Evidence

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Today, the aroma was pretty good.

  Milo inhaled deeply. “Home sweet bacon.”

  The interior was vast, chocked with corporate oak, stenciled mirrors, not-even-close-to-Tiffany lamps, red-shirted servers mostly hanging around because of the three p.m. off-hour.

  A bar ample enough to intoxicate half the Valley ran the length of the room. The layout made it easy to spot every customer: a scatter of bleary-eyed truckers with no idea what time it was, a mom and a grandmom teaming up to handle a whining kid in a booster chair, two young women in a booth midway down, sipping tall pink drinks and picking at a plate of fries.

  A kid in a red shirt said, “Two for lunch?”

  “We’re joining friends.”

  Both women were pale, thin, wore drab, short-sleeved tops, jeans, and careless ponytails. Other than platinum hair on one, they each matched Bettina Sanfelice’s stats.

  Milo said, “The blonde’s wearing glasses, so I’m betting that’s her. Now all I need to do is separate her from her friend and get her to blab about her sex life. Any suggestions as to the proper approach?”

  “There is none,” I said.

  “Your optimism is a blessing.”

  Neither woman noticed until we got within three feet, then both looked up. Milo smiled at the blonde. “Bettina Sanfelice?”

  The brown-haired woman said, “That’s me,” in a tiny, tentative voice. Small-boned but full-faced, she had close-set mocha eyes and puffy cheeks and looked like a child who’d just been punished. The white-sauce-slicked fry she’d been reaching for dropped back onto her plate. Not a potato—something pale green and breaded—deep-fried string bean?

  Milo bent to make himself smaller, showed his card rather than the badge, recited his title as if it were no big deal.

  Bettina Sanfelice was too stricken to speak, but the blonde said, “Police?” as if he were joking. She had good features but grainy skin with some active blemish, dark circles under her eyes that heavy makeup failed to mask.

  Milo kept his focus on Bettina Sanfelice. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but we’re investigating the death of someone you worked with.”

  Sanfelice’s mouth dropped open. Her hand shot forward, rocked her drink. It would’ve spilled if I hadn’t caught it. “Death?”

  “By homicide, I’m afraid.”

  Sanfelice gasped. “Who?”

  Milo said, “A man named Desmond—”

  Before Backer’s surname had been fully pronounced both women shouted, “Des!”

  The kid in the red shirt looked over. A hard look from Milo caused him to veer toward the bar.

  The bespectacled blonde said, “I have just got totally nauseous.”

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “Des? Omigod.”

  The blonde removed her glasses. “I need a bathroom.” She slid out of the booth.

  “You also knew Des, ma’am?”

  “Same as Tina did.” The blonde trotted toward the restrooms, moving clumsily in ultratight jeans and ratty sneakers.

  The kid in the red shirt dared to come over. “Everything okay?”

  Milo expanded like a balloon. “Everything’s grand, just go about your business.”

  Now was the time for the badge. Gawking, the kid turned heel.

  Milo said, “Your friend’s pretty upset, Bettina.”

  “Sheryl’s got a iffy stomach.”

  “That’s Sheryl Passant?”

  Nod. “Omigod. Who hurt Des?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Mind if we join you?”

  “Um ...” Not budging.

  Milo smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, but I need a little more room than that, Bettina.”

  “Oh... sorry.” Sanfelice scooted over and he wedged beside her. Milo’s presence turned her tiny. An abused child.

  I settled across from them.

  Milo pointed at the pink drink. “I know it’s a shock, feel free.”

  “Oh ... no, thanks.” But she grabbed the glass with both hands, took a long, noisy sip.

  “Frozen strawberry margarita?” said Milo.

  “Frozen straw-tini ... Des is really dead? Omigod, that’s so ... I can’t believe it!”

  “Tina, anything you can tell us about Des would be really helpful. You and Sheryl both worked with him, right?”

  “Uh-huh. At GHC—that’s a architectural firm. Sheryl got me the job.”

  “You and Sheryl are old friends.”

  “From junior high. We tried out for the army but we changed our mind because of Eye-rack. Instead, we enrolled in JC but we didn’t like it, so we went to ITT to learn computers but we didn’t like that so we switched to business technology at Briar Secretarial. Sheryl got a job right away, she can type fast, but I’m slower so I switched to computer graphics. My dream is to design furniture and draperies but there’s nothing right now so when Sheryl got the job at GHC, she told me they needed a intern, maybe I could get to do design.”

  “Did you?”

  “Uh-uh, I mostly ran errands, answered the phone when Sheryl was tied up. Which didn’t happen too much. There really wasn’t nothing to do.”

