judged she’d taken the hit three or four days earlier.
“Mrs. Moore?”
“No, we ain’t married.” The blonde dug a cigarette out of a pack of Virginia Slims. You’ve come a long way, baby. “Frank went out for beer. He’ll be back in a minute. Is he in trouble?”
“We just need to talk to him.” Ed gave her an easy smile, and decided she needed more protein in her diet.
“Sure. Well, I can tell you he’s been keeping out of trouble. I’ve seen to that.” She found a pack of matches, lit her cigarette, then used the pack to squash a small roach. “Maybe he drinks a little too much, but I make sure he does it here, where he can’t get in trouble.” She looked around the pitiful room and drew deep on the cigarette. “It don’t look like much, but I’m putting money aside. Frank’s got a good job now, and he’s dependable. You can ask his super.”
“We’re not here to hassle Frank.” Ben decided against sitting. You couldn’t be sure what might be crawling under the cushions. “Sounds like you’ve got him pretty much in line.”
She touched her bruised eye. “I give as good as I get.”
“I bet. What happened?”
“Frank wanted another five for beer on Saturday. I’ve got a budget.”
“Saturday?” Ben came to attention. The night of the last murder. The woman facing him was a blonde, of sorts. “I guess you two got into it, then he stomped out so he could go down to the bar and bitch with the boys.”
“He didn’t go anywhere.” She grinned and tapped her ash into a plastic dish that invited you to PUT YOUR BUTT HERE. “He got a shot in, and the neighbors downstairs were beating with that damn broomstick on the ceiling. I got a shot right back.” She let the smoke trail lightly out of her mouth and up her nose. “Frank respects that sort of thing in a woman. He likes it, you know. So we… made up. He didn’t think about beer anymore Saturday night.”
The door opened. Frank Moore had arms like cinder blocks, legs like tree trunks, and stood maybe five feet five. He was wearing a black trench coat that had moth holes in the shoulder, and was carrying a six-pack of the King of Beers.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. His free arm was already flexed.
Ben pulled out his badge. “Homicide.”
Frank dropped his arm. Ben noticed the inch-long scratch on his cheek as he leaned over to read the badge. It was scabbed over and looked every bit as nasty as the blonde’s bruise.
“The system eats shit,” Frank announced, and slammed the six-pack onto the counter. “That slut tells the judge I tried to rape her, I end up doing three years, then when I get out I got cops hanging around. I told you the system eats shit, Maureen.”
“Yeah.” The blonde helped herself to a beer. “You told me.”
“Why don’t you just tell us where you were last Sunday morning, Frank,” Ben began. “About four A.M.”
“Four in the morning. Jesus, I was in bed like everybody else. And I wasn’t alone neither.” He jerked a thumb at Maureen before he popped the top on a Bud. Beer fizzled through the opening and added one more smell to the room.
“You Catholic, Frank?”
Frank wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, belched, and drank again. “Do I look Catholic?”
“Frank’s daddy was Baptist,” Maureen supplied.
“Shut your face,” Frank told her.
“Kiss ass.” She only smiled when he lifted an arm. Ed had taken only one step forward when Frank dropped it again.
“You want to tell the cops everything, fine. My old man was Baptist. No cards, no drinking, no-fucking-around Baptist. He kicked my ass plenty, and I kicked his once before I left home. That was fifteen years ago. A two-bit whore railroaded me into prison. I did three years, and if I ever saw her again, I’d kick her ass too.” He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and lit it with a battered Zippo. “I got a job washing floors and cleaning toilets. I come home every night so this bitch can tell me I only got five dollars for beer. I ain’t done nothing illegal. Maureen’ll tell you.” He swung a loving arm around the woman he’d just called a bitch.
“That’s right.” She took a swig from her beer.
He didn’t fit the description, not the physical one, nor the psychiatric one. Still Ben persisted. “Where were you August fifteenth?”
“Jesus, how am I supposed to remember?” Frank chugged the rest of the beer down and crushed the can. “You guys got a warrant to be in here?”
“We were in Atlantic City.” Maureen didn’t blink when Frank tossed the can and missed the trash bag by inches. “Remember, Frank? My sister works up there, you know. She got us a good deal at the hotel where she does housekeeping. The Ocean View Inn. It ain’t on the strip or nothing, but it’s close. We drove up on August fourteenth and spent three days. It’s in my diary.”
“Yeah, I remember.” He dropped his arm and turned on her. “I was playing craps and you came down and started bitching at me.”
“You’d lost twenty-five bucks.”
“I’d‘ve won it back, and twice that much, if you’d left me be.”
“You stole the money out of my purse.”
“Borrowed it, you cunt. Borrowed it.”
Ben jerked his head toward the door as the argument heated up. “Let’s get out of here.”
As the door closed behind him they heard a crash over the screaming.
“Think we should break it up?”
Ben looked back at the door. “What, and spoil their fun?” Something solid and breakable hit the door and shattered. “Let’s go get a drink.”
Chapter 9
“Mr. monroe, I appreciate you coming by to talk with me.” Tess greeted Joey Higgins’s stepfather at the door to her office. “My secretary’s gone for the day, but I can fix us some coffee if you like.”
“Not for me.” He stood, uncomfortable as always in her presence, and waited for her to make the first move.
“I realize you’ve already put in a full day,” she began, not adding she’d put in one of her own.
“I don’t mind the extra time if it helps Joey.”
“I know.” She smiled, gesturing him to a chair. “I haven’t had many opportunities to speak to you privately, Mr. Monroe, but I want to tell you that I can see how hard you’re trying with Joey.”
“It isn’t easy.” He folded his overcoat on his lap. He was a tidy man, organized by nature. His fingers were neatly manicured, his hair combed into place, his suit dark and conservative. Tess thought she understood how inscrutable he would find a boy like Joey.
“It’s harder on Lois, of course.”
“Is it?” Tess sat behind her desk, knowing the distance and the impersonal position would make it easier for him. “Mr. Monroe, coming into a family after a divorce and trying to be a father figure to a teenage boy is difficult under any circumstances. When the boy is as troubled as Joey, the difficulties are vastly multiplied.”
“I’d hoped by now, well…” He lifted his hands, then laid them flat again. “I’d hoped we could do things together, ball games. I even bought a tent, though I have to admit I don’t know the first thing about camping. But he’s not interested.”
“Doesn’t feel he can allow himself to be interested,” Tess corrected. “Mr. Monroe, Joey has linked himself with his father to a very unhealthy degree. His father’s failures are his failures, his father’s problems his problems.”
“The bastard doesn’t even-” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t apologize. I know it appears that Joey’s rather doesn’t care, or can’t be bothered. It stems from his illness, but that isn’t what I wanted to speak with you about. Mr. Monroe, you know I’ve tried to discuss intensifying Joey’s treatment. The clinic I mentioned in Alexandria specializes in emotional illness in adolescents.”
