Elmore Leonard: Mr. Paradise

"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."

Alex 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, creme 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.

He sat at the dining room table going through Kelly's handbag, identical to Chloe's except 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 amp;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:"