then the .220 rifle had to have been fired there. Was he to believe that it had been fired at Carl Spalter from another apartment, then brought to the “impossible” apartment, fired again, and left there on its tripod? If so, the other apartment would have to be very close by.
The closest, of course, would be the one next door. The apartment occupied by the little man who called himself Bolo. Gurney entered the building lobby, took the stairs two at a time, went directly to Bolo’s door, and knocked softly.
There was a sound of feet moving quickly, something sliding—maybe a drawer opening, closing—a door being shut, then feet moving again just inside the door where Gurney stood. Instinctively he stepped to the side, standard procedure when there was reason to suspect an unfriendly welcome. For the first time since arriving in Long Falls he questioned the wisdom of coming unarmed.
He reached over and knocked again, very gently. “Hey, Bolo, it’s me.”
He heard the sharp clicks of two deadbolts, and the door opened about three inches—only as far as its two chains permitted.
Bolo’s face appeared behind the opening. “Holy shit. You’re back. Guy who came to take a look at everything. Everything is one big lot of shit, man. What now?”
“Long story. Can I take a look out your window?”
“That’s funny.”
“Can I?”
“True? No shit? You want to look out my window?”
“It’s important.”
“I heard a lot of hot-shit lines, man, but that’s a good one.” He closed the door, undid the chains, opened it again, wider. He was wearing a yellow basketball jersey that came down to his knees and maybe nothing else. “ ‘Can I look out your window?’ I got to remember that one.” He stepped back to let Gurney in.
The apartment appeared to be the twin of the one next to it. Gurney looked into the kitchen, then down the short opposite hall where the bathroom was. The door was closed.
“You have visitors?” asked Gurney.
The gold teeth appeared once more. “One visitor. She don’t want nobody to see her.” He pointed to the windows on the far side of the main room. “You want to look out? Go look.”
Gurney was uncomfortable with the closed bathroom door, didn’t want that kind of an unknown behind him. “Maybe later.” He stepped back into the open doorway, positioning himself at an angle that allowed him to be equally aware of any movement in the apartment or on the landing.
Bolo nodded with an appreciative wink. “Sure. Got to be careful. No dark alley for you, man. Smart.”
“Tell me about Freddie.”
“Told you. He disappeared. You lie down with a fucker, you gonna get fucked. Bigger the fucker, worse you get fucked.”
“Freddie testified at Kay Spalter’s trial that she was in the apartment next to yours on the day her husband was shot. You knew he said that, right?”
“Everybody knew.”
“But you didn’t see Kay yourself?”
“Thought maybe I saw her, somebody like her.”
“What does that mean?”
“What I told the other cop.”
“I want to know it from you.”
“I saw a small … small person, looked pretty much like a woman. Small, thin. Like a dancer. There’s a word for that. Petite. You know that word? Some hot-shit word. You surprised I know that word?”
“You say ‘looked like a woman’? But you’re not sure it was a woman?”
“The first time, I thought it was. But hard to tell. Sunglasses. Big headband. Big scarf.”
“The first time? How many times—”
“Twice. I told the other cop.”
“She was here twice? When was the first time?”
“Sunday. The Sunday before the funeral.”
“You’re sure about the day?”
“Had to be Sunday. Was my only day off. From the fucking car wash. I am going out to Quik-Buy for cigarettes, going down the stairs. This petite person coming up the stairs, passes me, right? At the bottom of the stairs I think I don’t have my money. I come back up to get it. Now she’s standing there, outside the door, behind where you stand now. I go straight into my place for my money.”
“You didn’t ask her what she was doing here, who she was looking for?”
A sharp little laugh burst out of him. “Shit, man, no. Here you don’t better bother nobody. Everybody got their own business. Don’t like questions.”
“She went into that apartment? How? With a key?”
“Yeah. A key. Of course.”
“How do you know she had a key?”
“I heard it. Thin walls. Cheap. Key opening the door. Easy sound to know. Hey, that reminds me, definitely had to be Sunday. Ding-dong. Church down the river, twelve o’clock every Sunday. Ding-dong, ding-dong. Twelve fucking ding-dongs.”
“You saw this small person again?”
“Yeah. Not that day. Not until shooting day.”
“What did you see?”
“This time it’s Friday. Morning. Ten o’clock. Before I go to the car wash. I’m out, coming back with pizza.”
“At ten in the morning?”
“Yeah, good breakfast. I’m coming back, I see this little person go into this building. Same little person. Petite. Goes in very fast, with a box, or something bright, wrapped up. When I come in, little person is at top of the stairs, pretty sure now it’s a wrapped-up box, like for Christmas. Long box—three, four feet long. Christmas paper. When I get to the top of the stairs, the little person is already inside the apartment, but the door is still open.”
“And?”
“Little person is in the bathroom, I am thinking. That’s why this big rush, maybe why the outside door is still open.”
“And?”
“And it’s true, little person is in the bathroom taking a big leak. Then I know for sure.”
“Know what?”
“The sound.”
“What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t right.”
“What wasn’t right?”
“Men and women, the sound is different when they piss. You know this.”
“And what you heard was …?”
“Absolutely sound of pissing man. Little man, maybe. But absolutely man.”
Chapter 19. Crime and Punishment
After getting from Bolo his legal name (Estavio Bolocco), as well as his cell number and a more detailed description of the petite he-she-whatever creature, Gurney went back down to his car and spent another half hour searching the case file for any record of an Estavio Bolocco having been interviewed, for any note regarding the appearance in the apartment of a possible suspect on the Sunday prior to the shooting, or for any question being raised regarding the shooter’s gender.