Corpse in the Kitchen by D.J. Reid (general ebook reader .txt) đ
- Author: D.J. Reid
Book online «Corpse in the Kitchen by D.J. Reid (general ebook reader .txt) đ». Author D.J. Reid
The dead guy lying face up in a pool of blood on my kitchen linoleum sure brought the high desert chill into the room. Guess I could be thankful for three things. One, I didnât know the guy. Two, it was late afternoon, not midnight. Things always seem worse at night. And, three, Iâm not prone to panic. I wouldnât be much of a cop if I were.
I backed out the swinging kitchen door, set the auto parts bag I was carrying on the coffee table, and punched 911 on the phone next to the sofa. A female dispatcher answered.
âAngie? Danny Sullivan here.â
She did a good job of keeping the excitement out of her voice, told me not to touch anything (as if I was planning to) and to sit tight until a crime team got there.
I could almost do that.
Iâd left the dead guy staring at the ceiling, hoping heâd be gone when I got back. Like in the movies. He was still there, so I propped the door open, squatted in the doorway, and took inventory. Professional curiosity. The guy was about my size and age, which meant six feet, slender, and thirty-three, give or take a couple of years.
Had somebody mistook him for me? The thought came and went. I hadnât worked any sensitive cases, hadnât made any real enemies that I knew of.
Besides, heâd been different from me in other ways. Iâm your average Anglo, a Chicago transplant still new to Santa Fe after six months; the deceased might have been Hispanic, though more likely Native American. Something about the cheekbones and the set of his eyes. I was getting so I could tell the difference. Looked as though heâd recently started growing a mustache. A bruised left cheekbone and scuffed knuckles on both hands also said heâs been in a fight.
As for clothes: basic polo shirt over khakis. Pretty much what I wore when I was in civvies, though I wouldnât be wearing them with navy socks like this guy. And if my big toe stuck out of one, Iâd have thrown the pair away before I got murdered in them. Where were his shoes? Why wasnât he wearing a coat? Santa Fe wasnât the Windy City, but December is still pretty chilly. The biggest question of all: What the hell was he doing in my kitchen?
Getting to the back door would have risked stepping in the pool of blood seeping out of whatever hole, or holes, the victim had in his back. I stayed put and peered to check whether the flimsy snap-lock on my back door was locked. It wasnât, but Iâd probably left it that way. I didnât remember. This was a quiet neighborhood, or used to be.
When the squad car pulled up, I was standing on the front porch not smoking, but exhaling fog in the cold air. Pretending, like kids do. Purple shadows were creeping across the golden Sangre de Christos mountains. Pretty. Iâd given up smoking when I moved here. It seemed a shame to pollute the clean high-dessert air.
Officer Jack Benally strode up my sidewalk, finger-combing his black hair. Navajo, about my age. First few weeks Iâd been on the force, he pulled duty to show me the ropes. Weâd run several cases together since then.
âHey, Danny. Canât take a day off?â
âWhat can I say, Iâm a workaholic. How come my murdered guy doesnât rate a homicide detective?â
âThe big boys are detecting among the tourists. Youâre stuck with me.â
âSâpose I can make do.â
I led him through the living room to the kitchen doorway. He stood looking in at the corpse awhile before he spoke. âKnow who he is?â
âNo clue.â
âLooks Navajo.â
âThat a âtakes one to know oneâ comment?â
âPartly.â He grinned and pointed to the guyâs hand. âThat ring is Navajo silver and turquoise work.â
âMaybe he just liked jewelry.â
Benally grunted.
Footsteps on the porch signaled the arrival of the lab boys and the coroner, a squinty bald guy in a too-long overcoat. Fred Something. Couldnât remember his last name. Benally and I got out of the way and sat on my sofa.
âAny idea why heâs in your kitchen, Danny?â
âLooking for good home cooking?â
âAinât gonna find it here.â
I didnât take offence. My idea of haute cuisine was microwave burritos.
The coroner came out, said what we already knew, and handed Benally the guyâs wallet.
âAny idea what kind of bullet killed him, doc?â I asked.
He looked at Benally. âDannyâs one of us.â
Fred Something squinted at me. âNope.â
âGuess thatâll have to wait for the lab, huh?â
âNope.â
I cocked my head to one side and raised an eyebrow.
âGuy was stabbed.â He turned and walked out the door. Nice exit line.
So much for my big-city assumptions. In Chicago it seemed like it was always a gun.
Benally pulled out the victimâs ID and gave me an I-told-you-so smirk. âNavajo last name: Lapahie.â He handed me the driverâs license. âLived over in Shiprock.â
Northwest corner of the state. I knew that much. âLong way from home.â
Benally nodded. âEspecially with no shoes.â
I handed back the license.
After the lab techs and body baggers finished, Benally and I went into the kitchen. The techs had kindly left most of the blood for me to clean up.
