Fever(62)
I barked a hello, and a woman’s voice said, “This is Deanne Goldman. Mitch Krochek’s friend?” She made the last a question, the way some people do when talking to strangers.
“Yes, Ms. Goldman.”
“Mitch had to leave this morning before seven—an emergency at one of his job sites—and he didn’t want to bother you so early. So he asked me to call and let you know he won’t be available all day.”
“When will he be available?”
“He didn’t know. Probably not until sometime this evening.”
“Ask him to call me when he gets in,” I said. While she was saying she would, I had a thought. “Would it be possible for you to meet with me today? For a few minutes on your lunch hour, say?”
“… Why?”
“A few questions I’d like to ask you.”
“About what? I don’t know anything about Mitch’s wife.”
“I’m sure you don’t. Just some general questions.”
“Well … I suppose it’d be all right.”
“Suggest a time and a place that would be convenient.”
It took her a few seconds. “There’s Heinold’s at the foot of Webster Street. Do you know it?”
“I’ve been there, yes.”
“I’ll try to be at one of the outside tables.”
“What time?”
“Noon?”
“Fine,” I said. “How will I know you?”
She described herself. I told her what to expect in return.
When I got to the agency I filled Tamara in on what had gone down with Phil Partain. “So now we’ve got the beating cleared up, but I can’t see Partain as the person responsible for the disappearance. Two separate events.”
“Who, then? Lassiter’s out, QCL’s out, Partain’s out. One of her gambling friends? Somebody else she owed money to?”
“Possibilities, both. There’s another, too: Mitchell Krochek.”
“You think?” she said. “Why would he call you if he’s responsible?”
“Smoke screen. Make himself look innocent if the law steps in.”
“That’d mean he killed her and did something with the body.”
“If he did kill her,” I said, “chances are it was an accident—end product of a fight. He’s not the premeditated type.”
“Not the violent type, either, according to his BG.”
“You don’t have to be the violent type to lose control in a screaming argument. His wife gave him plenty of provocation and he’s been on the ragged edge. Still… What’s his first wife’s name again?”
“Let me check the file.” I went into her office with her while she brought it up on her computer. “Right—Mary Ellen Layne.”
“What have you got on her?”
“Let’s see. Not too much—I didn’t go very deep. Remarried, one daughter. Lives in San Bruno, works here in the city—”
“Where?”
“Tarbell Jewelers, on Post.”
Ten minutes from South Park. I said, “I think I’ll pay her a visit, see if she feels like talking about her ex-husband.”
Tarbell Jewelers opened at ten o’clock. The address was half a block off union Square, which meant street parking was impossible; I left my car in the Square’s underground garage and walked over to Post through a thin, misty overcast. It was five past ten when I got there. The two employees, one male, one female, gave me those bright-and-hopeful, early-morning looks that disappear when they find out you’re not the first customer of the day after all.
The woman was Mary Ellen Layne. Krochek’s age, conservatively dressed as befitted the surroundings—Tarbell’s was one of the more exclusive downtown jewelry stores—and a general body double for Janice Krochek. Mitch evidently liked his women slender, brunette, high-cheekboned, small-breasted. Her professional smile evaporated when I showed her the photocopy of my license and asked if she’d mind answering a few questions about her ex.
“Why?” She said it softly, with a glance across at where the male employee was polishing the glass top of a display counter. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention. “Are you investigating Mitch for some reason?”
“Not specifically, no. He’s involved in a case I’m working on.” Little white lie to maintain confidentiality and forestall a lot of questions and explanations.
The shape of her mouth turned wry and bitter. She leaned forward and said even more softly, “It has to do with a woman, I’ll bet.”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“And not his wife. If he’s still married to number two.”