Jonathan Kellerman - Victims

“Sexy is a chick hungry to do you. Vita was in the mood, she’d pop you quick. Problem is she got old and fat, stopped dyeing the hair, stopped taking care of herself, the drinking got worse.” Sticking out his tongue. “Her breath stunk, she was a mess. So even if she wanted to jump your bones, you didn’t want those bones jumped. Finally, I said no more. Life’s too short, you know?”

Milo said, “We sure do.”

“Bet you do,” said Sloat. “Listen, I’m not going to stand here and lie and tell you I give a shit when I don’t. Vita tried to take everything I owned. Including the Benz I went to all that trouble to get fixed. Including half any money I made until I went totally broke and stopped working long enough to convince her I wasn’t worth going after. I haven’t seen her in, like I said, seven years. But at the back of my head is always this thought, she’s going to come back. Like those guys in the horror movies-the dude in the leather mask. So it’s obvious I didn’t kill her. Why would I ruin my life for her?”

I said, “One thing you had in common: Vita also liked using the court system?”

“Just against me.”

“She never sued anyone else?”

“Nah,” said Sloat. “She was a wimp. Like when I went after that black guy, she’s yelling at me, what if he’s a gang member, the car isn’t worth it. Which didn’t stop her from going after it, years later. Same thing with suing the trucking company. Don’t do it, Jay, they could be Mafia, it’s not worth it. I said, to you it’s not worth it, to me it is. Rights are rights, that’s why we fight wars.”

Milo said, “You were in the service?”

“My dad was. Three years in Europe. So can I go back to work?”

Still no anxiety tell. Milo said, “What you’re saying makes sense, Jay. On the other hand, you hated her, you’re clearly not upset she’s dead, and you won’t back up your alibi.”

“I can back it up but I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

Sloat looked over his shoulder, through the glass, at the interior of the store.

Milo said, “Don’t worry, no customers.”

“I know that. There’s never any.”

I said, “The cowgirl has something to do with the shop.”

Rapid constriction of pupil. A carotid pulse sprang into action.

Milo saw it. “Give us a name, Jay, or we’re going to develop a chronic interest in menswear.”

Sloat blew out acrid tobacco-air. “Aw, man.”

Milo said, “We’re talking murder, Jay-”

“I know, I know-okay but swear to keep it secret.”

“We don’t swear, Jay. We don’t even promise. But unless there’s some reason to go public, we won’t.”

“What kind of reason? I didn’t kill Vita!”

“Then you’ll have no problem, Jay.”

Sloat sucked down half an inch of cigarette. “Okay, okay, it’s Nina. Nina Hassan.”

“George’s ex.”

“He finds out, he’ll fire my ass and roast my balls on one of those shish-kebab thingies.”

Milo pulled out his pad. “What’s her number?”

“You have to write it down?”

“Phone number, Jay.”

“You actually have to call her?”

Milo stared him down.

Sloat gave up the number. “Just don’t say what I said about her. Being a cowgirl.”

“That I can promise you.”

“She’s hot,” said Sloat. “You see her, you’ll understand.”

“Looking forward to it, Jay.”

“I need this job, guys.”

“You also need to be cleared as a suspect.”

“What suspect, I didn’t do squat to Vita.”

“Hopefully Nina will confirm that, Jay. Hopefully we’ll believe her.”

“Why wouldn’t you believe her?”

“Maybe she’s so crazy about you, she’d lie.”

“She digs me,” said Sloat. “But she ain’t going to lie.”

“It’s really important, Jay, that you don’t call her before we show up. We’re gonna check phone records, so we’ll know.”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” His neck pulse hammered away. Shifty eyes said Milo had altered his plans.

I said, “How long were you and Vita married?”

“Six years.”

“No kids.”

“We didn’t want. Both of us.”

“Not into kids.”

“Kids are a pain,” said Sloat. “So when’re you seeing Nina?”

Milo said, “When we’re ready.”

“She’ll clear me. She’ll impress you, she’s a very impressive girl.”

“Bye, Jay.”

Jay Sloat said, “You absolutely need to talk to her?”

We walked away from him.

Milo looked up Nina Hassan’s address, found it on the western edge of Bel Air, a short drive away.

“Vita and Jay,” he said, heading east on Sunset. “Thank God those two didn’t breed. So what do you think of him?”

I said, “Unless he’s Oscar-caliber, I don’t see it.”

“Me, neither.”

Half a mile later: “Screw those D.A. ghouls, this isn’t going serial, it’s gonna be one of those wrong-time, wrong-place things. Vita finally ticked off the wrong guy. Speaking of which, I did sic Reed on Western Peds, see if he could come up with any oncology parents with bad tempers. Specifically, black parents.”

“You’re telling me this because…”

“I’m telling you in the spirit of openness.”

I said, “Do what you need to do.”

“No one would tell him anything.”

“Good.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

Nina Hassan’s house in the Bel Air hills was sleek, contemporary, gorgeous.

Just like her.

She eased open one of the twin brushed-copper double doors, regarded us as if we were salesmen. Late thirties with velvety skin a tad darker than the doors, she sported a mauve top that revealed an inch of hard belly, a pair of sprayed-on white jeans, silver sandals that revealed pampered, lavender-nailed feet. Her face was heart-shaped, topped by a cloud of black waves and curls. A full nose was graced by a cute little upward sweep at the tip. Probably surgical, but well done. Massive white hoops hung from seashell ears. A long, smooth neck swooped to a pair of high-end collarbones.

Milo flashed the badge.

“Yes? And?” Her eyes were a uniform black, defying analysis of her pupils.

“We’d like to talk to you about Jay Sloat.”

“Him? He’s not okay?” As if inquiring about the weather.

“Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

“My husband,” said Nina Hassan. “He’s not human, he’s an animal.”

“Jay’s fine. May we come in, Mrs. Hassan?”

She didn’t budge. “Call me Nina. I’m getting rid of that name as soon as the divorce is final. What’s with Jay?”

“We need to know the last time you saw him.”

“Why?”

“His ex-wife was murdered.”

“Ex-wife? Jay was married?”

“A while back, ma’am.”

“He said he was never married.”

Milo said, “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t put up with lies.” Her hand slashed air. “What, you think he killed her?”

“No, ma’am. These are what we call routine questions.”

“Nina,” she said. “I don’t like ma’am. Too old. Too… ma’amish.”

A Maserati coupe purred past the house. The woman behind the wheel slowed to study us. Thin, blond, steely as the car. Nina Hassan waved gaily.

Milo said, “It’s better if we talk inside.”

Hassan’s turn to study us. “How do I know you’re really the police?”

“Would you like another look at my-”

“Anyone can make a badge.”

“Who else would we be?”

“Scumbags hired by George.”

“George is your ex?”

“My scumbag ex. He’s always sending them around, trying to find something he can use against me. I sleep with Jay? So what? George sleeps with young girls-maybe you should investigate him, he says they’re twenty, maybe they’re younger.”