'When you say, 'not really,' that implies…'
'Well…she was a little miffed about him getting on her, for spending too much on clothes. She said sometimes Alex treated her like he was the breadwinner and she was the little woman.'
'Missy didn't work outside of the home?'
'No, but she managed their apartments. She had a finance degree, y'know. So I think she resented, just a little, being treated like a stay-at-home housewife. But I don't want to give you the wrong impression. Missy wasn't bent out of shape or anything. Every marriage has its little bumps…. Right, dear?'
Brian nodded.
Brass asked, 'How long did lunch last?'
'An hour, maybe two.'
'And all the two of you talked about was going to see a movie? And that Alex had been on her lately about her shopping?'
Shrugging, Regan said, 'The rest was the same stuff we always talked about-just girl talk.'
'Girl talk.'
'What we're reading, who's getting divorced, who's fooling around on who-the usual gossip.'
'What was she reading?'
'Nick Hornby.'
'Any of the divorce or 'fooling around' talk have to do with Missy herself?'
Regan's face hardened. 'Now, I'm willing to help you, but Missy wasn't like that. She loved her husband and he loved her-a storybook marriage, the kind most people can only dream about.'
Brian Mortenson sat forward now. 'These are our friends you're talking about, Detective. Like Regan says, we'll help, but have a little common decency, would you?'
'Sir, you don't have to like the questions I ask,' Brass said. 'I don't even like them…but these are the things that have to be asked in every homicide case.'
Fuming but saying nothing, Mortenson sat back.
His wife put a hand on his leg just above the knee. 'It's all right, Brian.'
Nick said, 'You're mourning the loss of a friend. But Missy didn't just pass away-she was murdered. We don't have the luxury of common decency, in the face of indecency like this…. Not if we want to do right by Missy.'
Brian was still scowling, but his wife looked up at him sweetly and said, 'They're right, honey. We have to help. We have to do whatever it takes to find out who took Missy away from us.'
Mortenson sighed heavily, then nodded. 'I don't know, baby. This is getting a little…weird.'
Nick rose and, seemingly embarrassed, said, 'My timing is lousy, I know…but I wonder if I could use your bathroom?'
'Sure,' Regan said.
'Down the hall, off the kitchen,' Brian said, with a dismissive gesture.
Nick offered a chagrined smile, and said, 'I'm afraid department policy requires I be accompanied by the homeowner. You know how it is-things turn up missing, lawsuits…. Could you show me there, Mr. Mortenson?'
'Oh for Christ's sake,' Mortenson said. 'What next?'
But he got up, reluctantly, and escorted Nick out of the room.
Suddenly Brass felt very glad he'd allowed Nick Stokes to be his 'Ride Along'-there was no such department policy as the one Nick referred to. Nick had clearly sensed Brass's desire to speak to the wife without the husband around, and had made it happen.
'When you were shopping, Mrs. Mortenson, did you see anyone suspicious, maybe someone following you?'
'No! No one.'
'What about at the restaurant?'
'Of course not.'
'Please think back, Mrs. Mortenson. If someone was stalking Missy, you might have noticed.'
She chewed her lip in thought, big ice-blue eyes wide, gently filigreed with red.
Brass tried again. 'Nobody talked to you or hit on you? A couple of attractive women out shopping, could be a guy might take a run at one or both of you.'
She smiled, almost blushing. 'Well, in a town full of showgirls, a woman my age can only thank you for a compliment like that…but no. No one talked to us, other than the workers in the stores and our waiter at lunch.'
'Did any of the clerks get overly friendly? How about the waiter? More interested in you two than usual?'
'If so, Detective, it flew over my head. You think a stalker was watching us?'
This was getting nowhere. 'Did you actually see Missy get into her car? In the restaurant parking lot?'
'Well, I walked Missy to her Lexus, then went on to my own car. It was parked farther out.'
'Then you did see her get into the SUV?'
Regan nodded, and a pearl-like tear rolled down her tanned cheek, glistening like a jewel. 'She already had the door open. She set her doggy bag inside, then ducked back out and…we hugged. How was I to know we were saying good-bye, forever?'
'You couldn't have known.'
Regan swallowed. 'I said we'd see her and Alex on Saturday, then she got in, and I walked away.'
'That was the last thing you saw? You didn't see her drive out?'
'No.'
'Did she start the engine?'
'I don't…don't remember.'
'Could there have been someone hiding in the car? In the back, maybe?'
'She put the doggy bag in front, side and rear windows are tinted…. Maybe. But I really don't think so.'
'Where did you go from the restaurant?'
'I had another appointment.'
'With whom?'
The onslaught of questions was clearly getting to her. 'Really, Detective, is that important?'
Brass shrugged. 'Probably not. But I have to check everything.'
Nodding, Regan said, 'I serve as a fund raiser for Las Vegas Arts.'
Alex Sherman had mentioned that.
'Sometimes,' she was saying, 'I meet with artists. I met with one that day.'
'Which artist? What's his name?'
'Her name,' she corrected. 'Don't be sexist, Detective.'
'Sorry.'
'Sharon Pope.'
'Where can I contact her?'
'She's in the book.'
Brass was reflecting, trying to think if he had any other questions for the woman, when he heard Brian Mortenson yelling from the back of the house.
The detective and the blonde exchanged looks, then got up and quickly followed the sound of the voice down the hall, the hostess leading the way.
Even if it wasn't really department policy.
Five minutes before, when Nick had requested a guide to the bathroom, Mortenson had led the CSI past a formal dining room dominated by a huge oak table and through a hall-of-mirrors kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances. Off the kitchen to the left, Mortenson pointed toward the bathroom.
'Knock yourself out,' the man said sourly.
Nick had used the bathroom and took his time washing up. Joining his host in the hallway again, Nick pointed past Mortenson toward an open door that led into the empty garage.
'You might want to shut that,' Nick said. 'Letting in the cold.'
'Hell,' Mortenson said, looking around. 'Thanks…I was getting ready to put the cars into the garage when you and your partner knocked out front.'
