“That’s right,” Soave agreed. “Informational.”
“Well, okay, then,” said Martine, apparently satisfied.
They sat around Des’s dining table. Major Crimes didn’t usually tape record informational interviews, although a signed, written statement might be asked for later. For now, Yolie produced a notepad and pen, and parked her rippling bare arms before her on the table as if she were getting ready to arm wrestle somebody.
From across the table, Esme watched her every move warily. The actress sat next to her mother, gripping her hand tightly.
Des had her own eyes on Soave, who took a sip of his coffee and then sat back with his hands clasped behind his head, which told her that Yolie was his inquisitor. Des sat back in her own chair, curious to see Boom Boom’s moves.
“How are you feeling today, Esme?” Yolie asked, raising her chin at her assertively. She was nervous around these women. Des could tell.
“Okay, I guess.”
“I understand you’ve been under a doctor’s care since Tito’s death. Are you presently under the influence of any medication?”
Esme shot a sidelong glance at her mother, then raised her own chin at Yolie. “Why?”
“Just answer the question, please,” Yolie said brusquely.
“No, this is the real me,” Esme responded, smiling faintly. “You know, I just love your scar.”
“You love my what?” Yolie said, fingering her cheek selfconsciously.
“It makes you look so gangsta.”
Now it was Yolie who was thrown. “Um, let’s try to stay on subject, okay? Esme, when did you get that lip injury?”
Esme lowered her eyes, coloring slightly. “The other night.”
“The night Tito died?”
“Yes.”
“Want to tell us how it happened?”
“Well, Tito had been out all evening. He was pissed at me, because I wanted him to go to the beach club with me and he wouldn’t.”
“Where did he spend his evening?”
“I don’t know,” Esme replied, twirling her blond hair around her finger.
“You have no idea where your husband was all evening?”
“That’s what I just said.”
Yolie narrowed her eyes at her across the table. “Was that typical?”
“I guess.”
“Well, where did you go?” she asked, growing a bit frustrated by Esme’s vagueness.
“Nowhere. I stayed home. They were running an I Dream of Jeannie marathon on TV Land. Do you like that show? It’s the one with the astronaut. I am so into it.”
“Were you with her, Mrs. Crockett?” Yolie asked Martine.
Martine shook her head in response.
“Was there anyone else in the house? A maid? Cook?”
“We don’t like to live like that,” Esme said, making it sound as if Tito were still around, still choosing how to live. “We have some daytime help is all.”
“A local widow does the shopping and cleaning,” Martine explained. “The realtor set it up.”
“Gotcha,” said Yolie, jotting down the information in her notepad. “So no one else was around?”
“Well, there was Chrissie,” Esme offered.
“Your publicist?”
“Former publicist,” Martine said.
“She was out in the guesthouse,” Esme revealed. “It’s over the garage. It has a separate entrance and everything.”
“Could she hear what went on in the main house?”
“I really don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”
“Okay, we will. How would you describe your husband’s mood that evening?”
“He was pissed at me. I just told you.”
“I’m speaking more generally now. Was he morose or depressed?”
Esme stared at her in astonishment. “He was Tito.”
Yolie stared right back at her. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning he told me all the time that James Dean had the right idea-live fast, die young, and leave a good- looking corpse. He always talked about doing himself in.”
“Did you think he meant it-or was he just styling?”
“Tito was never about styling,” Esme shot back defensively.
“What time did he come home that night?”
“Around midnight, I think.”
“What happened then?”
“He went straight to our bedroom and put on a pair of jeans instead of the swimming trunks he was wearing. Then he started rummaging around in his closet.”
“He was searching for something?”
“Maybe. I guess so.”
“Any idea what?”
“No, I have no idea.”
“Esme, did he keep a gun in the house?”
“No way. Tito hated guns.”
“Okay, what happened next?”
“He said he was going right back out again.”
“And what did you say to him in response?”
“That he should stay home with me. I got kind of pissed, and that’s when…” Esme trailed off, her bruised lower lip quivering.
“That’s when he hit you?” Yolie pressed her.
“Yes.”
“Did he strike you with his fist or his open hand?”
“With his fist.”
“He punched you, in other words.”
Esme nodded, Martine stiffening noticeably.
“Did he knock you down?”
“Yes.”
“Did you suffer any other injuries as a result?”
“Not really.”
“Were you angry?”
“I guess.”
“You guess you were angry that your husband punched you in the damned mouth? Come on, girl, stop fronting me.”
“Yes, I was angry.”
“And what did you do about it?”
“Nothing! He stormed out the door and I never saw him again- not alive, anyway.”
“You’ve got some bruises and scratches on your arms,” Yolie observed. “What’s up with those?”
“They’re from before,” Esme responded, glancing down at them. “He and I… we fought a few days ago.”
“So he had a habit of knocking you around, is that it?”
“I-I wouldn’t call it a habit.”
“What would you call it?”
“We fought, okay? That’s what two people do when they love each other. They fight. They care. That’s what