  “Was Des working at GHC when you and Sheryl got hired?”

  “No, he came later. Like a week later. We said, ‘Finally, a guy.’” Blushing.

  “Mr. Cohen’s a guy.”

  “He’s old.”

  “How old?”

  “Like sixty. He’s like a grandpa.”

  A voice to our left said, “He is a grandpa, used to bring his rug-rat grandkids in and would go off all day with them.”

  Sheryl Passant looked down on us, oracle on the mount.

  I got up to let her in. No more ponytail; her blond hair was long and loose and streaming and her glasses were gone.

  She slid in. “Why were you talking about Mr. Cohen?”

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “We’re talking about Des, Sher. To find out who killed him.”

  “Us? What can we tell them?”

  Milo said, “For starts, what kind of guy Des was, Sheryl. Did he have enemies, who’d want to hurt him?”

  Passant shifted closer. Her thigh pressed against mine. I scooted an inch away. She frowned. Flipped her hair. “Des had no enemies.”

  “None at all?”

  “Des was really mellow, I can’t see anyone hating him. Not even Helga the Nazi.”

  “Helga the Gestapo Girl,” said Sanfelice, giggling, then turning grave. “Sorry, we just... she didn’t treat us good. Just getting our paychecks was a hassle. Sheryl, I mean. I was just an intern so I didn’t get paid at all.”

  “Which totally sucked,” said Passant. “You did the same job as me, Teen. You should’ve gotten paid the same as me. Helga sucks.”

  Milo said, “Wasn’t the firm a partnership?”

  “Marjie and Mr. Cohen didn’t control the money, she did. The building was hers, the idea was hers, everything was hers. She was always talking like she was the one who’d made up Green. Like Al Gore had never existed. You think she killed Des?”

  “You think she could’ve?”

  The women looked at each other. Sanfelice stirred her drink. Passant said, “I’m not saying she’d have done it. But she’s not like a regular person, you know?”

  “Different,” said Sanfelice. “She’s from Europe.”

  The red-shirted kid reappeared, this time bearing two plates.

  Bacon burgers oozing with molten white and orange cheese, salads the size of a baby’s head, a hay-bale of onion rings. “Um, do you guys still want this?”

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “I was hungry but now I’m also feeling nauseous.”

  Sheryl Passant said, “Yuck. Do we still have to pay?”

  Milo said, “Put the food down, son, and give me the check. Here’s your tip in advance.” Forking over bills.

  The kid said, “Sweet.”

  A few minutes of routine questions produced nothing new about Desmond Backer, whom the women described as “Nice and totally hot.”
The shock had worn off and they both seemed pleased at the attention.

  Bettina Sanfelice studied her burger. “It’s probably gross but I’m going to try.”

  Sheryl Passant said, “Not me.” Moments later, a grin as she bit in, wiped her chin. “Guess I lied.”

  Milo let them eat, offered drink refills. They declined. Sanfelice wholeheartedly, Passant with some regret.

  Milo stared at me.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He cocked his head to the side and when I didn’t respond, said, “My partner’s gonna ask you some questions now. They’re a little personal, so sorry. But we really need to ask.”

  Waving the red-shirted kid over, he ordered an extra-large Coke.

  Both women had stopped eating.

  Sheryl Passant’s thigh pressed hard against mine.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “Personal?”

  Milo’s eyebrows said Take it from here. Sheryl Passant said, “They mean sex, Teen. Because Des was a horner from day one, right? Like he was put on this earth to do it.” The corners of her mouth turned up as she bent over her straw. Conspicuous slurp.

  I said, “Helga and Marjorie Holman both told us about a meeting where Des was discussed by all of you.”

  Passant grinned. “Where we all admitted doing Des.”

  Bettina Sanfelice’s hand shot to her mouth.

  “Stop being dorky, Teen. You did him, we all did him. So what?”

  “Omigod.” Sanfelice hung her head.

  Passant laughed. “I have always been her bad influence, that’s why her mom has always hated me. Put a horn like Des with a bunch of girls, what do you think’s going to have happened?”

  I said, “Helga said it didn’t happen with her.”

  “That’s because she’s never been human—stop spazzing, Teen, it’s biology.”

  Sanfelice said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “In a sec, hon,” said Milo.

  No argument.

  Passant said, “The moment you met Des it was pretty clear he was after one thing.”

  I said, “Marjorie said he was pretty direct, just came out and asked.”

  “At first, I thought it was gross. Like, are you kidding? But the way he did it made it not gross.”

  “How so?”

