City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(5)

Delaware had gotten Sean a referral and at least from what Moe could tell, that was working out. Though to Moe’s eye, Sean was different.

Quieter, more serious…coming close to dying could do that to you, something Moe never wanted to find out for himself.

Enough pointless remembering, time to do the job. Next step: talk to neighbors. Maybe he’d luck out and someone knew the victim.

Maybe someone’s college-aged son. That would be convenient but horrible and Moe would be faced with an on-the-spot notification and all the aftermath that would bring.

He’d never gotten used to notifications, figured he never would. Especially the face-to-faces. A lot easier, as cruel as it sounded, to call someone in Wisconsin or wherever.

He’d give beginning the canvass some time, let people wake up naturally.

A crypt van appeared. Gloria took a few more photos, emailed them to the coroner, and cleared the body for transport. Two stoic drivers zip-zipped the victim into a bag, not working hard to tote the flimsy weight. The clack of the gurney snapped open, assaulting the morning. Up, in, the van drove off. Down came the pop-up but Moe kept the uniforms there to help with the canvass.

He’d start at six thirty. Earlier if someone came out.

At six eighteen, someone did.



* * *



—

Old guy stepping out of a white, two-story Spanish house and standing on his front porch. Overgrown shrubs blocked what was probably a picture window. The neighbor was stooped, bald, wore an oversized gray terry bathrobe. Burgeoning sunlight touched on pale, hairless shins and the veined tops of feet in backless slippers.

The old guy looked around some more, moved forward and corralled a single uniform, said something and headed straight for Moe.

Making good time despite a stiff gait.

Facial expression of someone headed for the complaint desk.

Moe met him halfway. “Sir.”

“You’re the detective in charge.”

“I am, sir.”

“Name?”

Moe handed him a card. The old man looked at it but didn’t take it. “Mr. Reed, tell me what’s going on.”

“There was an incident—”

“Obviously.” Sour look. “Could you be a trice more specific?” Barking the request, then shrugging as if aiming for some sort of apology. The scowl that lingered on his face fought that.

Moe figured him for the guy who’d lived here forever, thought he owned the block.

Moe said, “A moving van hit someone.”

“Someone naked.”

Moe tried to hide his astonishment. “How did you find that out, Mr….”

The old guy smiled mirthlessly. “I’d give you my card but since I retired from the practice of management consulting longer ago than you’ve been around, I don’t need one.” He fingered his own chest. “I am Rainer Gibbs.” He spelled both names. “I’ve lived here for fifty-two years and this is the first time anyone has ever been struck down by a moving van or anything else. Given the nudity, should I be worried about ahem social change? Meaning teenage perverts running amok?”

“Mr. Gibbs, how did you hear the victim was—”

“Naked?” said Rainer Gibbs, savoring the word. “From your colleagues, Mr. Reed. Or should I say your subordinates—those forced to wear uniforms rank below you, correct? Whatever their status, they don’t modulate their voices. I was in my front room having my tea, heard the commotion, opened a window, and listened. A van, eh? There should be a law against those behemoths invading residential streets.”

Be kind of hard to move anywhere if that was the case. Moe said nothing.

Gibbs’s eyebrows danced. “In any event, one of your troops said a quote unquote naked d.b. was lying out in the street. I took ‘d.b.’ to mean ‘dead body.’ Am I correct?”

Wonderful.

Moe said, “You are, sir.”

“Then I might possibly have a—what do you people call it, a lead? Or a clue as it was known in my day?”

“Either way, Mr. Gibbs.”

“A clue, then. I might have one. Go take a look at that place.” Pointing north.

“One of your neighbors.”

“No, no, I don’t consider renters neighbors. They’ve got no stake in the game, no pride of ownership. The place is owned by a merry widow—that’s another story—who hasn’t lived here for years. She rents and for the past year or so has rented to her. And she doesn’t act respectfully.”

“She being?”

“No idea what her name is. I call her the strumpet. That’s probably a word you’re not familiar with. In any event, she’s got men—women, too, but mostly men—coming in and out. Different people, it’s not like she’s entertaining. That feels to me like a high-end brothel.”

Moe said, “Have you ever seen evidence of prostitution?”

“Hardly,” said Gibbs. “Would you have preferred me to peep through windows?”

“Not a good idea, sir.”

“Hmmph—in any event, Mr. Reed, I complained months ago to you people and was told there was nothing that could be done unless evident evidence of a crime surfaced. Now you’ve got your evident evidence. A naked person came to an unnatural end. Is that sufficient for you?”