Jack Jericho: Volume 1

Chapter 13

You head downtown for a look at Ivana's place. She lived in a basement apartment on Walsingham Road, near to the heart of the downtown action, but far enough out to afford the rent.

Police cruisers crowd the cracked macadam parking lot. Their flashing lights paint the old brick building in alternating blue and red.

Someone's dog is barking, steady as a metronome. A loose knit crowd mills about on the sidewalk watching the police work. Wherever there are flashing lights, there will be a crowd.

It's something to do with human nature. People can't resist flashing lights. You learned that on the police beat. They stand around gawping. Who knows what they are looking for? Maybe they are hoping for a shootout? Or a glimpse at a dead body.

You go in through the front door, trying to look like a resident on his way home. You could almost afford to live here.

What's it say when a burlesque dancer rates a nicer apartment than a private eye? You should have been a fireman.

The lobby has a fake chandelier and faux marble in the art deco style. The elevator doors are large chrome affairs, supposed to make the place look more upscale than it really is. Almost works, too. More people, mostly policemen, crowd the lobby. You take the stairs down to the basement.

The builders didn’t bother with any affectation down here. The floors are concrete. Stark overheads turn everything a lifeless yellow hue. It smells like cat vomit.

There's no need to look at the door numbers. Ivana's door is taped off with a patrolman standing guard. He's young. He's got his thumbs hooked into his Sam Brown belt, looking bored. He must be new. You don't recognize him, which could work to your advantage.

When you said you still have friends on the force, it wasn't a complete lie. Several of your old cop buddies don't outright hate you. Anyone that joined the force in the last six years probably doesn't know you, except by reputation. You decide to give the truth a go. Stranger methods have worked in the past.

"Officer,” you tip the young patrolman a salute.

He greets you the way all good cops do, no expression, just a nod to acknowledge your existence. His right hand creeps back along his belt a little closer to his service pistol. "This is a crime scene," he informs you.

"I noticed." You show him your Pl. license. "I’m a private investigator."

That gets a noncommittal grunt.

"I’m working a case and this murder is probably tied in,"you say.

He doesn't look terrifically impressed by that information.

"So I was hoping I could get a look at the crime scene."

"You know I can’t authorize that," he says.

"Who's the lead?"

"Bonanno."

"I used to partner with Bill," you tell him. "Back when I was on the force.”

"You were a cop?"

You nod. "Aren't all private detectives former cops?"

"How come you left?"

"Long story. Would you tell Bill that Jack Jericho is out here and wants a word?"

"Jericho," he sounds it out the way you would an unfamiliar foreign word. "Where have I heard that before?"

"The Bible," you tell him.

He tips his head to the side and squints at you, trying to decide if that was a joke. You decide to wait him out.