Bad Love

'That's a classic you've got,' said the man, looking through the window.

'Been good to me,' I said.

'Keep it and garage it, that's what I'd do. One of these days you'll see it appreciate, like money in the bank. Meanwhile, you can be driving something new for every day. Good lines this year, don't you think?'

'Very nice.'

'Got those foreign deals beat hands down. Get folks in to actually test drive, they see that. You a lawyer?'

'Psychologist.'

He gave an uncertain smile and I found a business card in my hand.

John Allbright

Sales Executive

'Got a real good suspension this year, too,' he said. 'With all due respect to your classic, I think you'll find it a whole other world, drive-wise. Great sound system, too, if you go for the Bose option and-'

'We're looking for Ralph Paprock,' said Milo.

Allbright looked at him. Squinted. Put his hand to his mouth and compressed his smile manually.

'Ralph,' he said. 'Sure. Ralph's over there.'

Pointing to the cubicles, he walked away fast, ending up in a glass corner, where he lit up a cigarette and stared out at the lot.

The first two compartments were empty. Ralph Paprock sat behind a desk in the third. He was in his late forties, narrow and tan, with sparse gray-blond hair on top and a bit more of it on the sides, combed over his ears. His double-breasted suit was the same cut as Allbright's, olive green, just a bit too bright. His shirt was cream with a long-point collar, his tie crowded with parrots and palm trees.

He was hunched over some papers. The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his narrow mouth. The pen in his right hand tapped his blotter very fast. His nails were shiny.

When Milo cleared his throat, the tongue zipped in and an eager grin took hold of Paprock's face. Despite the smile, his face was tired, the muscles loose and droopy. His eyes were small and amber. The suit gave them a khaki tint.

'Gentlemen. How can I help you?'

Milo said, 'Mr. Paprock, I'm Detective Sturgis, Los Angeles police,' and handed him a card.

The look that took hold of the salesman next- What are you hitting me with this time?- made me feel lousy. We had nothing to offer him and plenty to take.

He put his pen down.

I caught a side view of a photo on his desk, propped up next to a mug printed with the Cadillac crest. Two round-faced, fair-haired children. The younger one, a girl, was smiling, but the boy seemed to be on the verge of tears. Behind them hovered a woman of around seventy with butterfly glasses and cold-waved white hair. She resembled Paprock, but she had a stronger jaw.

Milo said, 'Sorry to bother you, Mr. Paprock, but we've come across another homicide that might be related to your wife's and wondered if we could ask you a few questions.'

'Another- a new one?' said Paprock. 'I didn't see anything on the news.'

'Not exactly, sir. This crime occurred three years ago-'

'Three years ago? Three years and you've just come across it? Did you finally get him?'

'No, sir.'

'Jesus.' Paprock's hands were flat on the desk and his forehead had erupted in sweat. He wiped it with the back of one hand. 'Just what I need to start off the week.'

There were two chairs facing his desk. He stared at them but didn't say anything else.

Milo motioned me into the office and closed the door behind us. There was very little standing room. Paprock held a hand out to the chairs and we sat. A certificate behind the desk said he'd been a prizewinning salesman. The date was three summers ago.

'Who's the other victim?' he said.

'A man named Rodney Shipler.'

'A man?'

'Yes, sir.'

'A man- I don't understand.'

'You don't recognize the name?'

'No. And if it was a man, what makes you think it has anything to do with my Myra?'

'The words 'bad love' were written at the crime scene.'

' 'Bad love,' ' said Paprock. 'I used to dream about that. Make up different meanings for it. But still…'

He closed his eyes, opened them, took a bottle out of his desk drawer. Enteric aspirin. Popping a couple of tablets, he dropped the bottle into his breast pocket, behind the colored handkerchief.

'What kind of meanings?' said Milo.

Paprock looked at him. 'Crazy stuff- trying to figure out what the hell it meant. I don't remember. What's the difference?'

He began moving his hands around, stirring the air very quickly, as if searching for something to grab. 'Was there any- some sign of- was this Shipler… what I'm getting at is, was there something sexual?'

'No, sir.'

Paprock said, ' 'Cause that's what they told me they thought it might mean. The first cops. Some psychotic thing- using- sex in a bad way, some sort of sex nut. A pervert bragging about what he did- bad love.'

Nothing like that had been in Myra Paprock's file.

Milo nodded.

'A man,' said Paprock. 'So what are you telling me? The first cops had it all wrong? They went and looked for the wrong thing?'

'We don't really know much at all at this point, sir. Just that someone wrote 'bad love' at the scene of Mr. Shipler's homicide.'

'Shipler.' Paprock squinted. 'You're opening the whole thing up again, 'cause of him?'

'We're taking a look at the facts, Mr. Paprock.'

Paprock closed his eyes, opened them, and took a deep breath. 'My Myra was taken apart. I had to identify her. To you that kind of thing's probably old hat, but…' Shake of the head.

'It's never old hat, sir.'

Paprock gave him a doubtful look. 'After I did it- identified her- it took me a long time to be able to remember her the way she used to be… even now… the first cops said whoever- did those things to her, did them after she was dead.' Alarm brightened his eyes. 'They were right about that, weren't they?'

'Yes, sir.'

Paprock's hands gripped the edge of his desk and he wheeled forward. 'Tell me the truth, detective- I mean it. I don't want to think of her suffering, but if- no, forget it, don't tell me a damn thing, I don't want to know.'

'She didn't suffer, sir. The only thing new is Mr. Shipler's murder.'

More sweat. Another wipe.

'Afterwards,' said Paprock. 'After I identified her- I had to go tell my kids. The older one, anyway- the little one was just a baby. Actually, the older one wasn't much more than a baby, either, but he was asking for her, I had to tell him something.'

He knocked the knuckles of both hands together. Shook his head, tapped the desk.

'It took a helluva long time to get it set in my mind- what had happened. When I went to tell my boy, all I could think of was what I'd seen in the morgue- imagining her… and here he is asking for Mommy. 'Mommy, Mommy'- he was two and a half. I told him Mommy got sick and went to sleep forever. When his sister got old enough, I gave him the job of telling her. They're great kids, my mother's been helping me take care of them, she's close to eighty and they don't give her any problems. So who needs to change