Red Light by T. Jefferson Parker

just
names?"
    "I guess you're
tight with the bloodhound man."
    "Pretty
tight."
    "You'll regret
this," said Brice, in a theatrical tone.
    "I'll learn to
live with it."
    "You can learn
to live with warts, too."
    "No warts. No
date. But thanks for asking anyway. I'm very slightly flattered."
    "An age
thing," he said. "Cool."
    She hung up and
wondered at men. There was Mike who saw no humor in anything. There was Gary
who saw no seriousness in anything.
    And there was Tim,
Jr., asleep on his blanket in the corner with one hand on his orange pipe
wrench and the other on his panda.

CHAPTER
FIVE
    M r.
Moladan will see you now."
    Merci
glared at the receptionist on her way past. The woman was blond, young,
unreasonably beautiful. She smelled like free sample day at Macy's. Merci noted
that Paul Zamorra looked at her and got a smile back.
    They'd
agreed to lean a little on Moladan even though he wasn't a suspect. Yet. But if
a john had killed Aubrey, it might have been one of Epicure's, not one of her
own. Moladan would have his name. Merci volunteered to do the leaning because
it would come naturally to her: She thought pimps and panderers who beat up
their girls were even more disgusting than the spineless clowns who leased
their bodies.
    The
office building was in Dana Point, overlooking the harbor. Epicure Services
was in suite 12, upstairs. Behind the receptionist's desk was a hallway that
led past two small offices. Each office had two women in it, and all four of
them had phones to their ears and pens in their hands.
    At
the end of the hall were fake wood double doors meant to look impressive.
Holding one open was a powerful looking, middle-aged man with dark curly hair,
a big mustache and a big smile.
    "I am
Goren," he said. "Please come in and be seated."
    Zamorra sat and Merci
stood. Merci watched Moladan move behind his desk and sit down with his back to
the gray December sky. He was wearing a tight black polo shirt, jeans and
cowboy boots. He moved lightly for a thick man in boots.
    There were framed
travel posters of Italy on the walls. A sign photograph of the Italian soccer
team for 1997. A string of black and white shots of race cars going down a
track. The featured car in each was an Alfa Romeo.
    Moladan pushed aside
a computer monitor. "Police usually like coffee," he said.
    "I don't,"
said Merci.
    Zamorra shook his
head no.
    "Then how can I
help you?"
    He smiled in a
practiced way, teeth showing behind the mustache, his eyes were hard and alert.
His accent was thick but his diction was good.
    "Tell me about
Aubrey Whittaker," said Merci.
    "Aubrey, she is
one of my contractors."
    He pronounced her
name Obrey.
    "One of your
girls."
    "I do not use
that term. No. Women, perhaps. Never girls."
    "She's
nineteen."
    "Yes, an adult
American woman. Something has happened?"
    "The cards your
receptionist gave you said Homicide Detail. What do you think?"
    "Then I think
yes."
    "You've got a
bright future."
    Moladan sighed and
sat back. Merci watched him hard. He crossed his thick arms over his thick
chest. He had a vertical scar on the left of his forehead.
    She stared straight
at him and said nothing.
    He said, "What
am I to do, read your minds?"
    "She was
murdered Tuesday night. Surprised?"
    In a first interview
Merci liked to crowd the facts and the questions get the guy answering with his
emotions.
    "I am ... I am
absolutely surprised, yes."
    Merci nodded and
pulled out her notebook. Zamorra set his recorder on the desk.
    "This
helps us keep things straight. You don't mind, do you?"
    "Why
... no. Not at all. I will join you."
    Moladan produced a
black mini recorder, turned it on and set it on the desk.
    "You
make a lot of tapes, Mr. Moladan?"
    "When
detectives accuse me of murder, I tape."
    "If we were
accusing you of murder you'd be downtown right now. In fact, that's where we're
going if you don't turn that thing off and put it back."
    She could see the
anger in his eyes. Without the smile, his face looked worn and