The police report said so.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.”
Yeah, but William would have. And a former investigator who had carried that model should have been able to tell from the weight. Or at least should have swung out the cylinder to check on it. I made an effort not to look back at the hypnosis books.
“What happened next?”
“The cops came pretty fast. They questioned us and took William away.”
“William say anything more before the cops arrived?”
“No. Course, none of us were asking him any questions, either.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” Linden got off the leg lift and picked up his wipe towel again.
“Nothing else you remember or struck you as odd?”
“No, except for George Bjorkman.”
“Bjorkman? One of the cops?”
“Yeah. Him and Clay were the ones first come to the office. I was surprised how he took it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, George, he was crazy about Jennifer. Wanted to take her to his senior prom in college when she was just a freshman in high school, if you can believe what Jennifer told us in group. Anyway, Sam, her daddy, wouldn’t hear of it. I was surprised that George didn’t rough William up any, considering what he’d done.”
“The killing.”
“That and takin’ his girl, so to speak.” Linden slung the towel around his neck. “More for the takin’ maybe than for the killin’.”
“Because William was black?”
“Yup.”
I asked Linden if I could get back to him in the future, and he said sure, he knew how investigations worked. Linden walked me back upstairs, and we shook hands at his door.
I said, “I really appreciate your time.”
“My pleasure, my pleasure. It’s good to have someone to talk to, even about something like this.” Linden opened the door for me. “You talking to each of the people in the group?”
“Yes.”
“Who else you seen?”
“You’re the first.”
“Who’s next?”
“Any suggestions?”
“Well, Lainie Bishop lives only about half a mile from here. What time you got?”
I looked down. “Five-thirty.”
“You should just catch her.” He gave me directions to her house.
“Thanks.”
“Hope you got a strong zipper,” Homer Linden said, chuckling and closing the door behind me.
Nine
L AINIE B ISHOP LIVED in a development of “estate” homes. You could tell because the private sign beneath her corner’s street pole said so. I pulled up to number 18, all the addresses a full six digits apart. Very estate-like.
There was a silver Oldsmobile in the drive. The landscaping looked professional, the house large but without character. The chimes were still bonging when a woman opened the door.
“Lainie Bishop?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, passing the tip of her tongue over her top front teeth. She had dirty-blond hair, cut and fluffed the way Farrah used to wear hers. The face was plain, though her eyes were big, blue, and set wide apart. She wore a pink silk dress that clung in all the right places and ended eight inches above her knees. I guessed her at thirty-five trying hard to look twenty-eight.
“My name is John Cuddy. I’m investigating the death of Jennifer Creasey.”
Bishop rolled her head to one side. “What’s to investigate?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Well, I can’t ask you in because I’m on my way out, but”— she rolled her head, curls shaking, to the other side of her shoulders and licked the teeth again—“you’re welcome to come with me.”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
She turned, stretching back to pick up a handbag. Her hemline rose another four inches. “Cointreau’s.” She pronounced it “quan-trows,” like the liqueur.
“What’s that?”
She gave me a saucy smile. “My, my. A virgin.”
“I guess so.”
“C’mon,” she said, closing the door behind her. She looked toward the street. “That yours?”
I glanced at my ratty Fiat. “Yes.”
“Maybe we better take separate cars
“Yeah, but I didn’t know that.”
Yeah, but William would have. And a former investigator who had carried that model should have been able to tell from the weight. Or at least should have swung out the cylinder to check on it. I made an effort not to look back at the hypnosis books.
“What happened next?”
“The cops came pretty fast. They questioned us and took William away.”
“William say anything more before the cops arrived?”
“No. Course, none of us were asking him any questions, either.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.” Linden got off the leg lift and picked up his wipe towel again.
“Nothing else you remember or struck you as odd?”
“No, except for George Bjorkman.”
“Bjorkman? One of the cops?”
“Yeah. Him and Clay were the ones first come to the office. I was surprised how he took it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, George, he was crazy about Jennifer. Wanted to take her to his senior prom in college when she was just a freshman in high school, if you can believe what Jennifer told us in group. Anyway, Sam, her daddy, wouldn’t hear of it. I was surprised that George didn’t rough William up any, considering what he’d done.”
“The killing.”
“That and takin’ his girl, so to speak.” Linden slung the towel around his neck. “More for the takin’ maybe than for the killin’.”
“Because William was black?”
“Yup.”
I asked Linden if I could get back to him in the future, and he said sure, he knew how investigations worked. Linden walked me back upstairs, and we shook hands at his door.
I said, “I really appreciate your time.”
“My pleasure, my pleasure. It’s good to have someone to talk to, even about something like this.” Linden opened the door for me. “You talking to each of the people in the group?”
“Yes.”
“Who else you seen?”
“You’re the first.”
“Who’s next?”
“Any suggestions?”
“Well, Lainie Bishop lives only about half a mile from here. What time you got?”
I looked down. “Five-thirty.”
“You should just catch her.” He gave me directions to her house.
“Thanks.”
“Hope you got a strong zipper,” Homer Linden said, chuckling and closing the door behind me.
Nine
L AINIE B ISHOP LIVED in a development of “estate” homes. You could tell because the private sign beneath her corner’s street pole said so. I pulled up to number 18, all the addresses a full six digits apart. Very estate-like.
There was a silver Oldsmobile in the drive. The landscaping looked professional, the house large but without character. The chimes were still bonging when a woman opened the door.
“Lainie Bishop?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, passing the tip of her tongue over her top front teeth. She had dirty-blond hair, cut and fluffed the way Farrah used to wear hers. The face was plain, though her eyes were big, blue, and set wide apart. She wore a pink silk dress that clung in all the right places and ended eight inches above her knees. I guessed her at thirty-five trying hard to look twenty-eight.
“My name is John Cuddy. I’m investigating the death of Jennifer Creasey.”
Bishop rolled her head to one side. “What’s to investigate?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Well, I can’t ask you in because I’m on my way out, but”— she rolled her head, curls shaking, to the other side of her shoulders and licked the teeth again—“you’re welcome to come with me.”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
She turned, stretching back to pick up a handbag. Her hemline rose another four inches. “Cointreau’s.” She pronounced it “quan-trows,” like the liqueur.
“What’s that?”
She gave me a saucy smile. “My, my. A virgin.”
“I guess so.”
“C’mon,” she said, closing the door behind her. She looked toward the street. “That yours?”
I glanced at my ratty Fiat. “Yes.”
“Maybe we better take separate cars
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