“Why didn’t she change before you got here?”
“Good question, sir. Maybe she was shook up- she actually looked pretty shook up.”
“Despite being streetwise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone else live with her?”
“No, sir. It’s her place- she owns the whole building. Upstairs is rented to an artist, but she says he’s in Europe.”
“Hooker as landlady,” said Milo. “The high-priced spread. Blood wouldn’t be routine for her the way it would for a street gal. Okay, I can see her shook up. What else?”
“We Mirandized her like I said, called you, then called in for assistance in order to be able to secure the crime scene like you instructed. We used a restricted band to keep it quiet, no mention of d.b. one’s identity. Eight-L Five-Code-Sixed us- that’s Martinez and Pelletier. Pelletier’s in there with her now- we figured a woman might keep her calmer, no allegations of sexual stuff, maybe even get something out of her information-wise. But we agreed no one would pump her until you got here. Eight-Oh-Twenty-three got here just a few minutes after- that’s who you saw blocking the street.”
“Any indication she was more than the P.R.?”
“No, sir, nothing obvious.”
“Any intuition on that?”
“Intuition?” Burdette chewed on the word. “Well, sir, she did call it in right away- bodies were still warm when we got here. So if she’s the shooter she’s not a very bright one. We didn’t see any gun in the house but we haven’t really searched. I guess anything’s possible.”
“What’s her demeanor?”
“I’d call it upset, sir. Pretty scared. Not shifty or… guilty, if that’s what you mean.”
“You did good,” said Milo. “Techs and coroners?”
“On their way.”
“Okay, let’s take a look back there.”
Burdette glanced at me again.
Milo said, “This is Dr. Delaware. He’s a psychologist consulting to the Department- the schoolyard sniping. We were having a meeting on that when your call came in- that’s his Caddy out in front. Have someone move it to a less conspicuous spot, okay?” To me: “Give him your keys, Doc. You come with me.”
I handed the keys to Burdette. He said, “Just straight past the car and through the driveway. We taped off a radius.”
“Gimme your flashlight,” said Milo.
Burdette gave it to him and left, swinging my key ring.
We walked under the porte-cochere and into the backyard, which was small and square and backed by a flat- roofed double garage with old-fashioned wooden hinge doors. Most of the ground area had been paved with concrete. A narrow strip of lawn on the north side sported a peach tree and a T-shaped metal pole designed to hold a clothesline. There was no outdoor lighting, but light from a shaded rear window and a floodlight on the roof of the duplex next door combined to pour a tallowy wash over the southern part of the property. Some of the light flowed onto a late-model Chrysler New Yorker.
Next to the car were two bodies lying belly down, limbs splayed, heads twisted to the side. A tape line had been run around them. They’d fallen close together on the concrete- perhaps two feet separated them. Their legs overlapped, creating a human V, and had the loose but contorted posture unique to pre-rigor corpses and rag dolls. Both were dressed in suits- one gray, one that appeared tan in the night light. The left trouser-leg of the one in tan had ridden up, revealing a thick white slab of hairless calf that shone like polished ivory. Rorschach splotches extended from both heads.
Keeping his distance, Milo swept the flashlight over the yard, focused it on the faces.
“Him, all right. Puffy from hemorrhaging- bullet probably danced around in there. Looks like an entry back here, top of the neck. Straight to the medulla oblongata. It was probably fast. Same shot on number two, a little higher, also clean. Someone came from there, back of the car, side of the garage, caught ’em by surprise and bang bang. Close range, looks very pro. Hey, Alex, look at this. This who I think it is?”
His beam had rested on the face of the tan-suited body. Corpulent, white bearded, suety cheeks compressed against the cement. Santa Claus with glassy, sightless eyes under swollen lids.
“Dobbs,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “you figured they had some kind of extraprofessional relationship. Now we have an idea what it was.”
He retracted the flashlight, shook his head. “Talk about your house calls.”
Maintaining his distance, Milo diagrammed, took notes, measured, searched for footprints and thought he saw some on the other side of the Chrysler, near the northern corner of the garage.
“Wet grass there,” he said. “And dirt. Low fence to the neighbor’s yard. Easy escape route. We might be able to get a cast.”
“Good hiding spot, too,” I said.
He nodded. “Like a goddam duck blind. The light from next door doesn’t carry this far. They walk out to the car, feeling nice and mellow. Pop pop.”
He continued examining the yard. The coroner, ambulance, and crime-scene van showed up within seconds of one another, and the area was engulfed in frantic activity. I retreated to the porte-cochere and waited as Milo gave orders, asked questions, pointed, and scribbled.
When he finally walked away from the action, I stepped out.
He looked at me as if he’d forgotten I was there.
“Getting plainclothes out to both their offices, make sure this isn’t related to some kind of Watergate situation. I’ve gotta talk to Ms. Nuveen. Why don’t you go home? I’ll catch a ride to your place.”
I said, “The press will be showing up soon. Don’t you think I’d be less obtrusive if I stayed with you?”
“If you leave right now you’ll be real unobtrusive.”
I said, “Promise to behave good, Mr. Policeman.”
He hesitated. “All right, come with me. And as long as you’re there, keep your eyes open and make yourself useful.”
The living room had maroon-lacquered walls and cream-colored marbleized molding, a dark-beamed vaulted ceiling, and a thermostat set at eighty. The decor was African safari transposed upon someone’s idea of a Paris salon: zebra and tiger skins layered over high-gloss herringbone hardwood, elephant-leg occasional table, lots of cut crystal, porcelain, and cloisonne, overstuffed chairs upholstered in a black-and-maroon floral chintz, a pair of carved ivory tusks sharing space on the quasi-quatorze coffee table with a stack of art books, art nouveau lamps with beaded shades, heavy brocade drapes with gold hems tied back from black wooden shutters, a green marble mantel bearing a collection of millefleurs and linenfold paperweights, and everywhere the smell of musk.
She sat in one of the chairs, looking younger than indicated by her driver’s license birthdate- late twenties would have been my guess. Her skin was the color of mocha ice cream, her eye shadow iridescent peacock-blue. The eyes below them were wide-set and active. She had long slim brown legs, narrow feet ending in pearly-pink toenails, full lips glossed a soft pink, a tight jaw, and straightened hair the color of red clay that hung past her shoulder blades. Her kimono was royal-purple Thai silk patterned with jade-green dragons, buttonless and very short, held together with a green sash. No matter how many times she tightened the sash, the robe kept coming loose and revealing a healthy mocha chest. She crossed and uncrossed her legs a lot, smoked an ultra-king-size Sherman tinted to match the robe, and fought to keep from trembling.
“Okay, Cheri,” said Milo, handing her a