  “Not pushy, kind of ... friendly. Des made it all real friendly.”

  Her foot rested on mine. Pressure just short of pain. I slid away. She smiled.

  “Was it a onetime thing, or did—”

  “Seven times for me. Lucky seven.”

  Bettina Sanfelice gasped.

  “I know I told you three, Teen. Didn’t want to freak you out but it was seven. Now you’re gonna ask why wasn’t it eight? I don’t know, it just kind of stopped. Like he’d become my brother or something.”

  I said, “Too friendly.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did Des take you anywhere in particular?”

  “Coffee,” she said. “Sometimes food.” Back to caressing my shoe with her sneaker. “Afterward.”

  “Was there a particular place for before?”

  She faced me. “You really are personal. No, there wasn’t any one place. He took me to sites.”

  “Building sites?”

  “He just called them sites. Like unfinished buildings, or sometimes there was just dirt, sometimes parts of buildings. When there was just dirt, he had a blanket in his car. Basically, he got off doing it outdoors. A lot of people do.”

  I said, “Where were these sites?”

  “I don’t know the street, it was dark ... they were all in the Valley—is that where he got killed? In the Valley?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, with me it was always in the Valley. He’d pick me up at my apartment, say he had a new site.”

  Bettina Sanfelice mumbled unintelligibly.

  Sheryl Passant said, “Now you can tell them about Des and you.”

  I said, “I think we know enough.”

  “You said it was two, Teen. Remember what I said when you told me that? Two for the road. You said he took you to sites, also.”

  Sanfelice whimpered.

  I said, “We’re fine, Tina—”

  Passant reached across the table for her friend’s hand. “Chill, Teen, no one’s going to tell your mom. They don’t care about us, they care about who killed Des.”

  “Any ideas about that?”

  Both women shook their heads.

  I said, “Marjorie Holman told us she and Des had a one-night stand. Do you think that’s true?”

  Passant said, “Could be, she’s old and baggy.”

  “How did you guys come to be discussing Des?”

  “We all had been drinking, you drink, you talk.”

  “It wasn’t a business meeting?”

  “That’s what she called it. The Notz. Guess it was, because there wasn’t any business—it wasn’t like a real job, you know?”

  “No assignments.”

  “We just came in every day and mostly sat around except when the Nazi wanted to talk about stuff no one understood. One day, she came in and said, ‘There’s no coherence, we need coherence.’”

  Sanfelice said, “Cohesiveness. ‘There’s no cohesiveness.’”

  “Means the same, Teen. Anyway, Helga-notz said we need to have something social to get co-hesiveness, so we went out for drinks.”

  “Just the women,” I said.

  “Girls’ night out. Gerrrrls’ niyett ote. Like it had been something she’d heard in a chick movie or something, like she had been trying to be American, you know? But what the hey, she’s paying, why not? She found a place near the airport, you heard planes coming in, they served these humongous margaritas. Remember those glasses, like for a plant, Teen?” Rubbing my leg for emphasis.

  “How’d the topic turn to Des Backer?”

  “It had just kinda happened. You remember how, Teen?”

  Head shake.

  Passant said, “I guess we had been talking about stuff and that started it to talking about guys. And that started it to talking about it being a girls’ night out. And that started to someone saying I wonder how Des would have liked this, being with all these girls.”

  “Who said that?”

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “Sheryl.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  Passant grinned. “If she says I said it, then I said it. I was pretty much happy-time happy. I don’t worry about what people think, anyway, always just say what’s in my head.”

  I said, “So you brought up Des and—”

  “And everyone piled on. Like Truth or Dare without the dare.”

  “Everyone piled on except Helga.”

  “Everyone with a beating heart.”

  I said, “What did Helga do during the discussion?”

  “Sat back and listened. I started and told them about Des and me and then Tina broke in and said, ‘I was with him, too.’ Now, that had freaked me out because Tina had always been the shy one and she’d never told me nothing.” To her friend: “Nothing like four margaritas to get truth past the dare, huh? Go, girl.”

  Sanfelice stared at the table.

  I said, “So Marjorie Holman spoke last.”

  “It was almost like she had been feeling left out, you know? Wanted to be young. Like us, younger and hotter and doing it with Des.”

  “Still, she was your boss. That was pretty uninhibited.”

  “She drank more than anyone and she wasn’t the real boss, anyway. Helga was. And the way she said it—Marjorie—was weird. Not coming out, more like a ... something weird.”

  Bettina Sanfelice said, “She said, ‘That experience is common to yours truly, as well.’ When I figured it out, it really shocked me, Ms. Holman always seemed so stern.”