Paint Me Gone (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 3)

by Molly Greene

  Sophie’s glance flicked away. “No.” She shook her head for emphasis and turned her back to Gen. She rummaged through her purse and pulled a tissue from a side pocket, then swabbed her face with it.

  “So,” Gen said. “You don’t know if they knew each other, or if Corey was also a model, or how they might have been connected? You never heard Shannon mention her name?”

  “Look, I said no, all right? I said I didn’t know.” Sophie’s voice was like rocks striking stone. The sparks weren’t visible, but Gen had sense enough to know it wouldn’t be a good time to light a match.

  “Okay,” she replied. “You’ll tell me if you remember anything?”

  Sophie nodded and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dead ends were crap. Gen was back to waiting again, and she preferred forward movement. It wasn’t that she totally lacked patience. The frustration was more about the biding of time and cooling of heels that made every delay feel like a complete and utter waste.

  The good news was that these intervals seldom lasted long, and this was no exception. Edith Jelicot called two days later and shared the news that Corey Uribe was not, in fact, an agency model.

  It seems someone in the business had remembered her and negated the hypothesis that she may have been on an agent’s list or payroll. But it turned out the girl was a dabbler. She posed for art classes, and that was it. Whatever else she’d been into remained a mystery to them all.

  Except for the detectives on the original case.

  They must have all sorts of information about the deceased in their files. And although they hadn’t sent Mack the complete report, it was time to arrange another conversation with him about it. That was an interesting consideration, in light of the last time they were together.

  It had ended awkwardly.

  Throw in the episode with his girlfriend and Fleur, and she was uncertain about calling him, but she wanted a look at that file. Should she say something about Caroline, or avoid it? She wondered what a friend should do under the circumstances. A woman would absolutely break the bad news to another woman, if they were close.

  But he wasn’t female. Gen smiled at the thought.

  Nobody would mistake Mack Hackett for a girl.

  She hashed the situation out in her head and decided to avoid a casual setting where other subjects might be raised. When she finally picked up the phone and dialed Fillmore, the cop who answered told her Mack was in.

  “You wanna talk to the guy? I can see ‘im over there at his desk, and he’s not on the phone.”

  “Wow, of all the bad timing,” Gen replied, “will you look at that? I’ve got another call coming in. Phone never rings until I pick it up to dial out. Sorry. I’ll try back in a while.”

  She hung up and went to stand in the closet and fret about what to wear. She didn’t want to drop in dressed like she’d planned it, but she didn’t want to look like a slouch. Yoga pants were okay for a workout, but they wouldn’t do for a foray into the cop shop.

  It was a cool day, so in the end she chose dark-washed jeans with a skinny leg and the fancy-hemmed sweater Oliver had picked out at the thrift shop earlier that week. She brushed her hair till it shined and pulled it into a sleek ponytail, then slipped on a pair of black booties with just enough heel and was off.

  Although Eric Garcia had transferred to the gang squad, Mack still hung his hat at the Fillmore station surrounded by beat cops. She found parking on the street and wedged the BMW into the curb, then hopped out and made her way to the door.

  It’d been a while since she stood in that spot. Her heart beat faster as she mulled over the companionship and the worry she had experienced in this building, back when Bree had gone missing. She understood how Shannon’s family had felt when she disappeared; Gen had suffered that, herself. But once Bree was safe and the debriefing was over and Mack and Eric didn’t need her testimony anymore, she’d let the whole affair slip away.

  Literally and figuratively.

  And now here she was, feeling exactly what she’d felt before, as though not an hour had passed. Once again she was smoothing her hair and checking her reflection in the glass and looking forward to seeing Mack smile across the room.

  Jeez, Genevieve. Make up your mind, will you?

  He saw her as soon as she was inside. Right away she got the smile she’d hoped for, then watched as he beat it into submission and switched his expression to neutral. Gen didn’t blame him. He had no reason to think her presence was anything other than professional.

  Not anymore.

  The gatekeeper was a uniform with a severely high forehead and a bushy moustache that was a throwback to the 1980’s. He’d been around a while and he recognized her, although it took a full minute.

  Her hair was shorter, her keister was tinier, her clothes a size smaller than they’d been before. When the realization dawned on him, he let out a low wolf whistle and waggled his eyebrows like Tom Selleck back on that show they shot in Hawaii, Magnum, P.I.

  “Hey Franco,” Gen said. “How you been?”

  “Hangin’ in there, Genny. You are looking good.”

  “Thanks.” Gen smiled and hitched her thumb toward Mack’s desk. “I’m here to see Hackett.”

  “I figured,” Franco replied. “I hope he can keep his mind on his job, lookin’ at you.”

  She laughed and gave him a wave and hoofed it over to where the detective was studying a dossier. “Hey, Mack.” She slid into the seat opposite his desk.

  He closed the manila folder and pushed his chair back. “Miss Delacourt. What brings you to our neighborhood today?”

  She could hear the Tennessee in his voice, like honey and the disgusting grits he loved. It struck her that the three times she’d seen him these past weeks, that drawl had been absent.

