WAGER’S FIRST CALL after he got off work the next morning, Friday, was to the Famous Faces Modeling School. The moist, hot voice said it would be very happy to help with the two things he asked about: yes, the school’s photographer was Les Tanaka. “His number is 794-5541! and our records don’t list Tommie Lee as working for us at any time on the nineteenth, Detective Wager!”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome!”
He felt like swabbing his ear with a towel. The Tanaka number rang eight times before an entirely different voice answered, “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Les Tanaka?” He wondered why so many Japanese-Americans gave their children names that began with L’s or R’s.
“It is,” said the mild, deliberate voice.
“I’m Detective Wager investigating the death of Tommie Lee. Can I come over and talk with you?”
“Certainly. Do you know my address?”
Wager didn’t; the mild voice gave him a number on West Alamo in distant Littleton. It took almost an hour to make the drive south through heavy traffic and strings of lights that turned red as he approached each one, and he hoped it wasn’t going to be one of those days.
The building on the corner was a remodeled gas station. Concrete aprons led from both streets, and in place of gas pumps, the service islands held large clay flowerpots filled with frost-killed petunias. The outside doors to the automobile bays were walled up with concrete block and whitewashed over, but except for removing the cash register and racks for oil cans, little had been done to the small office with its large windows and single concrete step. The room was empty. “Mr. Tanaka?”
“In here, please.” The voice came through a door leading to the bays. Wager looked in to see the slight figure of a young man twisting the collar of a light stand. In the glare of some twenty bulbs and cushioned starkly against a sloping background of white cardboard sat a jar of green olives.
Wager showed his badge. “You’re doing an advertising picture?”
“Yes. The client’s Ollie the Olive. I think I’ll call it ‘Ollie’s Story.’“
Wager could not tell if the shorter man’s black eyes smiled or not. “Is this your usual type of job?”
“No—this one pays money.” He screwed the surprisingly small camera onto its tripod and peered down into the square viewfinder. “Let me finish this series.” Giving the aperture a gentle turn, he pressed the cable trigger, then cranked the film forward and peered again. Wager counted six pictures. “O.K., I think Ollie’s happy now.” He turned off the hot lights that had flooded the windowless room. “It’s very difficult to make an olive say ‘cheese.’”
“Is it easier with live models?”
“Rarely. As a matter of fact, I think I prefer the olive.”
“But you do the photography work for the Famous Faces Modeling School?”
“That’s why I prefer the olive.” He led Wager back into the office and gestured at a chair. “What may I help you with?”
Wager wasn’t exactly sure. He had the same feeling last night when he was talking to Cindy: something was there, just out of sight, but he had no idea what it was or in what direction it lay. Still, a man couldn’t catch fish without casting lines; he showed the picture to Tanaka. “Have you seen this woman before?”
Like Kramer, this photographer glanced at the back of the paper before studying the smiling girl. “Sure. It’s Tommie Lee. I heard she had gone over to the enemy.”
“Bennett?”
“Yes. He can’t stand the Famous Faces School—and vice versa.”
“Do you get along with him?”
“Oh, business could be better, but it’s not worth fighting over. Besides, Phil’s not a bad photographer. This isn’t a bad shot. Well, not too bad.”
“Does much of your work come from Famous Faces?”
“More work than money.”
“Don’t they pay their bills?”
“Sure—who couldn’t pay what they offer? But for the work I do, it’s not enough.” He reached into a steel filing cabinet and pulled out two canisters of film. “Here’s one girl’s day—forty shots. That should take”—he shrugged—“two hours, maybe. With the sweet young things of Famous Faces, it’s an all-day labor.”
“Why don’t you do something else?”
“Half a loaf, and all that; the girls pay fair prices, but I have to kick back 50 percent to Famous Faces. Still, I don’t know what I’m complaining about. If I wasn’t doing that, I probably wouldn’t be doing anything. The world has only so many olives. Which Jeri, bless her heart, knows.”
Wager glanced out a large window at the surrounding neighborhood, one that long ago changed halfway from single-family homes to the neighborhood’s commercial block before the money ran somewhere else. “It’s kind of a long way for the models to come, isn’t it?”
“Low overhead. I underbid the competition. I even underbid myself. But when I get rich, friend, then you’ll see a real studio.”
“When did you do the pictures for Miss Crowell—Tommie Lee?”
He scooted his chair on squealing casters across the concrete to a small shelf of ledgers, “In”—his fingers ran up one page and down another—”April of this year. The twelfth through the fifteenth.”
“It took a whole week?”
“Four days—Monday through Thursday.”
“Do they all take that much time?”
“The school tuition pays for two days—the first is a dry run, then one day of real shooting. Black-and-white only. The third day’s optional: some color work as well as more black-and-white, offered at reduced rates for students of Famous Faces only. Almost all of the girls want the option; Jeri talks them into it. For half.” One dark eye winked at Wager. “And to tell you the truth, I don’t hurry the girls through. I have more time than I do film.”
