Mr. Paradise A Novel (8 page)

“Like the guy told you,” Kelly said, feeling her buzz, “you’ve got two days, Smoke.”

Montez said, “Uh-oh,” stared at her and said, “Letting me know you can be a cool little bitch when you feel like it. But see, what you have to remember, we partners now. We don’t come through we both get shot in the head.”

A
FTER THE COP WITH
the tobacco breath left—it made her think of her dad—she sat staring at her reflection in the window, a little girl wrapped in her coat. Lost. Alone. She wished she had another alexander. Boy, they were good. She saw herself talking to the cop in that dumb, numb voice playing Chloe in shock. Looked at it the way she would study a proof sheet of poses and thought:

Are you nuts?

A black dude in a pinstriped suit tells you to act like you’re in shock, never having ever seen anyone in shock before, and you do it. In front of a no-bullshit cop, not an ounce of sympathy in him, a gun on his belt, handcuffs—

Are you fucking nuts?

She turned halfway around in the chair to look past the back cushion to the doorway. Now there were two black women in the hall, the one in uniform and the other one, older, good-looking hair, very natural, in a long, dark quilted coat and red scarf that wasn’t bad. Kelly said, “Excuse me, but what happens now?”

The older one, in her forties, stepped to the doorway and said, “You over your shock?”

“I feel a little better. I don’t suppose I could go downstairs.”

“Why you want to do that?”

“I want to go home.”

“We can take you to 1300, police headquarters, talk to you there.”

“Jesus Christ, you think I shot my best friend?”

“And your boyfriend?”

“The old man? This is the first time I’ve ever
been
here. I met him tonight.” Getting a little frantic. She told herself to be cool, and said, “I have no idea what the fuck happened. Okay?”

The woman in the long quilted coat came in the room now saying, “I’m Sergeant Michaels. Why don’t we turn your chair around and I’ll sit on the bed?”

Kelly said, getting up and starting to move the chair, “Have you talked to Montez yet?”

“We talking to everybody,” Jackie Michaels said, helping her with the chair. “The first thing I want to get straight, Chloe, are you a prostitute?”

NINE

DELSA STOOD IN THE DOORWAY. HE TURNED
on the overhead light. The girl in the chair, facing him, looked up with her Halloween eyes and they stared at each other until Jackie came out to the hall and closed the door.

“Frank, that girl’s no more in shock than I am. She’s stoned. Musta toked her way out of her condition. You can smell it out here.”

“You feel her up?”

“I lifted her mini.”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“She has on a pair of bikinis I couldn’t of got into when I was ten years old. She ask me what I was looking for. I told her a gun. I went right at her and she got a little excited, but just for a minute. It was like she caught herself and turned it off. She seems alert, then acts a little goofy, like maybe she’s stoned.”

“Maybe she’s pretending.”

“Well, at times she seems over the top, if you know what I mean. You wonder if she’s acting.”

“She a hooker?”

“She says no, and never was. You’re gonna like her, Frank.”

A
LEX, THE EVIDENCE TECH,
came along the hall with his camera and his kit. Delsa said, “Let’s get it out of the way,” and brought Alex in with him.

She was standing now, hands on her coat draped over the back of the chair. She looked around and said, “I didn’t expect to be searched.”

“Now you’re having your picture taken. Miss Robinette, I’m Sergeant Frank Delsa, with Homicide. I’m sorry about your friends.”

She said, “Only one was a friend,” and looked at Alex. “Can I wash up first?”

“After,” Delsa said. “We’d like to get you the way you are, part of the scene, the two of you dressed alike.”

“Not quite.”

“Were you topless, earlier?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Had your underwear on?”

The ceiling light went off.

Alex, his hand on the switch, said, “This is better. Five minutes, I’ll be out of the way.” He motioned to the girl and Delsa watched her cross from the chair to the dresser. Bare legs and sneakers, the sweatshirt covering her skirt. He watched her
take her spot and look at the camera over her shoulder, knowing how to do it.

She said to Alex, “Like this?”

“I could sell that one,” Alex said. “What I need is a straight front view, arms at your sides.” He got ready to shoot and lowered the camera. “Frank, the bong. It’s up to you.”

