Voices of the dead

Harry approached the Falcon from behind, and even from this angle he could see the damage. He walked up to it, stood next to it, looking inside the car. Everything on the left side from the front fender to the trunk was crushed, pushed halfway through the interior. Roof peeled back like a sardine can. Steering wheel bent out of position. Driver’s seat angled sideways against the front passenger seat. There were spots of dried blood on the seats and dash and passenger-side window.

Now he glanced at the black Mercedes parked next to it, twice the size of the Falcon, had to be two tons. Stepped over and looked at the front end crushed all the way to the dash, left wheel and tire trapped in the wreckage.

He opened the driver’s door. Except for blood on the sill and the bottom of the window the interior was untouched, intact. Harry could understand now how the diplomat had walked away. He looked on the floor and saw a cigarette next to the accelerator pedal. He reached and picked it up, a Marlboro burned about halfway. Ran his hand under the driver’s seat, felt a pack of matches. It had a black background with the red silhouette of a naked girl. He opened the cover and saw ‘Archibald’s Entertainment for Gentlemen’ with an address on Q Street. Under it, a note in blue ink said: “You want it, baby‚ I got it, Coco XOXO” and a phone number.

Harry walked around to the other side of the Mercedes, opened the front passenger door, sat on the black leather seat, and scanned the interior. Reached over and checked behind the visor on the driver’s side. Nothing. Checked behind the visor in front of him. There was a vanity mirror. Stared at the close-up of his face. He looked tired and needed a shave. There was a console between the seats and a compartment under the center armrest. He opened it and looked in. Empty. Checked the back seat. Spotless. Checked the glove box, took out a black leather folder, opened it. Car was registered to the Embassy of the Federal Republic of Germany, 4645 Reservoir Road NW, Washington DC, 20007.

Harry took a cab to Archibald’s, walked into the dark room, loud pulsing music, beams of light crisscrossing the interior like air-raid strobes. There was a naked girl on stage, spinning upside down on a silver pole. Other girls in various stages of undress were dancing tableside. Harry asked the bouncer if Coco was working and he pointed to a petite, light-skinned black girl giving a lap dance to a customer at a corner table.

The hostess, a fortyish brunette with fading looks, escorted him to a booth.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic, and will you send Coco over when she’s free?”

“Sure‚ hon,” she smiled. “No problem.”

His drink came, and when the song ended so did Coco.

“How you today, baby?” she said, sliding in the booth in a G-string, full of energy and personality. Afro accentuating high cheekbones and caramel skin, petite body making her seem younger than she was, girlish.

“My German friend told me to ask for you.”

“What German friend you talkin’ about?”

“He was in last night.”

She gave him a big friendly smile. “My man, Fritz.” Gave his arm a light squeeze. “What I call him. What’s his real name?”

“I can’t tell you,” Harry said. “It’s sensitive due to his-” He led her and she picked right up.

“Don’t have to say no more.” Coco touched his arm again. “Fritz okay?”

Harry said, “Yeah, I think so.” No idea what she was talking about.

“Thought he was hurt.”

“Why’s that?”

“Had blood all down his pants.”

“You saw it?”

“Felt it. Was all wet.”

“What happened?”

“Dint say. But when he leave I went to the ladies, washed my hands. Was red blood come off in the sink.”

4

Harry took a cab to the Four Seasons, checked in and called his office. It was 3:38 in the afternoon.

“Harry, where are you? People have been calling for you all day, including some detective from the Washington DC police,” Phyllis said. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry said. He didn’t want to get into it right now. “How about the guy from the IRS?”

“Haven’t heard a thing. Harry, you coming in today?”

“I’m not feeling well.” Which was not far from the truth.

“Can I do anything for you? Pick up some medicine?”

“I’ll be okay,” Harry said and hung up. Phyllis Wampler had worked for him for ten years. She was forty-two, never been married, lived in Ferndale with her dog, a little shorthaired, two-toned thing named Lily. Harry had stopped over one time to drop something off. He rang the bell, Phyllis opened the door with the dog in her arms.

“Lily, this is Harry, the man I work for,” she’d said in a baby-talk voice. “Look at her‚ Harry, she just had a baffer. That’s a pretty girl. She’s a good girl getting her baffer, all pretty girl now. Aren’t you?” The dog barked and she grinned. “Yes her is.”

Phyllis had dates periodically, but if the guy didn’t like Lily it was all over. Some people liked dogs more than people and Phyllis was one of them.

He took Detective Taggart’s card out of his shirt pocket and dialed the number, heard him identify himself.