“How did you feel about her modeling at the art academy?”
Chuckie made a face. “If she wanted to show off her body to a lot of old ladies and fags, that was her business.”
“Okay, let’s talk about last night,” Des said. “You told me you saw her car leave the house about nine, then come back again a half hour later, right?”
“Right…”
“Then you saw her load up her car and clear out again, this time for good. Mr. Gilliam, are you absolutely sure that’s what you saw?”
Chuckie took a long time draining his beer before he said, “Lady, why are you climbing me?”
“Believe me, I’m not. I’m just thinking about something I learned myself at the art academy-it’s not strictly old ladies and gays, by the way. They get all kinds. And one thing they tell you is to draw what you see as opposed to what you know. Did you really see what you saw? Or do you just know you did? Are you with me?”
“Not even close,” he said, running a hand through his thinning hair.
“How good a look did you get at her? Try to be as specific as possible. Believe me, it’ll be worth your while-if you can help me, I’m in a position to help you.”
“Uh-huh, I get it now,” Chuckie said sourly. “If I don’t help you, you’ll be all over me for every little thing, right? My taillight’s out on my pickup. My dog’s disturbing the neighbors. Sure, I know how it goes. Well, let me tell you something, lady. I don’t got no dog!”
“And that’s not how I go about my business.”
“Bullshit,” he shot back. “You got the law on your side and I got nothing.”
“Here’s the deal, straight up,” Des said evenly. “If you help me I can tell the big bad lieutenant to steer his investigation right around Chuckie Gilliam. Chuckie Gilliam is a cooperative, fully rehabilitated citizen who did everything he could to be of assistance. If you don’t, given your record chances are excellent he’ll be stuffing your frame in a cruiser and taking you up to Meriden. Days and nights will go by. Sandy will have to come get you, if she still wants you. And there won’t be a single thing I can do to help you. Now let’s try it one more time, shall we? Tell me what you saw.”
“Okay, okay,” he said hotly. “What I saw was Melanie getting out of her car and running inside.”
“Describe her.”
“Well, she was kind of hunched over. And she was wearing this big red ski parka like I seen Melanie wear a million times. It has a hood that’s lined with coyote fur or something.”
Des nodded. Melanie was not wearing a coat when she washed up. “Okay, good,” she said encouragingly. “Did she have her hood up?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“And so you assumed it was Melanie. Anyone would, right?”
Chuckie frowned at her, perplexed. “Huh?”
“Think about this for a second: Is it possible that the person who you saw wasn’t her?”
“You’re saying, like, what if some other woman was driving her car and wearing her jacket?”
“Yes.”
“I guess it’s possible,” Chuckie admitted.
“And is it possible it wasn’t even a woman at all?”
“What?”
“You saw a hunched-over figure in a big, hooded jacket. You and I both know that Melanie was a good-sized girl, solidly built. This street’s dimly lit. You were standing all the way over here. So I’m asking you: Is it possible that the person you saw was a man? Think hard, please. It’s important.”
“I guess…” he allowed. “But why would someone do that?”
“To make it look like Melanie was skipping town, when in reality she was already dead. I think you saw her killer, Mr. Gilliam. The hooded parka was strictly in case a neighbor such as yourself might be watching.” And it might have played, too, if Melanie’s body hadn’t washed up so soon. That couldn’t have been part of the plan. A mistake. Had to be. Des lingered there on the porch, sensing that Chuckie was still holding on to something. He had a semi-foxy look on his mega-dumb face. “You told me that Melanie had no man in her life lately,” she mentioned, taking a stab.
“That I know of,” he acknowledged, scratching at his beard. “None dropped by is all I know.”
“Did anyone else drop by?”
“Like who?”
Des raised her chin at him. “Like anyone else.”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, she did get visits from Greta Patterson. Melanie used to do clerical work for her over at the gallery.”
“You mean before she went to work for Superintendent Falconer?”
“Yeah, three, four years back. I recognized Greta on account of I’ve done work for her myself on her house- siding, sill work.”
“How often?”
“How often have I worked for her?”
“How often did she stop by to see Melanie?”
“Pretty often,” Chuckie admitted.
“What, once a week?”
“Twice a week, maybe.”
Des took off her big hat and stood there twirling it in her fingers. “You say Melanie used to work for Greta. Is that all she was to her?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered sharply.
“Yes, you do.” Des stared at him intently. “You know exactly what I mean.”
He looked away, swallowing. “Okay, maybe I do. But I don’t know the answer.”
“You didn’t wonder?”
Chuckie heaved a pained sigh and said, “Sure, I did. I wonder about a lot of stuff, lady. That don’t mean I get it.”
“Now you’re living on my side of the street.” She put her hat back on, flashing a smile at him. “Don’t take it so hard, Mr. Gilliam. We’re not supposed to know all the answers. In fact, we’re lucky if we even figure out what the questions are. Please be sure to tell Sandy that I said good night, will you?”
There were lights on inside the Patterson Gallery. And when Des slowed up her cruiser out front she could see Greta seated in there at her oak partner’s desk, pecking away at a computer in the soft glow cast by her desk lamp’s old-fashioned green glass shade.
Des got out and rapped her knuckles on the glass front door. Greta squinted at her over her reading glasses, then waved and came over to let her in.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” Des said, as Greta unlocked the door.
“Not at all, trooper,” she said cheerfully. “I was just trying to catch up on some of my gallery work. I’m afraid that Wendell has hogged most of my time lately. First he had me handling some estate-related matters. Then I had to find a criminal attorney for Jim Bolan. Do have a seat,” she said, filing the work she had on her computer screen.
Des sat in the wooden chair next to Greta’s desk, crossing her long legs. “This estate work you were doing-it wouldn’t have any bearing on Moose’s death, would it?”
“You know I can’t talk about that,” Greta responded with a grin.
“Never hurts to ask,” Des said easily. “What can you talk to me about?”
Greta sat back in her swivel chair, studying her. “Try me.”
“How about Melanie Zide?”
She let out a harsh laugh. “What about that little cow?”
“Somebody shot her. Her body just washed up on Big Sister.”
Greta froze for a second, stunned. Then her squarish, blotchy face seemed to scrunch inward upon itself, like a beer can being crushed in a strongman’s fist.
Des had wondered if she’d get a reaction. She got one. She got pain. Definitely pain. “I’m told that Melanie used to do clerical work for you.”