“Why the extra day for Tommie Lee?”
“She didn’t like the ones we did Tuesday and Wednesday. And I can’t blame her. They were as lousy as anyone else’s.”
“Couldn’t she pose in front of a camera?”
“Not as poorly as some, but not very well. Even she saw that. That was one thing about her.”
“What was?”
“She did have a good eye—even for herself, which is one of the hardest things for a would-be model to learn. Most of the people when they see themselves think the picture’s great. It can be god-awful, but if they recognize their own face, it’s great art. If people weren’t like that, Famous Faces would be out of business. And I’d be a tax burden.”
“So you gave her an extra day’s work?”
“Gave? She paid for it, friend. Cash.” He put the ledger back. “But don’t tell that to Jeri, will you? If one of the girls wants extra shots, I knock off 10 percent and tell her to keep quiet about it—what Jeri doesn’t know about, she doesn’t collect on. But if she ever does find out, there’ll be no more gohan for old Tanaka-san.”
“Gohan?”
“Japanese for ‘rice.’”
“Why did Tommie Lee switch over to Bennett?”
“I told her to. Well, I told her to try another photog. She didn’t like any of the shots, and she wouldn’t believe that it wasn’t the camera. It’s my business to make cameras lie, but I can only do so much.”
“Do you tell a lot of the students to try someone else?”
“Hell, no! Fortunately, I don’t have to; most of them are happy with what they see because they see pretty pictures of themselves.”
“But you told Miss Lee?”
“Some models do come out better for different photogs, and Tommie was very serious about this modeling crap. More so than most of the ones I’ve seen. So I suggested that perhaps she could do better work for another person.”
“And you mentioned Bennett?”
“Among others. I don’t know why she picked him. Perhaps because he’s at the head of the alphabet. I wonder if I should change my name to Akido?”
“Did she do any better for him?”
“There’s your answer.” He pointed to the photograph Wager held. “She’s pretty, she’s smiling, she’s boring. A model’s got to do better than that. The best really come alive in a picture.”
“The photographer can’t do that for them?”
“Perhaps—if they have the time and patience. But I don’t think there’s a photographer in Denver who’s that good, including me. No, it saves a lot of time and expense if the model’s got it to start with. Then anyone can work with her. That’s why the top models make so much.”
Wager remembered someone else talking about the special vitality that was missing from Crowell’s pictures: Pitkin. Who, in his own way, was something of a photographer. “Did she ever tell you about any of her friends or acquaintances?”
“No. Models aren’t paid to talk. Not in front of a still camera, anyway, and except for the video-tape rushes that I don’t handle, Famous Faces didn’t offer much training in motion work.” He paused. “Perhaps that’s why she went to Bennett—he does audio stuff as well as still and motion photography. If she was interested in voice-overs and motion, Bennett would have all the equipment in one studio.”
“Did you ever see her after she went to him?”
“No.”
“Did you talk to him about her?”
“I try not to talk to him about anything. Frankly, I don’t like the guy.”
“Why?”
Tanaka smiled. “He refers to me as ‘the inscrutable unscrupulous.’”
“What do you call him?”
“Ah, that’s very good—and you’re right: I’ve responded to an epithet with an epithet. In my mind, he’s ‘the aperture man.’”
“Aperture man?”
“He’s always trying to adjust his models’ apertures.”
“Doesn’t messing around like that hurt business?”
Tanaka looked puzzled. “What does that have to do with business unless someone gets raped? This is the exciting world of low fashion, and a lot of the girls like to feel excited. They think it’s the fashion. And Bennett’s one of those low ones who develops more than film in his darkroom.”
“Did he have something going with Tommie Lee?”
“I don’t know, but it’s possible. I hear that every woman he meets receives a standing offer.”
“Do you know any of Bennett’s friends?”
“He has mistresses and ex-mistresses. I’ve never met anyone who was his friend.”
“Why?”
“In this racket everyone uses everyone else, but Bennett’s a little worse than most. He uses people in a way that leaves them feeling … insulted.”
“Can you give me the name of an ex-mistress?”
“Perhaps.” Tanaka squeaked back across the floor and thumbed the pages of one of the ledgers. “You might talk with Ginger Eaton—I hope that’s a professional name—her number’s 761-0574.”
“Can I use your phone?”
“Why not? No one else wants to.”
Ginger Eaton was waiting when he pressed the doorbell at the condominium on South Washington Avenue. “I saw you drive up.” She reminded Wager of Julie—she had the same easy movement when she walked, the same self-assurance in her gaze. And though she was a little shorter and heavier than the blond woman, Miss Eaton seemed a few years younger. “I never met Tommie—I only read about it in the paper yesterday, so I don’t know what I can tell you.”
