“I was at the hospital with Zio Tonino.”
“What happened to him?”
“He swallowed his dentures. He had to have stomach surgery to get them out.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yeah, he’s a trouper.”
“You have witnesses that could vouch for you?”
“Yeah. I ate melanzane with my family and the surgeon.” I don’t tell her that I was on my own for the entire time it took me to go get the eggplant, warm it all up, and take it back to the hospital.
“Then you have no worries,” she says. “Come on, let’s go see Veronica before they throw her in solitary for being such a pain in the ass.”
*
London leads the way to the basement where Veronica is being held. The smell of the place changes as we descended the stairs. The odor goes from donuts and burned coffee to sweat, tears, and desperation.
I’ve always been fascinated with jail cells. The thought of a person living in a tiny space, like dogs in a kennel, makes me wonder how it changes their personalities. Do meek, passive people become mean and aggressive?
The guard greets us as we come out of the stairwell. “Detective Wells,” he says.
“We’re here to see Veronica Smythe,” London says.
He points down a hallway lined with kennels on either side. I mean cells, not kennels. He says, “You know where she is.”
London speaks up, “I’m going to take her to an interrogation room. You got one open?”
He consults his clipboard. “Number three.”
London nods. “We’ll go ahead. Get her and bring her in.”
He doesn’t look pleased, but walks down the hall to fetch her.
“Get me out of here, right this instant!” Veronica’s voice screams. The whole cell block echoes like a megaphone.
“Wow,” I say. “She missed her calling. She should’ve been an opera singer.”
“I heard that!” Veronica screams.
“And she’s got ears like a dog,” I whisper.
London laughs and leads the way to the interrogation room.
*
The interrogation room smells like a porta-potty. And the walls are a weird color. It’s like they ran out of two or three colors of paint so they mixed what was leftover and it came out looking like puke. There’s a beat-up wooden table in the center of the room and several metal folding chairs.
London sits in one of the chairs and I sit across the table from her.
“Where’s the two way mirror?” I ask.
“You watch too much TV.”
“You telling me there’s no mirror? That’s just a Hollywood thing?”
London points to a corner of the ceiling where a little camera’s red eye looks down on us. “We’re higher tech than mirrors.”
At that moment the door opens and Veronica walks in. The guard shuts the door behind her. She looks bad. I’ve seen Veronica at her worst: after a round of the flu, after three days of nonstop partying, even that time she ran a half marathon in the rain, but nothing compares to how bad she looks now.
Veronica must see the shock on my face. She straightens the collar to her baggy orange jumpsuit and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She says apologetically, “Orange is not the new black.”
“You’re lucky,” I say, “It used to be horizontal stripes.”
Veronica takes a deep breath and this seems to give her back her bravado. She pulls out a chair and sits between London and me. “Took you long enough,” she says.
“We had other matters to attend to,” London says.
Veronica bristles. “My case should take precedence. I am being imprisoned unlawfully.”
“No, you’re not,” London disagrees. “You know that. We have every reason to hold you. And you’re lucky you’re not being charged with resisting arrest.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Suffice it to say I did not go gentle into that good night,” Veronica says.
“They had to carry her kicking and screaming from her apartment to the squad car,” London says.
“It’s a condo, not an apartment. And I’m probably going to have to sublet and go into hiding until this whole thing blows over,” Veronica says.
“Your apartment is the least of your worries,” London says.
We both look at her.
“Condo,” London amends.
“Can we get started? I have a date,” I say.
Both London and Veronica stare at me. “With whom, may I ask?” Veronica says.
“It’s business.”
“What kind of business? You should be concentrating solely on my case. And what about Gloria?” Veronica says. She looks at London. “Can you believe she left me for a second-grade teacher?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of business?” Veronica asks, squinting at me.
I sigh. If I don’t clear up the mystery of my dinner date, I’ll never get out of here. “I’m taking a client out to dinner to ensure her chastity for the date she has the next day. She’s a very popular person.”
“You’re babysitting a vagina?” Veronica says. “What about mine?”
“Yours was getting some from your dead girlfriend. Hopefully, while she was still alive.”
“That is disgusting,” Veronica says.
“But a very good question, so answer it,” London says.
“Of course she was alive when we had sex. You don’t think I’d have sex with her after she was dead? Did you smell her? Ugh. I suffer from allergies,” Veronica says.
“I bet you do. Now tell me how it was that you met up with Beth Ellen last night?”
“I went to my high school reunion. Jamie was there, too. I hooked up with Beth Ellen. I’ve had a crush on her since high school.”
“Had you been stalking her?”
“God, no. I was excited to see her and I wanted to seduce her as part of my fuckit list,” Veronica says.
“Fuckit list?” I ask. I look at London who appears equally perplexed.
“It’s like a bucket list only it’s about fucking. I made a list of everyone I ever wanted to. . . sleep with. She was on the list,” Veronica explains. “Now I can mark her off.”
“Do not say any of that to anyone,” London warns under her breath. I notice she turned her head slightly, aiming her face away from the camera.
