All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [62]
They got out of the car just as an overweight beagle came tearing around from the back of the house. Sounding more vicious than he possibly was, he barreled up to Lincoln, baying like a full-grown bloodhound. His wagging tail betrayed his fierceness, and when Lincoln reached a hand down, the dog became all puppy. He quit barking and started whimpering in pleasure, thrilled to be getting some attention.
A voice screeched out the front screen door. “Wally. Waallleeee! Stop that racket now.”
Lincoln and Marcus looked at each other. Lincoln shrugged, gave the dog one last pat and walked to the sagging gray porch. The steps squeaked in protest as he walked up them. The slight scent of marijuana wafted to his nose. He rapped hard on the screen door.
“Metro police,” he announced with authority. He heard Marcus guffaw in the background, ignored him and knocked again. There was rattling from inside the house, then a tired-looking woman with stringy brown hair appeared at the door. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she didn’t show any other obvious signs of intoxication.
“Yeah? Whaddaya want?”
Lincoln put on his polite face. “Lucy Johnson?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We’re here to talk to you about the incident you reported. The, uh, rape.” Lincoln looked to Marcus for support, but Marcus was very busy scratching Wally’s belly. Lincoln pursed his lips and turned back. There was a reason he was in homicide, a reason why he loved computers. He dealt with the dead, the inanimate, better than the living.
Lucy Johnson screwed up her face as if she was about to burst into tears. Lincoln looked at Marcus, beseeching him to come rescue him. Marcus left the dog and came to the door.
“Ms. Johnson, we just need—”
“Miss.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s Miss Johnson.” The threat of tears past, she smiled winningly at Marcus. He glanced at Lincoln out of the corner of his eye. Maybe she just didn’t like big black men in designer suits. He stepped around Lincoln and motioned at the door.
“Can we come in, Miss Johnson?”
She threw a quick, desperate look over her shoulder. “Naw, let’s do it outside. This place is a mess.” She banged open the screen door, and Lincoln jumped out of the way before it came into contact with his suit. Marcus covered a laugh by clearing his throat.
In the daylight, Lucy Johnson didn’t look quite as rough as she had in the shadows. Her hair was a day past fresh, but she had short shorts and long legs, attributes she wasn’t past using to get on the good side of the detectives. She slipped her feet into a pair of ratty plastic flip-flops and walked out into the yard, swishing her hips for maximum effect. The beagle cowered for a moment, then went to his mistress, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
Marcus raised an eyebrow at Lincoln, who shook his head slightly. She’d responded better to Marcus, let him take the interview. Lincoln folded his arms across his chest and braced his legs so he wouldn’t have to lean on the weathered porch column for support. Marcus followed the woman into the scraggly yard.
“I done told that Sex Crimes girl everything that happened. Didn’t think she believed me,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“She just had that look about her, you know? Like she was better than everybody else. Where’s she, anyway?”
“Detective Garrison was in a car accident, ma’am. We’re picking up the slack while she recovers.”
Lucy shielded her eyes from the sun and looked away quickly. “She hurt bad?”
“She’ll be fine, ma’am. I’ll tell her you asked after her. Now, we were hoping to get a little more information from you about your case. Detective Garrison mentioned you may be able to identify your attacker.”
Lucy toed a clump of dead grass. “Well, yeah, I might’ve told her that.”
“Does that mean you can identify him, or you can’t?” Marcus felt rather than saw Lincoln shift