Body Copy - Michael Craven [23]
Tremaine thought, maybe Roger did leave, but instead of going home he came back to work so it looked like he spent the night. But he didn’t say it.
Two beers later, Tremaine said, “Laurie, it might be time to head home. I’ve got an old bulldog to walk.”
Laurie looked at Tremaine and narrowed her eyes a bit.
“When you walked in my office this morning, I got a little 70
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excited. I saw your old pictures online, but I still didn’t expect you to be so cute.”
“Oh, well, that’s awfully nice of you to say.”
“Don’t be modest.”
“It’s my nature.”
“Sure.” Then Laurie said, “Want to come over? I live right in Santa Monica.”
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” Tremaine said.
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“I don’t want our relationship to be awkward. I might have to talk to you again about the case.”
“Tremaine,” she said. “I’m an adult. I’m not going to call you tomorrow and ask you to take me out to dinner.”
“Laurie,” Tremaine said, looking at her looking right at him. “You’re very convincing. And I won’t lie to you.
I’ve thought, just during our time here, about what it would be like to go spend a little time together and possibly play a game or two of Twister. But I’m only good for a couple of nights. Then I run home to my trailer and my bulldog.”
“I’m not looking for two nights,” Laurie said. “Just one.”
Laurie moved closer to Tremaine, her face was inches away from his, and her breasts were now pressed against his arm. He took a deep breath.
She said, “We don’t even have to go to my house. Why don’t we just go get in my car right now.”
“What kind of car do you have?”
“A Honda Accord.”
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Michael Craven
“It might be a little cramped,” Tremaine said.
“Well, then we’ll just have to move our bodies into interesting positions.”
Tremaine downed his beer and said, “I have been taking yoga.”
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The next morning, Tremaine woke up in the trailer, slammed some coffee, slammed the New York Times, slammed the Jumble, then called Evelyn Gale, Roger’s widow.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Evelyn?” Tremaine said.
“Yes, who’s calling?” she said.
“My name is Donald Tremaine, I’m a private investigator.”
“Yes, Nina said you would be calling.”
“Is this a bad time?” Tremaine heard some anxiety in Evelyn’s voice, that unmistakable tone people exude when they want the other person on the line to know that it is indeed a bad time.
“No,” she said. “It’s fine.”
Michael Craven
“If you would be willing, I’d like to talk to you about your former husband.”
“I don’t think I can tell you anything that I haven’t already told the police. Can’t you just ask them?”
“Yes,” Tremaine said, “but it would help me more to talk to you.”
“So you can determine whether or not I had anything to do with it?”
Evelyn’s comment was terse; she was on the offensive.
She had the speech, even the voice, of a well-bred woman.
And like so many well-bred women, she could inflect her words with an authoritarian edge and make it clear that she was not to be challenged by anyone.
Tremaine said, “Yes. So I can determine whether or not you had anything to do with it. And, so I can determine if you can help me determine who did have something to do with it, if you didn’t.”
Evelyn said, “I didn’t mean to be rude, I know you’re just doing your job. But we’re finally putting all of this behind us. It’s very painful to have a loved one killed. You may not understand this, but you can get to a point where you don’t even care who did it; you just want it to be over.”
“I’d like to talk to you in person, will you talk to me?”
“I suppose,” she said. “By the way, the other detectives called me Mrs. Gale.”
“Is that what you want me to call you?”
“I’m just wondering why you didn’t?”
“Evelyn’s your name, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why I didn’t.”
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All right, Tremaine had made contact with Evelyn Gale, but he hadn’t heard back from Tyler Wilkes. He’d called him twice and hadn’t heard anything. Talked to his assistant