Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

43

“He left first around nine,” Borden said, pouring Jesse a cup of coffee. “Then, like I told you before, Rod came back around eleven and left again.”

Jesse took a sip.

“Good coffee.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re sure of your times, Lyle?”

“Don’t sleep much since the wife died last year. That old woman used to make me nuts, but since she’s passed...” Lyle Borden shook his head. “Well, anyhoo, I’m sure of my facts, Chief. Old man like me don’t have much to fill out his hours, so he holds on to the little things he has.”

“Can you tell me anything else about last night? Did you see Wiethop come and go?”

Borden sat down across from Jesse and took a swallow of coffee. “No. Only heard him. That third apartment, the one over on the other side of the stairs, is vacant. Has been for going on two years. So after the sandwich shop downstairs closes, it’s just my renter and me moving around up here.”

“How long has Wiethop been—”

“Well, Chief, now wait a second,” Borden said, interrupting Jesse. “Maybe there was one thing.”

“One thing?”

“About last night that I noticed, come to think of it.”

“What’s that?”

“When Rod come back and left that second time—”

“At eleven.”

“That’s right, about eleven. He must have had a load on,” Borden said.

Jesse took another sip of his coffee. “You mean he was drunk?”

“Sure sounded that way to me. Real heavy footsteps on the stairs. Real deliberate. You know how you get when you’ve had too much?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He sounded like that, and when he got to the door, I could hear him fumbling a lot with his keys. Dropped ’em once or twice. Put the wrong key in the lock a few times. I haven’t tied one on like that for many years.” The old man smiled, his eyes unfocused.

“How long did Wiethop stay in his apartment before heading out again?”

“Five minutes. Maybe not even that long.” Borden made a whistling sound and snapped his fingers. “In and out, just like that.”

“And his car is gone?”

“Take a gander for yourself, Chief. If you look out my bedroom window to the right, you’ll see his spot in the alleyway is empty.”

“Would you know the make and model of Wiethop’s car?”

Borden laughed. “Rod must have had a sense of humor.”

“How’s that?”

“Don’t know the year, but his car is an old Ford Crown Victoria like all the police cars on the TV.”

“Color?”

Borden nodded. “White.”

When Jesse finished his coffee and stood to leave, Perkins knocked and came through.

“It’s all been photographed, bagged, and tagged, Jesse,” he said. “I’m going to run it to the station. The state forensic guys will be over here after they get done going over Wiethop’s cab.”

“I’ll meet you back at the station.”

Jesse shook Borden’s hand and left. When he got to the head of the stairs, he about-faced, dipped under the crime scene tape strewn across the threshold of Wiethop’s door, and stepped into the apartment. He stood there in the dingy front room trying to figure out what bothered him so much about finally making some progress.