Endangered Species by Rex Burns Read Free Book Online Page A

“That’s my guess. Fullerton didn’t know anything more.”
    “It fits with what Salazar told us.” He finished the sandwich. “So you want to go by the church?”
    “Maybe we’ll find somebody to talk to.”
    Maybe; maybe not. More likely, they’d end up wasting time. But if anybody was going to talk, it would be not to Max but to Wager, who, even if he was a cop, at least looked Hispanic.
    Wager had two messages waiting at the office when he got back. The first, from the arson investigator, was terse officialese: “Traces of accelerant and origin of fire indicate arson.” The second was from McClinton: “The telephone number in question does not belong to the subject under inquiry. No listed or unlisted number in that exchange area is subscribed to by the subject or subjects under inquiry.” Wager took that to mean no on both counts: no number, no Elizabeth or John Marshall. He tried the morgue again, and the secretary, with excessive politeness, assured Wager that she would call him as soon as the final report was ready. She really would.
    Then he called the forensics office to alert Archy Douglas. “Last night’s fire, Archy—it’s an arson. And as far as Doc Hefley’s gotten, it looks like the victim could have been dead before the fire started.”
    “That’s definite?”
    “The arson is. I just heard from the investigator’s office. Doc’s still working, but the victim’s not a man. It’s a woman.” He added, “The doc’ll need copies of Lincoln’s crime-scene photographs.”
    “I already sent them over.” Wager heard that tiny whistle that Archy gave when he was thinking. “OK, the place is still sealed; I’ll get over there. Thanks—I think.”
    Forensics didn’t want to waste a lot of time on a scene if a crime hadn’t been committed. But that reluctance had to be balanced against the need for speed if the death was a definite homicide. Wager guessed that Archy would spend the rest of the afternoon charting and measuring the room and the closet where the body had been found, and while that was going on, there wasn’t much Wager could do at the scene except get in the way.
    He scanned down the federal government listings in the telephone book for the postal station nearest the Wyandot Street address. The woman who answered his call said the carrier for that route was Alfred Morris and he should be back at the station by four-thirty. She would be happy to tell him Wager wanted to talk with him. That gave Wager time to catch up with the afternoon’s paperwork and just beat the evening rush across town to the Highland Park Station.
    There was no change-of-address card for a John Marshall at the Wyandot address. That didn’t surprise Wager. What did surprise him was that the route carrier remembered the man.
    “Yeah—I saw that this morning. A bad fire.” The mailman was about Wager’s height but thick around the middle. A fringe of whiskers about as long as the bristles on a toothbrush, and just about as wide, ran from ear to ear along his jaw. It merged with the stiff hair of his sideburns and head to frame a round, pockmarked face with a sharp, triangular nose. It was a dumb-looking beard, and Wager tried his best to ignore it. “Anybody get hurt?”
    “We found a body. I’m trying to identify it. Maybe you can help.” Morris nodded, and Wager asked the mailman if he could describe the people who lived there.
    He thought for a moment. “Sure. Guy named Marshall. I remember because it’s not a Mexican name, you know?” He glanced at Wager and smiled widely. “Most of the customers in that neighborhood are of Mexican descent, you know?”
    Wager nodded.
    “You get used to the Spanish names, so that’s how I remember. He just moved in a couple weeks ago.” Morris scratched at an inch or two of the line of whiskers. “The Florios lived there for a long time—years. Then came the”—he searched his memory—“the Colimas. They had it about a year. Then it was up for