  Last winter she’d heard it all the time, unless he was on task. Ah, that was it. He wanted to treat her like business because that’s what she’d allowed him to believe she was.

  So they both had the same plan, then.

  They were on the same page.

  “That’s the first time in a while I’ve heard Nashville talking.”

  He adjusted his ancient Caterpillar ball cap but didn’t comment. The thing about Mack was that he had the waiting routine down pat. He could out-chill anybody and look calm and sweet and unconcerned the whole time he was doing it, like it was just another lazy day on the lake and he was content to hang out with his line in the water.

  The dog tags were there, something you could depend on, over his worn black t-shirt and peeking out beneath the placket of his open shirt. Gen remembered the day she’d asked him about the tags, thinking he’d been in the Army, and instead he told her the story about his brother’s death in a helicopter in Afghanistan.

  You could not tell by looking at him that he’d graduated from Annapolis, much less at the top of his class. It was immensely impressive that he was as accomplished as he was and didn’t need to discuss it. He’d earned her respect and admiration, and close contact hadn’t dulled it one bit.

  “I need your help again,” she said in a low voice. “With the Shannon Keene thing.”

  He nodded and tucked the folder away, then opened a drawer and lifted out another file, this one with a heavy cover that was grocery-bag brown. He slipped it into a leather folio, then stood and gestured toward the door. “Coffee?”

  “Why not.”

  The station coffee was nasty and everybody knew it. He meant cappuccino down the street, and even though she’d thought she would take this meeting on station turf, she realized she was all for a change of venue. She stood. They walked to the door with five feet of air between them.

  “Back in half an hour or so, Franco. I’m on my cell if anybody needs me.”

  “Sure thing, Mack.” Franco winked at Gen as they passed.

  Gen moved a little closer when they hit the street, but it wasn’t like the old days. Months before, they would have strolled along like they were partner
s in a sack race, her shoulder brushing his arm and not feeling like she should jump away when it did.

  Her stomach clutched. She wanted that feeling back again, and she wanted him to make her laugh, but she didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

  So she left it alone.

  Mack’s way was the right way. If she got the hang of letting things evolve, eventually everything might be okay between them. Waiting sucked, but it was the best way.

  That’s what everybody said, anyhow.

  The coffee shop was humming with conversation and caffeine. Mack waved her toward a booth in the rear and got in line, then trooped back five minutes later with a tray that held two huge mugs and a short stack of cookies the size of a Frisbee.

  “You didn’t ask what I wanted,” she said.

  “You want a cappuccino, like always,” he replied. “But now you take them without whipped cream on top. Am I right?” It was a reference to her remodeled derriere. “And since I figured you were off cookies too, I only got enough for me.”

  “The hell you did.” She reached for one of the dish-sized peanut butter behemoths and pinched off a chunk studded with chocolate chunks. He didn’t try to grab the plate away. “I didn’t give up everything.”

  “Says you.”

  She studied him from across the table. He was sipping his coffee, serene as could be. Just another indication she’d have her work cut out for her if she wanted back on his good side.

  From this angle, of course, both sides were more than good, but at least one of them was keeping his distance from her. And whose fault was that? The only thing that made her feel better was the fact that he was sending mixed signals, as well.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  He waved her off and pushed the portfolio across the table. “So you’re baffled, huh? Now you know how the boys felt twenty years ago.”

  She flipped through the documents and stopped to read a line or two, thinking she’d need to find whatever she could here in the café.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Keep it for a couple days, then give it back. I thought about it and came to the conclusion nobody official is looking for a partial copy of a twenty-year old cold case file.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Ask me again and I’ll change my mind.”

  She closed the cover and polished a spot on the leather with her thumb, then picked up her coffee and took a pull. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again and broke off another piece of cookie and chewed while she thought about his girlfriend.

  “What?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He rolled his eyes and brought out the sugary smile he’d doubtless learned from some southern wench. “What are you trying not to tell me?”

  Damn. Yeah, he could read her.

  “It’s about Caroline.”

  “You mean the fact that she’s posing nude for Damian Fleur and his entire art class?”

  Gen bet she was doing more than posing by now. “So you know,” she replied. “Well, it’s about that and–”

  “And the fact that they’re going at it like college kids on spring break.”

  “I wouldn’t have used that specific description, and I don’t know for sure they are.”

  “I do. She called me and rubbed it in about him last week. Didn’t want me to hear about it from anyone else, she said. But my gut tells me she just wanted payback.”

  “Payback for what?”

  “For breaking it off with her.”

  “You broke up.” Gen picked up her mug and took a long swallow to cover her surprise. When she put the cup down, she wiped her lips with a napkin but couldn’t keep quiet. She had to ask.

  “When?” She raised the coffee and took another sip to shut herself up.

  “The night of Damian’s exhibition.”

  Gen choked and had to work hard not to spit cappuccino on the table. Mack handed her another napkin.

  “Why didn’t you say so at the Marina, when we were talking about it?”

  “Because like you said that day, it isn’t your business.” His voice was borderline hard. “The decisions I make about my life don’t have anything to do with you.”