“Veronica, why don’t you have a lawyer?” I ask.
“Who would I trust with my life? I don’t even like most of my coworkers because they’re such lamebrains. Do you think I’d hand my case over to them?”
“So you’re going to defend yourself?” London asks.
“Of course I am.”
“I think a good criminal lawyer would be a better idea,” London says.
“I am a criminal lawyer. If you recall I am the best criminal lawyer in the city. I can most certainly defend myself.”
“I don’t know. It’s one thing to defend someone while wearing an expensive suit and quite another to do it in an orange jumpsuit and shower shoes,” I point out.
“I’m not going to wear this,” Veronica says, plucking at the orange cotton.
“For the arraignment you will,” London says. “You know that.”
“Well, I’ll still get bail—orange jumpsuit and all. Now, back to my case. What’s wrong with explaining why I was with Beth Ellen? It’s not like we were dating. This was a consensual one-night stand. It’s not my fault she had to go and get herself murdered and ruin my life.”
“You might want to hide your lack of empathy. Just sayin’. . .” I say.
“I have empathy. I have plenty of empathy!” Veronica spits.
I rub my nose and don’t look at her. She’s going to prison without any of our help. She’ll sink herself. “When you talk like that it makes you look guilty because you have a motive,” I explain.
“Motive?” Veronica says incredulously. “Why would I want to kill Beth Ellen? In my own house, no less?”
&nbs
p; “Because she snubbed you in high school and you wanted revenge,” London says.
“It still doesn’t make sense that I would do it in my bedroom,” Veronica says.
“As I recall you were going to dump her in the lake to cover your tracks,” I say.
“I was not. I was. . . hysterical. Not thinking clearly. And no one heard me say that but you.”
I studied Veronica’s face, looking for traces of guilt. Had she done it after all? I was beginning to wonder.
Veronica seems to sense what I’m thinking. “I didn’t do it, I swear.” She reaches out and takes my hand in hers. “Jamie, you have to get me out of this. I promise I’ll change my Facebook page from it’s complicated to single. I promise I’ll stop seducing you. And I won’t break into your office anymore and have sex with you on your desk.”
London raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“It hasn’t happened lately,” I say.
London chuckles. “Who knew you got around so much.”
“It’s not like that,” I say.
“Can we talk about my case now?” Veronica says, peevishly.
“Jamie and I are both working on a suspect list. The list is made up of people who either hated Beth Ellen enough to kill her or someone who hated you enough to frame you,” London says. “Or both.”
“Lots of people hate me,” Veronica says with a shrug. “How long will it take to figure that out?”
“Depends,” London says.
“How are you going to explain to the judge why he should set bail?” I ask.
“I stand noted that I recommended you get legal counsel,” London says, as if she were Pontius Pilate washing his hands of the affair.
“I’m going to explain that I am a pillar of virtue in society and I am not a flight risk,” Veronica says.
London scoots her chair back with a loud squeak. “That might work,” she says, rising and walking to the door. “Jamie and I will work on possible perps and you control yourself with the jailors. It doesn’t pay to irritate them.” She knocks on the door. The guard opens it. “She’s all yours.”
“That’s it?” Veronica says.
“Yes, there’s not much more to do,” London says.
“Jamie?”
“She’s right. Behave yourself at the arraignment.”
Veronica stands. The guard takes her by the elbow to lead her down the hall. Veronica jerks her arm out of his grasp. “Take your hands off me.”
London and I head up the stairs. “You said she might get bail. Is that true?” I ask.
“If pigs had wings,” London says. “Bail isn’t very likely.”
“But you told her…”
“Do you want to save your eardrums? She’ll find out soon enough.”
“How do you know she won’t get it?”
“The judge who is presiding over the arraignment hates Veronica.”
“Why?”
“Because Veronica is rude, condescending, and thinks she’s a hotshot getting criminals off the hook on technicalities.”
“Oh, she’s staying in the clink for sure,” I say.
Twenty-Three
“We’ve got a lead on Beth Ellen’s ex-husband,” Travis says the minute I walk in the door.
“Hello to you, too,” I say, making a bee-line for my bedroom.
Travis jumps in front of me, blocking my way.
“Did you hear me? He’s our number one suspect now. This is big!” Travis exclaims.
“This is bigger than big!” Michael echoes from behind him.
God, talking to these two is like wearing stereo headphones. Was I ever this annoying when I had a girlfriend?
Ivan stands on his hind legs, putting his little paws on my shins. He barks. I pick him up. “Hello, Ivan. At least somebody here has some manners.” I kiss his nose then put him back down.
“Big!” Travis says again.
“Very big!” Michael says in my other ear.
I push my way past them and continue to my bedroom. “I’m in a hurry. Talk to me while I change clothes, okay?”
The twinsy gay boys follow me down the hall, talking nonstop. Travis says, “Well, we were thinking. . . who has the biggest motive to kill Beth Ellen. . .”
Michael interrupts, “. . .And I said, ‘her ex-husband!’”
