“Sit,” Theodore said, and then he called, “Sylvie.”
On cue a woman entered through a small doorway. She was taller than the cobbler but by no means tall. She had white skin, white hair, blue eyes, and wore a dress that was four shades of gray. She was thin, happy to see us, and wordless.
“Mr. Rawlins,” Theodore said, introducing me.
Her mouth moved and she smiled but no words were spoken or necessary. She touched my hand and nodded.
“Pleased to meet you,” I whispered in return.
“You know Musa,” Theodore continued.
Sylvie smiled for the landlord but it was a bit chillier than my greeting.
“Can I get you anything?” Theodore asked us. “Tea, schnapps?”
“Just let us talk for a few minutes,” I said. “Then we can get outta your hair.”
When Sylvie turned to leave I felt that she was dancing to some music I couldn’t hear.
“I’ll be right through that door if you need me,” Theodore said. “Just call.”
He went with his wife: the hard-working dwarf following his elfin dream.
“THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME back at the office, Mr. Rawlins,” Musa said. “I don’t think he would have really hurt me but you didn’t know that.”
“Imagine how many people come up to the Pearly Gates,” I replied, “shaking there heads and sayin’, ‘I never thought he’d really do it.’”
Musa smiled and we moved to the coffee table.
I sat first and the maybe–Middle Eastern man sat directly across from me. He leaned back in his chair and concentrated on his left hand.
This tactic amused me. Usually when a man’s in trouble his defenses break down. He sits next to you and then leans forward, he looks you in the eye. But Musa Tanous leaned back, downplaying the deadly game he was involved in.
“Why did you drive over here, Mr. Tanous?” I asked at last.
“Because Theodore seems to think that you could do something for me.”
“You don’t?”
“You aren’t a licensed detective. You don’t know the people involved. How can you help me?”
“I can’t if you don’t want me to,” I said.
“And if I said I wanted you to help then something would be different?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m here because of Theodore too,” I said. “He asked me to see what I could do and I intend to try. But if you don’t open up and admit you got trouble, I have no way in.”
Musa Tanous sat up and then leaned toward me, maybe an inch.
“What do you charge?”
“Did you kill Jackie Jay?”
The elegant man stood up. He didn’t step away or even turn his head. It was a threat of dismissal but nothing more.
“Sit down, Mr. Tanous.”
“I don’t intend to stay here and take insults from you.”
“I’m not insulting you. People out there seem to think you did kill her, and I have to hear from your own lips that you didn’t before I can tell you what it will cost to get you off the hook.”
He hung his head and sat down again.
“No,” he said.
“No what?”
“I did not kill her.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“How did the cops convince the prosecutor to charge you?”
For the first time sadness showed in his eyes. He looked at the Steinmans’ sheer curtains undulating on the breezes.
“Jackie and I went to the Dinah Motel the night before the morning she was found. We stayed there together and in the morning I went off to work,” he said. “She stayed in bed. Jackie liked to sleep late. The last time I saw her she was, she was sleeping.”