  Gen felt her face flame and she stiffened, then dropped her eyes and nodded. It took her thirty seconds to recover, then she fumbled in her bag for a five and threw it on the table. She was edging out of the booth when Mack spoke, and his voice was back to Tennessee mellow.

  “Please stay.”

  Gen stopped.

  “That was–” he murmured. “I was out of line.”

  She paused. If she wanted that friendship back, she needed to meet him halfway. A friend wouldn’t walk away over an infraction that was tantamount to telling it like it is. He’d hurt her feelings with the truth.

  She sat back down, slowly. Two deep breaths later she put her bag on the seat and reached for her cup.

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said.

  “What?” She kept her voice steady.

  “If I’d told you I wasn’t seeing Caroline anymore. That day at the Marina.”

  “I don’t know if–” Gen locked eyes with him, then looked away and panned the room. She shook her head. “No.”

  “You’re still fighting Ryan, Genny.”

  She nodded, then looked at him and this time held his eyes. She saw clarity in his, and she knew if he was as smart as she thought he was, he saw the ache and confusion and longing in hers.

  * * *

  Corey Uribe had been a model all right, but like Edith Jelicot had reported, she only worked for a few painters and the gigs were few and far between. The rest of the time she attended class and studied. According to the New York cop’s interview with her foster mom, she’d been a stellar student and was determined to buck the odds and make a good life.

  To that end, Corey was working on a Master’s in Art at Columbia University. She’d gotten in on a scholarship and never gave the college any reason to be sorry they’d granted the girl a semi-free ride. From the looks of it Corey stood out, even compared to the high quality of the Manhattan crowd.

  She was short in stature and long on flair, judging by the photograph of the dark-haired girl alongside the piece she’d been working on when she died. She was also half black and bright and comely, with a streetwise look tempered with hope. But at her height, Gen could see there was no way she’d done any fashion modeling.

  Corey did have a juvenile record, and it hadn’t been sealed. At one point in her young life she was a chronic runaway and a problem kid. But at five-foot-five, there was little chance she’d been much of a scrapper. More likely she’d learned to be fleet of foot, like Gen’s sister Gabi. The little ones always taunted the others into a frenzy, then ran away and left the real fighting to the big kids.

  It looked to Gen as if she’d found her place and got right side up when she’d landed in her last home on Long Island. That happened when she was about thirteen. The Neumanns had eventually adopted her. She’d had a streak of lucky breaks before she got involved with whatever killed her.

  Or whoever.

  Gen checked the clock. Two Pacific time; it would be five o’clock in New York. On a whim, she dialed the East Coast number listed in the file for Corey’s mother, Helen Neumann. The line cycled through six or seven rings. She was about to give up when someone answered.

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice, strong but winded. She’d run for the phone.

  “Hello,” Gen replied. “I’m trying to reach Helen Neumann.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Mrs. Neumann, my name is Gen Delacourt. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

  “That depends. If you’re selling something, any time would be bad.” There was a smile in her voice, but all the same Gen could tell she wouldn’t be buying.

  “I’m a private investigator in California, Mrs. Neumann. I wanted to talk with you about Corey.”<
br />
  It had been twenty years, so the silence was not unexpected. Her answer, however, was straight to the point. “Why would a private investigator from California want to know about my daughter?”

  Gen realized it was stupid to pick up the phone without a cover story. She thought about spouting a contrived partial truth, but decided on the fly that Helen Neumann wouldn’t be sympathetic to the idea of helping her kid’s killer.

  Not that Gen thought there was any chance Shannon was still alive. She was just hoping for a resolution that would give Sophie closure. So she chose a lie. Seldom the best route, but there you have it. “I’m conducting research for an author who’s writing about New York City’s unsolved crimes.”

  This time the silence extended so long Gen assumed she’d either hung up or was too pissed off to respond. “Mrs. Neumann?”

  “Corey’s murder was solved.”

  “Then you believe Shannon Keene killed her.”

  “And you don’t.”

  “Why would she kill Corey?”

  “Why would anybody?” Helen Neumann’s moxy made her voice sound like steel. “Corey wasn’t the type of child anybody would kill, that’s the problem. The police made it sound like she might have been caught by surprise, but I don’t believe that, Miss … did you say Delacourt?”

  “That’s right. Why don’t you believe it?”

  “Corey wasn’t a fighter, but she could defend herself. She had to learn young. To hide, to run, to deflect objects and fists that were thrown at her. That was her life until she came to us. We adopted her, you know. She didn’t trust easily, and she was a survivor. Those two things would have made it very hard for someone to catch her off guard.”

  “So you think whoever knocked her around was someone she knew.”

  “It looked that way to me.”

  “She didn’t know Shannon, Mrs. Neumann.”

  “The police couldn’t prove it, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know one another. They both modeled, they could have crossed paths.”

  “Do you know who Corey modeled for?”

  “No one at all for at least six months before she died. She was too busy painting for someone. She had to pay a certain portion of her tuition, so she worked hard. She wasn’t a slacker. She wasn’t about to throw her opportunity away.”