“I appreciate the vital information, Ms. LeGrande.”
He had a right to sound sarcastic. The tip had lost something in the translation. Still it was something for an ex-stripper, dyslexic, college coed on her first murder case.
“What do you got for me?”
He chuckled. He was warming up.
“There was a brother—”
“I knew that by lunch.” I took a turn at the sarcasm.
“Then you know he was recently killed.”
“A train hit him.”
“Investigation ruled it an accident.”
“This one won’t be so neat and tidy, though, will it, Detective?
“We’re trying to locate the grandmother through Social Services. If the adoption was never formal, there’ll be no formal record of it. We did find the victim’s birth record. No history found yet on the name listed under father.”
“What about the mother?”
“Last-known address showed nothing. No other listing has come up yet. She might have remarried, moved away. We’re still looking.”
“So far, a dead end, then?”
He shouldn’t have hesitated.
“C’mon, Serras, I gave you something.” I said it as if I believed that would work.
“You gave me nothing, LeGrande.”
“Okay, if I do find out something more, you get it first. Deal?”
“What exactly is your interest here?”
“Emergency contact.”
I liked his laugh.
“All right. One of the neighbors saw a guy leaving the victim’s apartment this morning. We ran the description of the man and the make of the car. We’re talking to him now.”
“Who is he?”
Serras didn’t answer.
“I could know him. Might know something about him that you guys could use.”
I was thinking up another lure to get Serras to give up the information when he said, “Name is Paul Chumsky.”
It was my turn to pause.
“You know him?”
“Sort of.”
Serras waited. I was becoming impressed by the man’s patience.
“I was married to him.”
Chapter Three
I figure everyone is entitled to one major mistake per lifetime. Mine was Paul Chumsky.
I got to the station and found Serras. He was looking as if he should have one of those warning stickers on him: Caution: Extremely Flammable Contents. May Spontaneously Ignite. Obviously Serras didn’t like surprises.
“You were married to Paul Chumsky?”
“I kept my own name.” Nobody queues up for strippers named Silver Chumsky. “You think Paul had something to do with Della’s death?”
“We’re asking him a few questions.”
Della may have been on a downward spiral, and Paul could have been riding shotgun, but murder? It wasn’t Paul’s style. Too messy. The final residue of the matrimonial sacrament kicked in. “Paul’s not a murderer.”
A drunk, yes. An unfaithful husband, definitely.
“That’s what he says. Says the victim and he had dinner at her place before her shift. She suggested he hang out. If it was a slow night, she’d get off early and they could get together back at the apartment. She’d give him a call from the club.”
“You already knew she was planning on meeting someone after work?” So much for my hot tip.
“I figured you were trying to impress me.”
“Would it be that easy?”
“No.” Serras’s glance told me I was getting under his skin. At this point, a win-win situation any way I looked at it.
“Said he waited at her apartment. Said he was pretty tired.”
Interpretation: Paul’s happy hour had started at noon instead of three. Youth, brashness and a slightly above-average talent had gotten my ex-husband to the semipro golf circuit, but he’d lacked the discipline and true genius to go further. When I met him, he’d had one mediocre season and knew it was his last. When I found myself pregnant, he proposed to me in what I always figured was one last desperate stab at immortality. He wasn’t with me when I lost the baby, but when I told him, it was the first time I’d seen a man cry. We lasted two years. We weren’t friends but we weren’t enemies. We just weren’t meant to be. Last I heard he was the resident pro over at the Meadows, a country club for Memphis moneybags. An ex-stripper with an ex-husband who’s an ex-semipro. If life were a tic-tac-toe game, I’d have it made.
“Claims he must’ve fallen asleep because next thing he remembers is waking up on Ms. Devine’s divan.”
A cop who could be cute. Serras was getting under my skin.
“He doesn’t remember anything else.”
Since my husband’s idea of sobriety is adding lime to his tequila shooters, for once he could be telling the truth. Blackouts can do that to you. I knew.
“He has a lawyer?” Ex or not, the man had rights—just not in my bed anymore.
“He hasn’t been charged with anything yet.”
Police lingo for “no evidence.” “You’ve got nothing to hold him?”
“He’s got no alibi.”
“And no motive.”
“He’s nervous. He put in a call to Michael Kingsley’s office. They sent an associate down to hold his hand.”
I raised an eyebrow. Michael Kingsley was a high-priced mouthpiece to white-collar criminals. Not washed-up golf semipros.
“So, maybe Della’s murder is more than an unfortunate incident?”
“Let’s just say, your ex-husband has already phoned for a ride home.”
“Can I see him?”
“Why?”
Cops. Always a question. “Catch up on old times.”
Five foot eleven ex-strippers. Always an answer.
Serras cocked his head toward the benches in the hall on either side of the front desk. “You can wait, but he might be a while.”
“Not if Michael Kingsley has his back and you guys have nothing on him but a sleepover.”
Serras assessed me with a lean gaze and looking as good as an underwear ad. “What’s your stake in this, LeGrande?”
I tried to decide if behind that hooded gaze I was a suspect. “You mean besides the fact my ex-husband was sleeping with a friend of mine who was murdered last night?”
He added another weapon. Silence.
Suddenly I felt truly tired. “Maybe it’s just a small, small world after all, Serras.”
A door opened. A group of men came into the hall. I saw Paul before he saw me. He was tan, fit, looking like a vote for the charmed life except for the puffiness around his eyes and a viciousness in his gaze that only a hangover and being held by the police could cause.
“Somebody