the obvious. Kaye Winslow fled the scene. What does common sense tell you?”
“That she’s more than likely the perpetrator. But since when is homicide supposed to make sense? And we don’t know for sure that she fled the scene. She may have been coerced.”
“There’s something about Sam Winslow. I don’t like the guy. He’s hiding something.”
“Which might or might not be germane to the case.”
“You did see the tears, right? Tell me I didn’t imagine them.”
“I saw the tears.”
“Crocodile tears. That guy is as substantial as toilet tissue, not to mention insincere.”
“Polite and cooperative on the surface,” Policzki said, “but, yes, I could see a boatload of hostility in those eyes.”
“Oh, yeah. The body language was a dead giveaway that something’s rotten in Denmark.”
“He certainly didn’t seem too distraught for a guy whose wife is missing.”
“Missing and possibly dead. Almost as bad as missing and possibly responsible for somebody else being dead. He didn’t even bother to worry about Kaye until he realized he’d better make it look good if he wanted us to believe him. That’s when the crocodile tears came into play.” She mentally chewed on it awhile longer. “What’s your take on the sister?”
“DeLucca? She struck me as pretty straightforward. A little protective of her brother.”
“Interesting,” Lorna said, “how she danced her way around saying that she and Kaye Winslow were friends.”
“I caught that. What do you suppose that’s about?”
“Beats me. She seemed genuinely concerned about Winslow’s welfare, and she admitted they have a good working relationship. But she wasn’t about to commit to anything as intimate as friendship.”
Policzki considered for a moment. “You think there’s something there?”
“Something. Might not have anything to do with what’s gone down, but it’s there. Her body language didn’t scream guilt, but there was something I couldn’t put my finger on. She’s maybe not as fond of her sister-in-law as she’d like us to think.”
“If it was a crime to dislike your in-laws, half the population of the United States would be behind bars.”
“Good point. Understand, I’m not ready to write her off completely. But I like the husband better for this.”
“So you think he did her?”
“I dunno.” Lorna picked up a pen from her desk and began doodling on the desk blotter. “Scott Peterson was polite and cooperative with the authorities, too. At least he was at first. Handsome son of a bitch, too. Just like Winslow. Didn’t seem particularly distraught, either, if memory serves me.”
Policzki nodded slowly. “Mark Hacking reported his wife missing and then went out, cool as a cucumber, and bought a new mattress.”
“Lot of wives going missing these days.”
“Lot of guys who seem tired of being married.”
“Guy reminds me of Chuck Stuart. Slick, sincere, good-looking. With a dark side lurking underneath the surface.”
“I know I’ll hate myself later for asking this, but who’s Chuck Stuart?”
Lorna grinned. “I forget you’re just a baby. You were probably in diapers when the Stuart murder came down.”
“Hey, watch it. I’m not that young. The name’s vaguely familiar. I just can’t place it.”
Lorna got up, walked to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup of sludge. Perching on the corner of her desk, next to the stack of empty paper cups that were starting to resemble antique collectibles, she crossed one leg over the other and said, “Guy’s driving back from Lamaze class with his pregnant wife. They’re somewhere in Mission Hill when he calls 911, says they were robbed and shot by a black man. He’s got bullet wounds in the leg, the abdomen. Wife was shot in the head. She never stood a chance. Baby was born by C-section, but he never really had a chance, either. The case started one hell of an uproar. Black perpetrator, middle-class white victims just minding their own business. Everybody was, ‘Poor Chuck this,’ and ‘Poor Chuck that.’ Except that poor Chuck’s story started unraveling after his kid brother admitted he’d ditched a gun for big brother that night. Once the story fell apart, so did Chuck. A couple months after his wife and kid died, he took a header off the Tobin Bridge. And if you think racial tension was bad before he jumped, imagine how much hotter things got when the truth came out that there was no black man, that Chuck’s gunshot wounds were self-inflicted.”
“Sounds to me like the plot to a bad Lifetime movie.”
Lorna took a sip of coffee. “Now that you mention it,” she said, “I believe they turned it into one.”
Policzki tapped his PaperMate against the edge of his desktop. “So you think Winslow’s tired of being married?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but you know what they say. If it walks like a rat and smells like a rat, has a long, skinny tail and likes cheese—”
“Chances are pretty good,” Policzki said, “that it’s a rat.”
“Exactly. I think we should do us a little checking up on the good professor. Open a few closet doors, see if we rattle any skeletons.”
The show must go on.
The old showbiz cliché ran through Mia’s head all Wednesday morning. No matter how hard she might wish it, the real estate industry wasn’t about to grind to a screeching halt because there’d been a homicide and her partner was missing. Mia still had to check the Multiple Listing Service for new listings, still had to answer a raft of e-mails and wade through a dozen voice mail messages. She had to finish the comparative market analysis she’d promised a new client who was in a rush to put his condo on the market because he’d just been transferred to San Francisco and had to move in three weeks. She had to make follow-up calls to touch base with contacts she’d met at yesterday’s seminar who might prove useful to her in the future. A closing to attend at eleven-thirty, which meant she probably wouldn’t get a copy of the settlement statement until ten forty-five, at which time she would have to call the client to make sure everybody was on the same page before they all converged on the title company. She had to follow up with a nervous buyer who needed a gentle nudge to commit to bidding on the house she’d looked at three times but couldn’t quite make up her mind about.
In her spare time, Mia had to deal with the fallout resulting from Kaye’s absence. The story had hit the papers this morning, and the phone was ringing off the hook. The ever-competent Bev was a godsend, juggling phone calls and walk-ins, routine paperwork and the random crisis with a finesse so smooth it seemed choreographed. She gleefully hung up on reporters, then, in an abrupt Jekyll-and-Hyde, offered warm reassurance to clients who phoned to inquire about Kaye’s welfare.
Yolanda Lincoln, the part-time
