“What color are those hairs?” Hank asked.
“Blond.”
“How long?”
Saban glanced at his notes again. “Four to five inches.”
“Longer than your average male’s,” Hank said.
“Uh-huh. And the angles said the perp wasn’t real tall. So maybe the he was a she. You’ve got a female suspect?”
“Two possibles.”
Two. Then Hank did seriously think Celeste might have done it.
Travis checked his watch, telling himself that could well change when they talked to Jill Flores. Hey, maybe they’d really luck out. Maybe, when they told her why they’d come to see her, she’d admit she was their killer.
Of course, that was way too much to realistically hope for. But he and Hank were so overdue for a gimme of a case that you never knew.
* * *
CELESTE SPOONED OUT Snoops’s dinner, then stood gazing into the open fridge, trying to decide what she’d make for herself.
She really had no appetite, but—
Her phone began to ring, delaying the need for a decision. When she picked up, Bryce’s voice greeted her.
She swallowed hard. She had no appetite for talking to him, either.
“Celeste, Nancy called to tell me about Steve. And I just wanted you to know how sorry I am.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, guiltily thinking she should have called him herself. But when Aunt Nancy had offered to do it, she’d gratefully accepted.
She didn’t like phoning Bryce at his office, because since they’d separated, his assistant always managed to make her feel as if she’d picked the worst possible moment.
And she liked calling him at home even less. The few times she’d had to—for one reason or another—his live-in girlfriend had answered.
“You’ve been having a bad time of it lately,” he said.
“It hasn’t been the greatest, but I’m coping.”
“Good. You know...I hadn’t talked to Steve since your mother’s service. And, of course, we were never close. But...something really strange happened on Saturday evening.”
When Bryce paused, she gave him the “Oh?” he was waiting for.
“Donna’s in a play, so she was at the theater,” he continued. “And I was home alone, catching up on some work. And...I got this feeling I just couldn’t shake. One of those vague feelings that something’s wrong, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Bryce was prone to vague feelings about all sorts of things.
“And something certainly was wrong.”
She realized he expected a comment about his being psychic, but she simply wasn’t in the mood to humor him any further.
“So,” he continued when she said nothing, “you’ll let me know when the service will be?”
“Bryce, you don’t have to come.”
“I feel I should. Unless it would upset you to see me.”
“No, it wouldn’t upset me, but—”
“Good. Then let me know. And if there’s anything I can do in the meantime...”
“Thanks, but I don’t think there will be. I made most of the arrangements today, so it’s just a question of how soon the...”
“Autopsy?” he said.
“Yes,” she murmured, certain she’d never hear that word again without thinking of Steve.
* * *
AS THEY NEARED Jill Flores’s door, Travis suggested that Hank do the talking.
It was easier to concentrate on reactions and body language when you didn’t have to think about the questions you were asking. And if Flores turned out to be blond, he didn’t want to miss a thing.
Hank knocked. A few seconds later, a woman inside the apartment said, “Yes?”
“Ms. Flores? Police detectives.” Hank held his ID up to the peephole.
The door opened—and Travis wondered if they would be lucky this time around.
She was closer to forty than thirty. But their witness had only seen the back of the woman in the hall. And Flores was “stylish,” with short blond hair that was a shade or two darker than Celeste’s.
“May we come in and talk to you?” Hank asked.
“What about?”
“It would be better if we came inside,” he said.
The woman was clearly uneasy, but most people were when a couple of detectives appeared at the door. After another look at Hank’s ID, she led them into the living room.
“We’re here about Steve Parker,” Hank began after they sat down. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but he was murdered on Saturday evening.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered.
Her eyes grew misty as Hank elaborated. When he was done, she murmured, “That’s so awful. Sometimes I wonder why people live in this city.”
After giving her a minute, he took his notebook from his pocket and said, “I’m afraid we have to ask you some questions.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“How long had you been seeing Dr. Parker?”
She hesitated briefly. “You aren’t under the impression that I’ve seen him recently, are you?”
“We’re only aware that you dated him.”
“Yes, I did. But it was from early June until about a month ago. Then we decided things just weren’t working out.”
“I see. And have you had contact with him since?”
“No. We...well, we didn’t see any sense in pretending we were going to remain friends when we wouldn’t. So the end was the end.”
Hank nodded. “What about enemies? Do you know if he had any?”
“If he did, he didn’t tell me about them.”
“And when the two of you called it quits? Did that have anything to do with another woman?”
“No, it was...basically, we’d just come to realize that we didn’t have much in common.”
“And what about another woman since? Were you aware that he was seeing anyone?”
Flores hesitated again before saying, “No. As I told you, there’s been no contact. Not even a phone call.”
“Well, the reason I asked is that we believe he had a female visitor on Saturday evening. Would you have any idea who it could have been? Did he have any women friends who might have just dropped by or—”
“You think a woman killed him?”
“We’d simply like to question his visitor. So, as I said, if you have any idea...”
“I don’t. I’d like to help you, but I really don’t.”
Hank nodded. “I’m sorry I have to ask this, but just for the record, where were you on Saturday evening?”
“I was with a friend,” she said slowly. “A female friend. She came over around seven, we had dinner here, then watched an old video. The English Patient. We’re both Ralph Fiennes fans. And it’s a long movie, so she didn’t leave until after midnight. Do you want more details?”