Kelly stepped to the side. “How’s this?”

Alex raised the camera again. He said, “That’s good,” snicked off three exposures and said to his model, “You have any tattoos?” She shook her head. “Then that’s it.”

“Why don’t you do the bathroom,” Delsa said, “and a G.S.R. test on her as long as you’re here.”

She was getting a pack of cigarettes from her coat.

“What’s G.S.R.?”

“Gunshot Residue,” Delsa said.

“You guys are serious, aren’t you?”

“Step in the bathroom and Alex’ll take care of it.”

She lit her cigarette and then stood listening as Alex said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Frank, if you watch any of the crime scene shows, like
CSI
. All this time I thought we worked for you. No, I see Homicide works for the techs.”

“I saw one,” Delsa said, “but I never took chemistry so I didn’t know what was going on.”

“I watch them,” the girl said. “I think they’re great.”

A
LEX GONE, THE WEIRD-LOOKING
cheerleader back in her chair, Delsa came over to stand by the bed.

“Where were we?”

“You wanted to know if I was wearing panties. No, you said underwear.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“The whole time?”

“What whole time?”

“When you were doing the cheerleading.”

“I’d jump up as we finished one and Mr. Paradiso would say, ‘I see London, I see France . . .’ “

“What’d he say when your friend jumped up?”

She drew on her cigarette before saying, “What’s your point?”

“You call him Mr. Paradiso?”

“I don’t think I called him anything.”

“You’re one of his girlfriends, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Are you a prostitute?”

“No.”

“An escort?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Was Kelly?”

“A hooker? No.”

“Montez says you both are.”

“You believe him?”

“I can find out if it’s true. Have you ever been arrested?”

She said, “For what, being a ho?”

And kept staring at him through her makeup.

“I don’t get it,” Delsa said. “You’re playing with me?”

“I thought you might think it was funny.”

“Your friend’s dead and you want to entertain me?”

She said, “I don’t know what I want.”

“Are you stoned?”

“I’ve had three drinks, good ones, crème de cocoa and gin, and a couple of hits on the bong. I’m trying to be careful and sound normal at the same time. I’ve got a buzz that makes me talkative, so right now I have to watch my step.”

He said, “What’re you trying to tell me?”

She said, “I’m not sure, Frank. I’m feeling my way along.”

It stopped him, the way she said his name so easily. He waited a moment before saying, “You saw the guy who did it.”

“I don’t know.”

“You saw him or you didn’t.”

“I’m not ready to talk about it.”

“Montez says it was a black guy.”

She smoked her cigarette.

“Was he?”

“I’m not saying any more.”

“You want a lawyer?”

“I want to go home.”

“You saw your friend—how’re you handling that?”

She said, “How do you think?” Picked the ashtray up from her lap and stubbed out the cigarette. “Can I wash my face now?”

“If you leave the door open.”

She said, “I’m not gonna kill myself, Frank. I have to pee.”

He watched her walk around the bed to the bathroom, then glance back at him as she went in and closed the door.

Delsa picked up her handbag from the bed and brought it
close to the lamp to look at her Michigan Operator License: Chloe Robinette, 6-12-1976, F, 5-8, BLU, Type O, Restrictions: Corrective Lens, a pair of glasses in the bag, an American Express credit card, several other cards, all platinum; a blue bandana; a packet of condoms; cologne, hand cream, lipstick, blush-on; four hundred-dollar bills, eight fifties and five twenties folded in a silver money clip; loose fives and ones in a pocket; sales receipts from Saks, a hairbrush, a cell phone, a ring of keys. He looked at the photo on the license again that said this was Chloe Robinette. He looked closely at the eyes, the long blond hair. He looked at the bathroom door as it opened. She stood in the light, cream on her face, hair wrapped in a towel, still wearing the skirt but not the sweatshirt, a thin white bra covering her breasts.

“Could I have the bag, please?”

Delsa stepped to the doorway, the operator license still in his hand. They looked at each other. He didn’t say anything. She took the brown Vuitton bag from him and closed the door.

H
E SAT AT THE
dining room table going through Kelly’s handbag, identical to Chloe’s exccept it was black.

