Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

A kid in a red shirt said, “Two for lunch?”

“We’re joining friends.”

Both women were pale, thin, wore drab, short-sleeved tops, jeans, and careless ponytails. Other than platinum hair on one, they each matched Bettina Sanfelice’s stats.

Milo said, “The blonde’s wearing glasses, so I’m betting that’s her. Now all I need to do is separate her from her friend and get her to blab about her sex life. Any suggestions as to the proper approach?”

“There is none,” I said.

“Your optimism is a blessing.”

Neither woman noticed until we got within three feet, then both looked up. Milo smiled at the blonde. “Bettina Sanfelice?”

The brown-haired woman said, “That’s me,” in a tiny, tentative voice. Small-boned but full-faced, she had close-set mocha eyes and puffy cheeks and looked like a child who’d just been punished. The white-sauce-slicked fry she’d been reaching for dropped back onto her plate. Not a potato-something pale green and breaded-deep-fried string bean?

Milo bent to make himself smaller, showed his card rather than the badge, recited his title as if it were no big deal.

Bettina Sanfelice was too stricken to speak, but the blonde said, “Police?” as if he were joking. She had good features but grainy skin with some active blemish, dark circles under her eyes that heavy makeup failed to mask.

Milo kept his focus on Bettina Sanfelice. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but we’re investigating the death of someone you worked with.”

Sanfelice’s mouth dropped open. Her hand shot forward, rocked her drink. It would’ve spilled if I hadn’t caught it. “Death?”

“By homicide, I’m afraid.”

Sanfelice gasped. “Who?”

Milo said, “A man named Desmond-”

Before Backer’s surname had been fully pronounced both women shouted, “Des!”

The kid in the red shirt looked over. A hard look from Milo caused him to veer toward the bar.

The bespectacled blonde said, “I have just got totally nauseous.”

Bettina Sanfelice said, “Des? Omigod.”

The blonde removed her glasses. “I need a bathroom.” She slid out of the booth.

“You also knew Des, ma’am?”

“Same as Tina did.” The blonde trotted toward the restrooms, moving clumsily in ultratight jeans and ratty sneakers.

The kid in the red shirt dared to come over. “Everything okay?”

Milo expanded like a balloon. “Everything’s grand, just go about your business.”

Now was the time for the badge. Gawking, the kid turned heel.

Milo said, “Your friend’s pretty upset, Bettina.”

“Sheryl’s got a iffy stomach.”

“That’s Sheryl Passant?”

Nod. “Omigod. Who hurt Des?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Mind if we join you?”

“Um…” Not budging.

Milo smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, but I need a little more room than that, Bettina.”

“Oh… sorry.” Sanfelice scooted over and he wedged beside her. Milo ’s presence turned her tiny. An abused child.

I settled across from them.

Milo pointed at the pink drink. “I know it’s a shock, feel free.”

“Oh… no, thanks.” But she grabbed the glass with both hands, took a long, noisy sip.

“Frozen strawberry margarita?” said Milo.

“Frozen straw-tini… Des is really dead? Omigod, that’s so… I can’t believe it!”

“Tina, anything you can tell us about Des would be really helpful. You and Sheryl both worked with him, right?”

“Uh-huh. At GHC-that’s a architectural firm. Sheryl got me the job.”

“You and Sheryl are old friends.”

“From junior high. We tried out for the army but we changed our mind because of Eye-rack. Instead, we enrolled in JC but we didn’t like it, so we went to ITT to learn computers but we didn’t like that so we switched to business technology at Briar Secretarial. Sheryl got a job right away, she can type fast, but I’m slower so I switched to computer graphics. My dream is to design furniture and draperies but there’s nothing right now so when Sheryl got the job at GHC, she told me they needed a intern, maybe I could get to do design.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-uh, I mostly ran errands, answered the phone when Sheryl was tied up. Which didn’t happen too much. There really wasn’t nothing to do.”

“Was Des working at GHC when you and Sheryl got hired?”

“No, he came later. Like a week later. We said, ‘Finally, a guy.’” Blushing.

“Mr. Cohen’s a guy.”

“He’s old.”

“How old?”

“Like sixty. He’s like a grandpa.”

A voice to our left said, “He is a grandpa, used to bring his rug-rat grandkids in and would go off all day with them.”

Sheryl Passant looked down on us, oracle on the mount.

I got up to let her in. No more ponytail; her blond hair was long and loose and streaming and her glasses were gone.

She slid in. “Why were you talking about Mr. Cohen?”

Bettina Sanfelice said, “We’re talking about Des, Sher. To find out who killed him.”

“Us? What can we tell them?”

Milo said, “For starts, what kind of guy Des was, Sheryl. Did he have enemies, who’d want to hurt him?”

Passant shifted closer. Her thigh pressed against mine. I scooted an inch away. She frowned. Flipped her hair. “Des had no enemies.”

“None at all?”

“Des was really mellow, I can’t see anyone hating him. Not even Helga the Nazi.”

“Helga the Gestapo Girl,” said Sanfelice, giggling, then turning grave. “Sorry, we just… she didn’t treat us good. Just getting our paychecks was a hassle. Sheryl, I mean. I was just an intern so I didn’t get paid at all.”

“Which totally sucked,” said Passant. “You did the same job as me, Teen. You should’ve gotten paid the same as me. Helga sucks.”

Milo said, “Wasn’t the firm a partnership?”

“Marjie and Mr. Cohen didn’t control the money, she did. The building was hers, the idea was hers, everything was hers. She was always talking like she was the one who’d made up Green. Like Al Gore had never existed. You think she killed Des?”

“You think she could’ve?”

The women looked at each other. Sanfelice stirred her drink. Passant said, “I’m not saying she’d have done it. But she’s not like a regular person, you know?”

“Different,” said Sanfelice. “She’s from Europe.”

The red-shirted kid reappeared, this time bearing two plates.

Bacon burgers oozing with molten white and orange cheese, salads the size of a baby’s head, a hay-bale of onion rings. “Um, do you guys still want this?”

Bettina Sanfelice said, “I was hungry but now I’m also feeling nauseous.”

Sheryl Passant said, “Yuck. Do we still have to pay?”

Milo said, “Put the food down, son, and give me the check. Here’s your tip in advance.” Forking over bills.

The kid said, “Sweet.”

A few minutes of routine questions produced nothing new about Desmond Backer, whom the women described as “Nice and totally hot.” The shock had worn off and they both seemed pleased at the attention.

Bettina Sanfelice studied her burger. “It’s probably gross but I’m going to try.”

Sheryl Passant said, “Not me.” Moments later, a grin as she bit in, wiped her chin. “Guess I lied.”

Milo let them eat, offered drink refills. They declined. Sanfelice wholeheartedly, Passant with some regret.

Milo stared at me.

I raised my eyebrows.

He cocked his head to the side and when I didn’t respond, said, “My partner’s gonna ask you some questions now. They’re a little personal, so sorry. But we really need to ask.”