âSo.â I scratched my unshaven chin in what I hoped was a sage sort of way. âThe guy goes through all the backyards in the neighborhood till he finds my unlocked door. Then he steps inside, springs a leak in his back, and lies down dead on my kitchen linoleum.â
âSure, I buy that. Who wouldnât?â
âOh yeah, I forgot it was your guys who sold us Manhattan for twenty-four bucks and some beads.â
âNot my clan.â
âOkay, okay. Letâs think about this.â I circled the blood stain. âThe guy looked like heâd been in a fight. But not here. The kitchen is just the way I left it.â
âToo bad he didnât bother washing your dishes.â Benally smirked.
I ignored that.
âHe wasnât wearing shoes or a coat. I know this isnât Chicago but itâs what, forty degrees out?â
Benally dipped his head once. âMeans he didnât come far.â
âSo if he wasnât stabbed here, he was leaking blood all the way. Want to demonstrate some of those famous Navajo tracking skills?â
We stepped around the blood, and I followed Benally out my back door and down a couple of wooden steps. Sure enough, there were rust-colored drops on the treads and the sidewalk leading to the alley.
âWatch and learn, paleface.â
The blood spots on the back sidewalk werenât as bright as Hansel and Gretelâs white pebbles but clear enough. Even I could see that my visitor had come through the gate in the chain-link fence that separated the yard from the dirt-track alley. The dirt made the drops harder to see. I went left and Benally went right a few paces, peering at the packed earth.
âFound one.â Benally pointed near his right foot. âThereâs another. Looks like they go this way.â
We followed the trail. Actually Benally followed it and I followed him. At the end of the alley, the drops veered toward the service entrance of a corner store. The door was ajar, a dark smear on the door handle.
Benally raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. âWhat is this place?â
âConvenience store. Sandwiches, cigarettes, lottery tickets.â
âHard to stab yourself in the back making a sandwich.â
He motioned me to wait and headed around to the front. Of course, I waited. Maybe twenty seconds. Then I pushed open the door. Slowly, with one index finger. I didnât really expect a knife-wielding killer to jump out, but there was no point being careless.
The door opened into a fluorescent-lit kitchen-slash-storeroom. A stainless-steel mixing bowl sat upside down on the linoleum floor. Chopped lettuce lay scattered nearby, along with a broken plate, a couple of heavy coffee mugs that hadnât broken, some flatware â and a bloody knife.
Benally walked in from the front of the store. He wasnât surprised that I was already inside. âNobody in the store but itâs open for business. Money in the cash register. Everything looks okay.â He surveyed the mess. âNot okay in here.â
I pointed to the knife.
Benally sighed and reached for his shoulder mike. âIâll call the lab guys back.â
While he called in, I mostly stood still and looked around. Except for the chaos at my feet, the kitchen was clean and well kept. Wire-mesh shelves held supplies. A padlocked walk-in freezer took up most of one wall. A bloody handprint on the freezer door caught my eye.
Iâd been in the store several times to buy this and that. Owner seemed like a nice guy. Older man. Kept a neat place. Heâd told me the store had been a butcher shop years back before he bought it. Asked if I was a hunter. Offered to store meat for me in the old walk-in freezer because he didnât need that much room for his deli supplies. Said he rented freezer space to several deer hunters. Seemed surprised when I told him I wasnât a hunter.
The only thing out of place in the back room was an Army-surplus cot squeezed into one corner. Not exactly standard kitchen equipment. Come to think of it, probably a health-code violation. A leather jacket hung on a nearby hook. Next to the cot stood a pair of worn boots.
Benally finished calling in.
I gestured to the cot and clothing. âWhat was the dead guyâs name again?â
Benally pulled out the wallet. âLapahie. Robert M. Lapahie.â
I knew that name sounded familiar earlier. âLapahie is the name of the guy who runs this store.â
âSame guy?â
âNot the dead man. This Lapahie is older. Probably early sixties.â
âFather and son?â Benally drew his lips into a grimace. âLooks like someoneâs been living here.â
âI recall Lapahie saying he lived in some valley or other. Donât remember if he mentioned a son.â
âCould just as easily be the old man himself. A falling out with his wife and heâs camping out here till she cools down.â
I shook my head. âWidower, I think.â
A pickup growled into the alley and the motor cut off. A thickset man with salt-and-pepper hair barreled through the open service door and stopped short. I recognized the storeowner.
He saw me, saw Benally, and then registered the mess on the floor.
âWhereâs Bobby?â
Benally threw me a glance. I introduced him.
âMr. Lapahie, this is Officer Jack Benally.â
The older man nodded.
âYou remember me? Danny Sullivan, from down the block.â
âSure. Police officer, too.â He was having a hard time looking away from the debris on the floor.
I followed as Benally eased Lapahie around the mess and into the retail area to ask him some questions. âIs Bobby your son?â
âYes.â
âWas he staying here?â
Lapahie sighed. âBobby had some trouble in Shiprock, came over here awhile.â
âWhat sort of trouble?â
âGambling. I didnât know how bad it was. That was blood, wasnât it?â He wanted to ask
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