Lisa Black: Evidence of Murder

“She had cigarette burns up and down her right arm,” Frank added.

The man took a deep puff, then said, “That’s awful,” with no inflection whatsoever.

Theresa felt a chill that had nothing to do with the space heater kicking off. What was she doing here? Her job was to look at a body or a room or a piece of clothing and discern the relevant facts about those things, to give the investigators what they needed to catch people like Georgie. It wasn’t her job to sit there with Georgie. People weren’t like inanimate objects. People lied.

On the other hand, she might try to observe something useful. She didn’t dare interrupt Frank. She’d started talking in the middle of his guitar playing one day and he’d given her the cold shoulder for a month, which, at thirteen, seemed like a year.

Georgie’s hair had thinned a bit on top, revealing a birthmark and an S-shaped scar near the temple. His pupils didn’t seem to jump when they traveled from Frank to her and back again, which should mean he had no illegal drugs in his system. Nicotine stained his left-hand fingers, but he held the glowing butt in his right hand. Ambidextrous? Or trained to smoke with any free hand? He had another scar across the right thumb. An oil spot marred the elbow of the maroon sweatshirt, and he didn’t rest his back flat against the orange vinyl, which made her think he had a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants. This didn’t concern her much; every day found her surrounded by men with guns. Up the hall, the receptionist giggled into the phone.

“Anybody else might mean Jillian harm?” Frank was asking.

“Sure,” the man said again. “Her other boyfriend. The one she didn’t marry.”

“How many boyfriends did Jillian have?”

“Just the two. The one she didn’t marry, and the one she did. Those are all I know of, anyway.”

Theresa rolled her eyes, then felt embarrassed when the man across the desk noticed. She buried her nose in a brochure. Beautiful Girlz seemed to be the official name of the place. Available for trade shows, corporate excursions, and private parties. Except that Georgie had misspelled corporate as corporete.

“His name?”

“Drew, and I only know that because he’d call all the time when Jillian worked here. He’d drive the receptionists nuts trying to leave messages, but we don’t take messages for anyone but me here, or else this place would turn into a lonely hearts switchboard.”

“Did he know she got married?”

“He must have. The calls stopped when her employment did. But then he started up again the past three days, looking for Jillian.”

“This ex-boyfriend’s been calling here?”

“Even more than the husband. He’s been driving poor Vangie out there crazy. If you talk to him, tell him to stop or I’ll charge him with harassment.”

“I’ll need his last name.”

“I don’t have it. Vangie might. He’d chat with her and her soft little heart all the time until she got tired of it and learned to cut him short, which made him turn nasty. My other receptionist just hangs up on him. Him, and the thousand other mopes who call here, trying to get private time with my girls.” His mouth took on a pouty shape as he seemed to contemplate the nerve of these guys, thinking they could get for free what he had invested in, cultivated. Theresa almost felt a twinge of empathy for him. It’s probably how a Blockbuster manager feels about pirated movies, she thought.

“How long did Jillian work for you?”

“About a year and a half. Subtracting six months for the baby body, of course. Who’re you, anyway?” he apparently now felt comfortable enough to ask Theresa. She introduced herself, and Georgie’s heavy eyebrows came together. “M.E.? Like you do autopsies?”

“No, I’m a forensic scientist.”

“But that’s the morgue, right?”

“Yes.”

He puffed for a moment, holding her gaze with either concern or curiosity in his eyes. “So Jillian really is dead?”

Frank cut in. “Only missing. When was the last time you saw Jillian?”

“A week after the wedding. She came in to pick up her last check, from a tech conference last month-three days of holding up a big microchip on a revolving stage, not real classy, but I don’t design the shows, just staff them. I told her I had a cocktail party coming up, a real estate developer wanted to entertain some Japanese investors. They love blondes, and Jillian was good at that sort of thing. Smart enough to hold up her end of the conversation but too sweet to do much other than agree with whatever was said. She laughed and said no, she was out for good, and left. That was it.”

“She say anything about her husband, her baby? Troubles at home?”

“We didn’t chat. Just business.”

“She have any repeat customers? Other than Drew?”

“Drew ain’t a customer, he’s a problem. Besides, Jillian don’t have customers. I have customers.”

“And you get feedback from them, right? Anyone comment on Jillian in particular? Request another performance?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No. Look, everyone liked Jillian, I’m not saying otherwise, but they like all my girls. Why not? They’re quality.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Georgie seemed to be working on a good case of righteous indignation. “You think I’m still a pimp. This is different. These girls are the ones who aren’t pretty enough to be models but aren’t desperate enough to be hookers. They don’t want to be hookers, and they don’t have to be. All they have to do is stand up straight and look pretty, laugh at a guy’s joke even if it’s in another language, and occasionally hold up a product or lean against a car. That’s it.”

Frank remained impassive. “They never take on side jobs?”

“No. Not like you mean. Do they sometimes date guys they meet through a job? Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

Theresa caught herself nodding, stopped, and coughed. The smoke-scented air had grown oppressive, and the space heater only made it worse. She wanted to leave.

“Did Jillian?” Frank pressed.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What did she tell you about her fiancé, when she worked here?”

“You’re not listening to me, Detective. I saw Jillian maybe once a week or less. We didn’t confide in each other about nothing, not her baby, not the dresses she picked out for the bridesmaids, not nothing.”

“If I find out you know more about Jillian than you’re telling me, Georgie-”

“What? You’ll what? There’s nothing you can do. I’m legitimate now.”

“Nobody’s legit when it comes to murder.”

“Jillian’s not dead.” Georgie stood up, apparently to signal the end of the interview and his patience. But then his expression changed and that look returned, the slight frown and the glittering eyes, worry combined with excited curiosity. “At least I hope not.”

Theresa wasted no time in plunging out to the street, sucking in the cold air until her sinuses hurt. Frank had lingered to speak to the receptionist, and he had the car keys, so she stayed close to the storefront door and tried to blend in. She eyed anyone who passed, without making eye contact, then felt slightly ridiculous as two little girls walked by without, apparently, a care in the world. West Twenty-fifth might not be Pepper Pike, but it was hardly a war zone.

Frank emerged but waited until they got in the car, doors shut against the chill and the poverty. “What do you think?”

“That guy was a pimp?”

“You think I’m making that up?” Frank cranked up the heat, nearly hard enough to break the knob. “Yes, he was a pimp. Don’t let that roly-poly friendly-guy act throw you off.”