Michigan Operator License: Kelly Ann Barr, 9-11-1976, F, 5-8, BLU, Type A, no restrictions, sunglasses in the bag, an ATM card, Visa, Saks, Neiman Marcus, Marshall Field’s, the Detroit Zoo, Detroit Public Library, AT&T, Blockbuster, more cards than Chloe carried, but not anywhere near as
much cash, eighty dollars in the wallet, loose change in a pocket, keys. No condoms.

He brought Chloe’s operator license from his pocket and laid it on the table next to Kelly’s, both laminated plastic cards.

Here, tonight, both girls had the same mess of semi-spiked hair, and both were blond, right? In real life?

But in the license photos Kelly had light-brown hair that flipped up, and Chloe’s was long and blond. The photos, taken two years ago according to the license expiration dates, could be of the same girl wearing different wigs.

He studied the photos again side by side. Good shots for driver’s license I.D.’s. Or these two couldn’t take a bad picture.

He looked at Kelly.

He looked at Chloe.

He looked at Kelly again and remained staring at her eyes. They looked alike when you weren’t looking at them together. But Kelly’s expression was more appealing to him, something familiar in her eyes he didn’t see in Chloe’s and it made him think of the Halloween eyes upstairs, eyes peering out from all that makeup, watching him with a quiet expression . . . The same eyes he saw when the bathroom door opened, cream covering her face but there were her eyes.

Delsa picked up both plastic cards from the table and went into the living room where an M.E. investigator, Valentino Trabucci, at one time with Homicide, an older guy in a jacket and wool shirt was taking pictures of the victims.

He said, “What’ve you got, Frank, anything?”

“Cause and manner.”

“I think we’re pretty clear on that.”

“Otherwise they’re lying to me, as usual.”

Val Trabucci said, “That busted-in front door is bullshit. I hope you made a note of it.”

“First thing,” Delsa said.

“The one I like is Montez Taylor. If he didn’t do these two he opened the fuckin door.”

“Montez said he saw the guy.”

“One guy, alone?”

“That’s all, running out of the house.”

“Take Montez back to 1300 and beat it out of him.”

Delsa handed him Kelly’s operator license.

“Tell me what you think.”

Val looked from the photo to the girl covered in her blood. “This is the same girl?”

“Kelly Barr.”

“If you say so.”

Delsa handed him Chloe’s license.

Val made the comparison and said, “I could go either way, Frank.”

“Can’t nail it down for me?”

“I don’t have to. We’ll print her, locate family . . .”

Delsa said, “Val, you want to call the old man’s son?”

“That’s one I won’t mind doing,” Val said. “I imagine you want the bodies out of here first.”

“We’d appreciate it,” Delsa said.

Val handed over the plastic cards. He said, “I’ll have the removal service come in,” and walked away.

Now Delsa looked at the two license photos close to the dead girl’s face. The eyes closed, she could be either one.

Harris came along leading their boss like they were on a tour of the scene: Inspector Wendell Robinson, his trench coat hanging open over a sweater, and wearing his beige Kangol. Most of the time the man wore a good-looking suit and tie, a Kangol to match, their dude leader, cool mustache, tall, slim, Richard Harris’ idol. Every detective at 1300 called him Wendell.

“Frank, you see Val Trabucci?”

“He was just here.”

“He tell you who did it?”

“Said Montez Taylor’s in it one way or another.”

“Write it down. Val came to me from the Bomb Squad fifteen years ago, I was lieutenant of Seven. I never saw a homicide investigator trust his gut as much as Val did. Like you, Frank, only you’re quieter about it, put it all together in your head first. Val burned himself out. I told him, go on over to the M.E.’s office, be a death investigator and take it easy. Like being on the job only the hours are better, you have more time to read the paper. You know why he quit the Bomb Squad? His girlfriend was afraid he’d get his hands blown off he’s taking some device apart, and she’d have to tend to him he goes to the toilet. I had another guy quit the Bomb Squad for the same reason.”

Wendell Robinson turned to the victims.

“Frank, did you flip this girl’s skirt up?”

“Somebody did, before any of us got here.”

“You think she’s been poked?”