Travis says, “And I said, ‘Bingo!’ Because, think about it, her husband, who is now her ex-husband, would feel angry. . .”
I enter my bedroom and mostly close the door between us, being sure to keep it open a crack so I can hear them.
“Not to mention jealous,” Michael interjects.
“. . .because his wife dumped him for a woman.”
“A rich woman.”
“A beautiful woman.”
“Who also doesn’t want him.”
“And he’s paying alimony, lots of alimony, and—”
“I get the picture!” I say. “Her husband has motive. Now, continue.” I can picture Travis jumping up and down on the other side of my door as he talks. Michael is probably doing hamstring stretches or something.
“His name is Clark,” Travis says.
“Like the candy bar,” Michael adds.
“Or Superman,” Travis says. “You know, Clark Kent.”
“Oooh, good one. I never thought of that,” Michael coos.
“Stay on track,” I say. “Please.”
“Where are you going anyway?” Travis asks.
“Out to dinner.”
“We’ll order in. We can’t waste time eating.”
“This is business. Business that is actually paying me money. Big money.”
“How does going out to dinner make you money?” Travis asks.
“Omigod, you’re a call girl too,” Michael screeches.
“No, I am not a call girl,” I say with a sigh. “I have to take Sheri Rosetti out to make sure she doesn’t hook up with anyone until she has her date with Angela Morelli tomorrow night.”
“Is she that hot?” Michael asks.
“Hot enough to require a chastity belt.” I strip off my black T-shirt.
“So, you’re guarding a vagina tonight,” Travis says.
“That about sums it up. Now, tell me about Beth Ellen’s husband,” I say, shedding my cargo pants. I pull black trousers and a black silk shirt from my closet.
“His name is Clark and he’s some kind of bigwig literary agent. The night of the murder he flew out of Lakeland for New York at 5:30 p.m. He was supposed to spend the night but came back on the next available flight, which returned at 10:30. That means he was in town during the murder window,” Travis says.
“I don’t think they call it the ‘murder window.’” Michael interjects.
“Whatever, it gets the point across,” Travis says peevishly.
“How’d you find this out?” I ask, tucking in my shirt. I look under my bed for my dress shoes. There isn’t enough room in my closet and, since I hardly ever wear them, they reside under my bed. I hold the shoes up and blow the dust off the toes.
“I called his secretary. Apparently the author he was supposed to meet with had checked himself into rehab and wouldn’t be out for thirty days. So he flew home. We’re still trying to check that story out,” Travis says.
“Maybe there was no author,” Michael says conspiratorially.
I open the door. They stare at me.
“What?” I say.
Travis wrinkles his nose. “You’re going to dinner in that?”
“Why?”
“You look like Johnny Cash,” Travis says. He looks to Michael for support.
“If, you know, Johnny Cash had long hair and was pretty,” Michael adds.
“It’s black,” I say. “Black is classy. Black is timeless. How can I go wrong with black?”
“You look funeral-esque. Where’s that magenta shirt I gave you?” Travis says. He shoulders his way into my room and heads for the closet.
“Funeral-esque? Is that even a word?” I ask.
Michael follows him in and they both rummage through my closet like two women at a going-out-of-business sale. One of the downsides of living with a gay man is the constant fashionista crap. Of course, that’s also one of the upsides.
Travis plucks the magenta shirt from its hanger and gives it a good shaking out. “Now, this is so much better. What are you wearing for a jacket?”
“It’s summer with 90 percent humidity, why do I need a jacket?” I say. Ivan sniffs my shoes. “Don’t even think about it, buddy.” Ivan is known for peeing on shoes. These particular shoes had resided in Veronica’s closet for a while so they probably still have her scent on them.
“Because it finishes off the look,” Michael says. “Jackets are de rigueur at all nice eating establishments.”
“Precisely,” Travis says. His head is in the closet. “Please tell me you have a jacket that goes with those pants.”
“I don’t. I bought the pants on sale. I didn’t foresee the need for a jacket.”
“You’ve got to go shopping this instant,” Travis says. It’s not a plea, it’s a demand.
“I have a date. I can’t go shopping right now.”
Travis snaps his finger. “Michael, call Reggie. Describe the outfit and have her pick up a jacket, charge it to Jamie’s account, and tell her we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“I’m on it.” He ran from the room, doing little deer leaps every third step.
“Now change into the magenta shirt and make it quick,” Travis commands, shutting the door behind him.
I know when I’m outnumbered. I follow orders.
*
I swing by the mall and park in the loading zone outside Nordstrom’s front door. Reggie is ready and waiting for me. I hop out of the car, saying, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Got a hot date, huh?” Reggie says with a knowing smile.
“It’s a client, not a date.” Reggie helps me on with the jacket. I check out my reflection in Silver’s window.
“Nice,” Reggie says as she tucks a magenta handkerchief in the breast pocket that perfectly matches my shirt. “There. Perfecto.”
Even I have to admit that I look pretty damn good. And tough. Like I don’t take any guff from anybody.
“Do I look like a gangster?” I ask, staring at my reflection in the window.
Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Page 14