Artist's Proof by Gordon Cotler Page B

she had said sadly, no, she wouldn’t go out with him, was I kidding? She liked that he was from somewhere else, but her mother would kill her, didn’t she say he was older? Anyway, she didn’t have time for that stuff.
    Paulie was kicking sand and probing. “She said you were a cop from New York. Right?”
    â€œUsed to be.”
    â€œBut you’re a pro. Not like these clowns. How long you think before they arrest that creep? That pervert Sharanov?”
    â€œEasy, Paulie. The investigation’s just getting under way. They have to build a case that’ll satisfy a grand jury. They’ll likely want to talk to you, to a lot of people. Meanwhile, why don’t you go back to the garage? Work’ll calm you down.”
    He had only heard one phrase. “What do you mean, build a case? While Misha hires himself some high-price lawyer? The man’s a gangster.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œI know. I can smell it. Dirty money. He’s a crook, crazy mean, and he’s been after”—his mouth jammed up—“after her since last year.”
    â€œShe was a pretty girl, Paulie. He wasn’t the only man who thought so.”
    â€œHe was after her.”
    â€œDid she say that?”
    â€œShe wouldn’t, or I’d have made her quit. But she didn’t have to say it. His wife got so jealous she hit him with a chair. I’m surprised he didn’t blow her head off. That’s got to be his style.” He paused. “Is that what he did to … to … He shot her?”
    â€œI don’t know how Cassie died.” Telling him was not my call. “You’ll have to ask the police.”
    â€œThat kid Scully? What the hell does he know? He was probably after her himself.” And then, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.”
    â€œThat’s why you should go back to work.”
    â€œYeah, I guess…” He considered the option, but not for long. “Do they have what did it? The gun, knife, whatever?”
    â€œSpeak to Scully.”
    â€œIf they haven’t found it yet, they can forget it. Misha’s got thirty miles of dunes to bury it in. They should have run him in by now. Is he still in the house?”
    As if in answer to the question, Sharanov’s voice, smooth and assured, carried to us from the driveway around front. “Officer, this car will have to be moved before I can get mine out.”
    Paulie was stricken. “They’re letting the son of a bitch go. I can’t believe it.”
    Before I could stop him he had raced around the side of the house and disappeared in front. I followed, but at a more measured pace. I had done my bit; let Walter handle this one.
    By the time I got around to the front of the house, Nikki, the massive yam head, had a thick arm wrapped around the struggling Paulie’s throat; his other hand had Paulie’s head pulled back by his hair. Poor Paulie, a glutton for punishment, had been licked twice in twenty minutes. If he couldn’t handle me, he was a fool to tangle with Nikki, who had a good five inches and fifty pounds on him.
    When I didn’t see Walter at first, I thought he had departed to a less stressful location, but then I spotted him in one of the police vehicles. He had been trying to move it out of the way of Sharanov’s red Cadillac. Now he was wriggling his bulk out of the seat so he could handle the “altercation,” as he would call it in his report.
    Meanwhile, Sharanov had walked up to within a foot of the pretty much helpless Paulie. He moved as though he was on a track; if you wanted to change his course you would have to derail him. Quietly he said, “Did you have something to say to me?”
    â€œNo,” Paulie managed, “nothing.” Then, “I just wanted to kick you in your fucking, murdering balls.”
    After which he tried that. But Nikki yanked him