Jonathan Kellerman - True Detectives

“I'm Ida Newfield. Sure, why not-uh-oh, hold on, wait wait wait. Show me that badge again, along with some printed I.D. You look like a cop, but a girl can't be too careful.”

After thirty seconds of squinty-eyed, bifocaled scrutiny, Ida Newfield let him into her living room.

He'd expected musty, overstuffed clutter, found very little of anything.

Gray felt walls, matching carpet, one low-slung charcoal leather couch, a chrome-and-glass coffee table, a single black lacquer chest with no handles.

All the warmth of an airport terminal. Like Aaron's place.

Ida Newfield announced, “Sleek, isn't it? I'm an interior decorator, did houses you can't even imagine.” Drawing a remote-control module from a kimono pocket, she clicked. A grinding noise accompanied the ascent of a forty-inch flat-screen TV from a slot in the top of the black chest.

“Nice,” said Moe.

“It's all about negative space,” said Newfield, pushing another button and causing the TV to descend. “Know what that means?”

“Stuff you don't see?”

“All the stuff that surrounds the stuff you do see,” she corrected. “Meaning sanity, because space feeds the soul. She didn't get that.” Hooking a thumb at the wall shared with the unit next door. “Not she, the doctor. She, the other one. The one you're here about. She was clean enough, but stuff was everywhere-baby clothes, cribs, her pullout bed, bottles, food. Ugh.” Head shake. “Have you heard George Carlin on stuff? First you acquire stuff, then you need stuff to take care of your stuff and places to store your stuff. Man was a genius. I almost did his house, years ago.”

Moe said, “So you knew Adella Villareal.”

“Not in the sense of friendship. But I sure know what she did.”

“What did she do?”

“As if you don't know.”

Moe waited.

“You don't?” said Ida Newfield. “Oh, come on. She had sex for money. I'm a feminist and that offends me deeply.”

“How do you know she-”

“Because she went out late dressed like a tart. Because she offered to pay me to take care of her baby when she had to ‘work’ suddenly. Always at night. I've raised my own two, the last thing I want to do is burp and change pooey diapers. No, sirree.”

“How often did she go out dressed like a tart?”

“I wasn't out in the hall keeping count. I saw her that way by accident-let's say six times, does that work for you? What a getup, you'd think men would tire of the old clichés and show some imagination.”

“What kind of getup?”

“Tart-couture. She tried to hide it under her coat but I knew what was going on. Fishnets, skintight micro-dress that she's falling out of, five-inch spikes, tiny little purse for her condoms. A lot different than what she pretended.”

“Pretended what?”

“That she was just a nice young mommy.” Ida Newfield clucked her tongue. “A nice mommy should live with a daddy. Or at least, another mommy, I don't judge. But raising a kid all alone? Oh, sure, that works. Even Leonard was somewhat helpful, back in the back-then. Maybe if she'd had help, that baby wouldn't have squalled so much.”

Another hoarse laugh, this one bereft of glee. “He offered to babysit for her. Leonard, I mean.”

“Doing a good deed,” said Moe.

“Oh, sure, I married a saint. Not that he'd ever follow through. No memory. He was just in one of his moods. ‘Why didn't you offer my services, honeybunch? In exchange for her services.’ I punched his arm. He loves that.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Hillside Memorial,” she said, without blinking. “He passed two months ago.”

“Sorry-”

“He was ninety-three. I was his young chick. So who killed her?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out, Mrs. Newfield. Do you have any idea who did babysit for her?”

“Different people.”

“You saw them.”

“Coming in and out.”

“How many different people?”

“At least two-no, three. There could've been more, I saw three. Like I said, it's not as if I was spying. If I just happened to notice something, I noticed.”

“Such as?”

“Such as people going in and staying there while she went out all tarted up.”

“Can you describe these people?”

“I didn't get a close look. A couple of times it was a man and two women, one looked like she'd been around the block-probably helping out a fellow tart. For all I know, the younger one was, too. The man was just a bum-I've seen him around the neighborhood, near the bars.”

Moe showed her Raymond Wohr's photo.

She said, “You bet. Is he the one killed her?” Even voice, but her hands were quivering.

“There's no evidence of that, ma'am.”

“You're just carrying his picture around for fun.”

“I'm carrying pictures of various people Ms. Villareal knew. Such as this woman.”

Alicia Eiger's mug shot elicited another “Yup, that's the older one. That's a police photo, right?”

Moe nodded.

Ida Newfield said, “Maybe I can be a detective, too. I read that on the back of a matchbook. Show me the younger one and we'll go three for three.”

“That's all I've got. Can you describe the younger woman?”

“Typical.”

“How so?”

“California,” said Newfield. “The whole blondey-blond thing. Not overtly tartish, but who knows? Maybe she fulfills stupid men's fantasies-deflowering the innocent.”

“How young was she?”

“Young. Like a college student. Not that she went to college.”

“Why not?”

“If she did, why would she be associating with lowlifes?”

“Could I show you a picture at the station, ma'am?”

“You're kidding,” said Ida Newfield. “Like I'm going to leave the comfort of my home and go traipsing all the way to Wilcox Street?”

Hollywood Station was a few blocks away. What he needed to show her was at West L.A. He thought of something. “Do you have a computer, ma'am?”

“Why?”

“I could have the picture sent right now.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“I'm impressed,” said Ida Newfield. Then she cracked up. “You mean the police department has finally replaced horse and buggies with motor cars? Of course I have a computer.”

Clicking her remote, she brought the flat-screen back up, pressed more buttons. A Windows log-in filled the screen.

“The hardware's down below, the TV's the monitor. I've got a cordless Wi-Fi keyboard and mouse if I need it, but this little thing usually does the trick. And you'll notice I don't need to open the cabinet. Which I designed thirty-five years ago, Knoll was going to manufacture it but the timing wasn't right. All the stuff stays out of sight because the system responds to an infrared signal.”

Have you met my brother? “I'm impressed,” said Moe.

“Negative space, young man. The less we have, the richer we are.”

She mixed herself a Gibson, dropped in two extra pearl onions while Moe cell-phoned the West L.A. D-room. He talked to Delano Hardy and explained what he needed.

Hardy said, “Love to help you, but I'm too old for that techno-babble. How about Burns?”

Gary Burns, a thirty-five-year-old D-2 and devoted gamer, listened and said, “Sure, if the scanner's working. Where's the file?”

Several moments passed, during which Ida Newfield sipped her drink and talked about houses she'd decorated “back in the back then.” Suddenly the TV went from blue to polychrome as Caitlin Frostig's clean, wholesome, now grotesquely enlarged visage filled the screen.

Wrought monstrously happy. The horror of her death hit Moe, maybe for the first real time since he'd caught the case.