“I was more interested in hearing about High Country Profiles.”
“Oh? Why?”
“She had some pictures made there before she was killed. I’m trying to find out all I can about everything she did. Maybe something will turn up somewhere.”
Miss Eaton led him to an overstuffed couch and sat on one end of it. “Well, ask away.”
He sat at the other end. “I understand you had some work done there?”
“Yes. I certainly did.”
“Was that with Mr. Bennett?”
“Yes to that, too.”
“Is he a good photographer?”
The voice had a more decided tone this time: “One of the best in town.”
“Has he been real successful in training models for better jobs?”
The woman tugged a cigarette from a round canister made to look like a small Coor’s beer can and tapped it on the coffee table. “Who gave you my name?”
“Les Tanaka.”
She lit it and looked at Wager through the thin smoke. “Why?”
“He said you had been friendly with Bennett.”
“I see. Good old Les; he tries so hard to be casual.” There was no ash yet on the tobacco, but she dragged it across the small ashtray. “Phil and I screwed, Detective Wager, but we weren’t friends. Not for very long, anyway.”
“I’d like to hear more about it.”
“Again: why?”
“He may have been screwing Tommie Lee. It might tell me something about her.”
“I’m sure he was—or at least tried to.” Another deep pull on the cigarette. “Do you think it might tell you whether or not she was a whore? She was a model, so she might as well be a whore, is that it?”
“No. But it might tell me who killed her.”
“Do you mean Phil?”
“I don’t mean anybody right now. I’m just trying to learn what I can about Rebecca Crowell and everybody she knew.”
“Crowell—that was her real name, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.” Another drag and she stubbed out the long butt. “All right. I’ll be a good citizen—Phil Bennett is a son of a bitch. If that’s what Les wanted you to hear, he sent you to the right person.”
“Why should Les want that?”
“Because he was losing business—and other things—to Phil.”
“A lot?”
“From what Phil told me, he was taking away about half of Les’s customers.”
“When was this?”
“A year ago. A year last week.”
“That’s when you went to Bennett? Were you with Tanaka before that?”
“Yes.”
He wasn’t quite sure how to get to the next point, and Miss Eaton offered no help; she sat on the couch with one leg folded beneath her and waited with the kind of blank expression that, Wager thought, gynecologists must recognize. “Did Bennett help you with your work?”
“Yes. I’ll have to say he did. He is a good photographer.”
“What makes him so good?”
She gazed across the compact living room with the serving counter between it and the kitchen, the sloping ceiling of the stairway, the tiny electric fireplace set down in what Wager thought was called a “conversation pit” but which looked more like a shallow foxhole. “I guess it was the way he could bring things out of you. Most of the time, you’re over here, the camera’s over there, and it’s a real struggle to force yourself into that lens. With Phil, you know the camera’s there … but he makes it welcome you. I guess that’s not too clear. I’m sorry.”
“What’s he do that’s different from, say, Tanaka?”
“Les’s sessions are more … poised, cool. He makes you feel like one of those very still Chinese statues, and then he does a lot with the lights. Phil is just the opposite. He moves, he talks, he sings to you. You just feel … high. You feel like you’re unfolding, opening up.” The intensity faded from her voice. “It’s a little like falling in love,” she said flatly.
“Is that how it happened?”
“It?” Her lips twisted and she reached for another cigarette. “Yes, Detective Wager, ‘it’ happened that way.”
“What went wrong?” He held the lighter for her.
“I unfolded. He pretended to. I suppose you could say he was like his own little camera—take, take, take. Except that when he was through, he laughed.”
“Laughed?”
“It was as if all along he had been playing a trick—trying to see how much he could make a woman—me—care for him. How many things she would do for him.” Her mouth smiled prettily. “Would you like to hear the particulars?”
“No.”
She looked away again. “Anyway, he has his methods of degrading a woman. Emotionally, I mean. It’s as if he wants to see how far he can stretch those emotions before they break, as if he wants to make you know he can do anything with you. And he never stopped twisting and pulling.”
“Has he done this to a lot of people?”
“As far as I’m concerned, one too many.” Again the long butt was snuffed out. “If he did it to this Tommie Lee, I feel sorry for her.”
“Did Les Tanaka have anything going with Tommie Lee before she went to Bennett?”
“I don’t think so. If he did, it couldn’t have been much.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He still likes me. Good old Les.”
Wager closed his notebook and stood. “Thanks for your help, Miss Eaton. I’m sorry I had to ask some of those questions.”
Her voice was only half-mocking: “An old-fashioned gentleman!”
“My Hispano heritage,” he said, and paused at the door. “Did Bennett’s portfolio work help you get better jobs?”
“Not exactly. But I manage to make ends meet.” She leaned against the half-closed door. “I still do some modeling, Detective Wager.” And that was all she would say.