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He started to say something, but stopped. Finally, he said, “I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.”
“What were Bruce and Tom working on, if it wasn’t the computer?”
Skip shrugged. “Beats me. They were secretive. Always holed up in the office. I couldn’t tell you what they were doing.”
“When you install a new system, there’s bound to be bugs. Maybe they were arguing over how well he did his job?”
“I guess anything’s possible, but I don’t think so. Far as I know, the computer was working fine. You could ask the assistant manager. She’d know more about that. All I know is, they’d go in that office and wouldn’t come out for an hour or more sometimes. Then, one day, Tom stopped showing up.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. I thought maybe he and Bruce were really on the outs or something, because they always hung together.”
Interesting, I thought. Maybe the spreadsheets meant something or maybe not. Maybe Schaeffer’s arguments with Garvey were over something that motivated him to commit murder. Or not. I had so little to go on, I couldn’t really draw any conclusions. “Was that the last time you saw Tom?”
“He came in once more. It was a few days before he died. He looked like a walking hangover. He hadn’t shaved and his hair was greasy. He had dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept for days.”
This squared with Melanie’s description of Tom when she went to see him for the last time.
“He and Bruce had a little powwow in the office,” Skip said. “A very quiet talk. I couldn’t hear anything.”
“You spend a lot of time by that door, don’t you?”
Skip smiled wanly. “It pays to know what’s going on around here.”
He tossed his cigarette butt away. It bounced off the curb in a brief spray of embers, before it died in the gutter.
“I should get back,” he said. “You might want to talk to the assistant manager. She’s covering the bar now.”
I gave him my card, asking him to call if he could think of anything else, and we walked inside. Walt nursed his drink, staring into space. The assistant manager was bending over to reach something behind the bar. When she popped back up, I recognized her—the woman with Bruce Schaeffer at the gym, the one with the scarred face.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
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“Thanks, Rhonda.” Skip ducked through an opening in the counter to get behind the bar again.
“No problem.” Rhonda didn’t see me until I stopped beside Walt. She did a double take, a look of vague recognition crossing her face.
“Kent’s Gym,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. You’re that lawyer, right?”
“Sam McRae. And your name?”
“Rhonda Jacobi.”
“Right, I remember now. Got a minute?”
“Sure. Let’s go to the office.”
“Just a sec. Hey, Walt.” I spoke close to his ear, so he’d hear me above the din without my shouting. “You don’t have to wait if you don’t want to.”
He eyed me. “You really don’t mind if I go?”
“Nah. I’ll be fine.”
“OK, if you’re sure. Overpriced and underboozed drinks. And Blaze Starr, these dancers are not.”
