serious.”
Shayla nodded. “We are very serious.”
“Very,” agreed Tamara. She laughed from deep in her belly. “He was mad as a hornet.”
“And limp as a wet fern,” added Shayla, laughing just as hard.
“He ever bother you again?”
Tamara stopped laughing. “Would you?”
It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”
“So that’s our story, Mister Policeman,” said Shayla, doing a remarkable Betty Boop impersonation right down to the fluttering lashes.
Sam knew when he was outgunned. “So you settled your score, and you’ve got the tape to prove it. Gail tells me Ed tried to force her out of the building, too. Anybody else have a reason to dislike our ex-landlord?”
“Can’t think of a reason why anyone would like him,” replied Shayla. “Did you?”
“Nah,” said Sam. “I thought Ed was an asshole.”
“Did you kill him?” asked Tamara playfully.
“I’m a cop, remember?”
“That just makes it easier to cover-up,” said Shayla.
“You kill everyone you think is an asshole?”
“No,” replied Tamara, still smiling. “We just make them take their pants off.”
“Exactly,” said Sam. “So how well do you know your— our —neighbors?”
“You talk to Gus yet?” asked Tamara.
Sam shook his head. “Is he the old guy, end of the hall?”
“Yeah. Retired, nice as can be—plays tennis at the courts in the park across the street. Says it keeps him young.”
“How old is he?”
“I dunno,” said Tamara. “Around Gail’s age, maybe? He’s sweet on her, I think. I’ve seen them having coffee sometimes—it’s cute.”
“OK,” said Sam, feeling the need to stretch his legs. “Anybody else?”
“Jill,” said Shayla. “You know Jill?”
Sam shook his head. “Gail mentioned her, but we’ve never met.”
“Last door on the left,” said Tamara. “You’d like Jill.”
Shayla looked Sam up and down, like she was weighing him for sale in the produce section. “He would like Jill. How old are you?”
Sam told her.
Tamara beamed. “Jill’s great, very cool lady. She’s a singer—you know the bar on the other side of the park?”
“Yeah.”
“Friday nights,” said Tamara. “Jazz.”
“She’s got that husky voice,” added Shayla. “You’d like Jill.”
Sam found himself blushing. “OK—anybody else?”
“How ‘bout the crackheads across the hall?” asked Shayla.
Tamara flushed. “They are not crackheads. Jerome’s cute—he’s just…”
“A crackhead,” insisted Shayla.
Tamara flared her eyes at her roommate, then smiled at Sam. “Two brothers, Larry and Jerome. They live across the hall. Larry’s a little uptight, but Jerome’s kinda sweet.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “He holds the elevator door open for her, and the girl swoons.”
Tamara smacked Shayla on the leg. “I like men with manners.”
Shayla shook her head sadly. “He’s a crackhead.”
Tamara smacked harder this time. “He’s sweet.”
Sam interjected. “A sweet crackhead?”
Shayla corrected herself. “I’m just saying that to get under her skin,” she said, hitting Tamara in return. “Crack is too old school—and too urban—for these boys. They are white as bread, the both of them. But Jerome wears some powerful cologne that smells a whole lot like reefer.”
“So he’s a stoner,” said Sam simply. No judgment, just matter of fact. With medical marijuana legal in California, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone on the force busted someone for pot. The city had bigger problems.
Tamara tried a pout—it didn’t suit her. “He just likes to party.”
Sam nodded. “And he lives with his brother across the hall?”
“Yeah,” said Shayla. “But you probably won’t find them there—they go out during the day.”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe I’ll knock on their door tonight.”
“You know where they hang out a lot?” said Shayla. “That Mexican restaurant across the skybridge. We run into them every time we go to the
Shayla nodded. “We are very serious.”
“Very,” agreed Tamara. She laughed from deep in her belly. “He was mad as a hornet.”
“And limp as a wet fern,” added Shayla, laughing just as hard.
“He ever bother you again?”
Tamara stopped laughing. “Would you?”
It was Sam’s turn to laugh. “Not a chance.”
“So that’s our story, Mister Policeman,” said Shayla, doing a remarkable Betty Boop impersonation right down to the fluttering lashes.
Sam knew when he was outgunned. “So you settled your score, and you’ve got the tape to prove it. Gail tells me Ed tried to force her out of the building, too. Anybody else have a reason to dislike our ex-landlord?”
“Can’t think of a reason why anyone would like him,” replied Shayla. “Did you?”
“Nah,” said Sam. “I thought Ed was an asshole.”
“Did you kill him?” asked Tamara playfully.
“I’m a cop, remember?”
“That just makes it easier to cover-up,” said Shayla.
“You kill everyone you think is an asshole?”
“No,” replied Tamara, still smiling. “We just make them take their pants off.”
“Exactly,” said Sam. “So how well do you know your— our —neighbors?”
“You talk to Gus yet?” asked Tamara.
Sam shook his head. “Is he the old guy, end of the hall?”
“Yeah. Retired, nice as can be—plays tennis at the courts in the park across the street. Says it keeps him young.”
“How old is he?”
“I dunno,” said Tamara. “Around Gail’s age, maybe? He’s sweet on her, I think. I’ve seen them having coffee sometimes—it’s cute.”
“OK,” said Sam, feeling the need to stretch his legs. “Anybody else?”
“Jill,” said Shayla. “You know Jill?”
Sam shook his head. “Gail mentioned her, but we’ve never met.”
“Last door on the left,” said Tamara. “You’d like Jill.”
Shayla looked Sam up and down, like she was weighing him for sale in the produce section. “He would like Jill. How old are you?”
Sam told her.
Tamara beamed. “Jill’s great, very cool lady. She’s a singer—you know the bar on the other side of the park?”
“Yeah.”
“Friday nights,” said Tamara. “Jazz.”
“She’s got that husky voice,” added Shayla. “You’d like Jill.”
Sam found himself blushing. “OK—anybody else?”
“How ‘bout the crackheads across the hall?” asked Shayla.
Tamara flushed. “They are not crackheads. Jerome’s cute—he’s just…”
“A crackhead,” insisted Shayla.
Tamara flared her eyes at her roommate, then smiled at Sam. “Two brothers, Larry and Jerome. They live across the hall. Larry’s a little uptight, but Jerome’s kinda sweet.”
Shayla rolled her eyes. “He holds the elevator door open for her, and the girl swoons.”
Tamara smacked Shayla on the leg. “I like men with manners.”
Shayla shook her head sadly. “He’s a crackhead.”
Tamara smacked harder this time. “He’s sweet.”
Sam interjected. “A sweet crackhead?”
Shayla corrected herself. “I’m just saying that to get under her skin,” she said, hitting Tamara in return. “Crack is too old school—and too urban—for these boys. They are white as bread, the both of them. But Jerome wears some powerful cologne that smells a whole lot like reefer.”
“So he’s a stoner,” said Sam simply. No judgment, just matter of fact. With medical marijuana legal in California, he couldn’t remember the last time anyone on the force busted someone for pot. The city had bigger problems.
Tamara tried a pout—it didn’t suit her. “He just likes to party.”
Sam nodded. “And he lives with his brother across the hall?”
“Yeah,” said Shayla. “But you probably won’t find them there—they go out during the day.”
Sam shrugged. “Maybe I’ll knock on their door tonight.”
“You know where they hang out a lot?” said Shayla. “That Mexican restaurant across the skybridge. We run into them every time we go to the
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