The Trials of Nikki Hill by Dick Lochte, Christopher Darden Page A

assessment of Goodman was that he was the contemplative type. But Carlos could probably try the patience of a saint.
    The two detectives seemed to be locked in a stare-down. “You boys decide to start whaling on each other,” she said, “you might want to take it outside where you won’t be bouncing against any evidence.”
    The older man blinked, shook his head, and casually leaned against a wall. He was breathing rather heavily.
    “You okay?” she asked.
    “Hey, amigo, you look shaky.” Concern had swiftly replaced Morales’s anger.
    “I’m fine,” Goodman told them.
    Nikki wasn’t so sure. The blood had drained from his face, leaving it an unhealthy pasty gray.
    He straightened, assumed his usual laconic stance, and said, “Sorry about the show of temperament, Ms. Hill. Why don’t we go consult with somebody who might give us some honest-to-God facts about the bracelet?”
    “I doan mind facts,” Morales said as they walked from the room. “Long as they doan get in the way.”
    They found Arthur Lydon, Madeleine Gray’s assistant, in the office at the rear of the house, staring at the phone in frustration. He was a small man with short, spiked hair and a boyish face tanned so evenly it couldn’t have been natural. He was wearing tight black pants, a lavender sailcloth shirt, and several tiny metal studs embedded in his right ear. “Ms. Hill,” he said to her when Goodman had introduced them, “can you tell me how I might find out when Maddie’s body . . .” He paused and almost gave in to tears. “. . . when she will be available for a farewell service?”
    Nikki said, “The autopsy has been scheduled for tomorrow morning. You should be hearing from somebody after that.”
    “Mr. Lydon,” Goodman said, “we’d like you to help us with something.”
    The small man’s eyes brightened with curiosity as Goodman handed him the baggie containing the bracelet. “
Très
tacky,” the young man said.
    “Ever seen it before?” Morales asked.
    Arthur Lydon shook his head from side to side emphatically.
    “Check out the inscription,” Nikki suggested.
    Lyndon picked a pair of eyeglasses from his desk. They had round tortoiseshell frames that enhanced his schoolboy appearance. “Oh, I don’t believe it,” he said. “You’re not going to tell me this trinket belongs...belonged to Mad-die?”
    “You never noticed her wearing it?” Nikki asked.
    “Definitely not. Maddie rarely wore jewelry. Maybe a string of pearls.”
    “Nothing that she wore all the time?” Goodman asked. “Like a ring?”
    “No way,” the young man said. “She spent so much of her life in front of a camera. The folks out in TV land don’t like their trusted newspeople to be too flashy. And this . . .” he handed the baggie back to Goodman. “This isn’t her style at all.”
    “Was she in Paris recently?” the detective asked.
    “Several months ago,” Lydon said. “She had a week off and she up and went. Maddie was very... spontaneous.”
    “Go on a long trip like that by herself?” Nikki asked.
    “To my knowledge,” Lydon said, “and I made the arrangements.”
    “Couldn’t she have changed your arrangements and taken somebody?” Goodman asked.
    The young man considered the question and frowned. “Well, as I told you, she
was
spontaneous.”
    “She like black guys?” Morales asked.
    Lydon looked quickly at Nikki and away. “Maddie was unattached,” he said, pursing his lips. “She liked men. All kinds of men. Who doesn’t?”
    Morales rolled his eyes. Ignoring him, Goodman said, “There’s a room upstairs, Mr. Lydon. Got a desk with a computer, filing cabinets.”
    Lydon nodded. “Maddie’s private work space.”
    “Want to come up there with us for a minute?” Goodman asked.
    Lydon’s eyes dropped to the papers on his desk. “Sure. This can wait.”
    They trudged upstairs, gathering at the doorway to the cluttered room. “Wow,” Nikki said. “I thought my place was a mess.”
    “Look