The Big Gamble - Michael Mcgarrity [80]
Kerney drove to the address. No one answered his knock at the main house, but two cars were parked in front of a large detached studio. A sign over the door read BUCKAROO DESIGNS.
Inside, two Hispanic women were working at sewing machines, and an Anglo woman was pinning pattern paper to some fabric at a large worktable in the center of the room. Racks of custom cowboy shirts, embroidered blue jeans, western-style dresses, and fringed jackets were lined up along a back wall. Bolts of fabric were neatly arranged on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Scraps of cloth littered the floor.
The Anglo woman looked up, set aside a pincushion, and crossed the room. About forty, she had brown hair cut short, delicate features, and wore no makeup other than lipstick. The face of a film actress flashed across Kerney’s mind, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
“Helen Pearson?” he asked.
“That’s me,” the woman replied cheerily.
Kerney showed Pearson his shield and her smile faded. “What is it?”
“I’ve a few questions about Tyler Norvell.”
Pearson broke off eye contact and her voice rose. “What kind of questions?”
“You do know him?” Kerney asked, keeping an agreeable look on his face.
“Past tense,” Pearson said. “I haven’t seen him in many years.”
The palpable tension in Pearson’s body made Kerney want to probe more. But the shut-down look in her eyes argued against it. He moved off subject. “This is quite the enterprise you’ve got going,” he said, looking around the studio. “How long have you been in business?”
“Eight years,” Pearson said, still frowning.
Pearson wore a plain gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. “Do you run the business with your husband?” Kerney asked.
She glanced at the ring as though it had betrayed her. “No, he’s a landscape architect.”
On a bulletin board behind a nearby desk were crayon drawings signed by Melissa and Stephen. “Do you have children?” Kerney asked.
Pearson’s tension rose again. Her hand fluttered to her neck and her eyes looked frightened. “Why are you asking me all these things?”
“How long have you been married?” Kerney asked.
“Stop it,” Pearson hissed. She turned away to glance at the two women. “Why are you questioning me like this?” she whispered.
“Would you be more comfortable if we talked outside?”
Pearson nodded stiffly, her eyes dark with worry. She walked through the open door and led Kerney a good distance away from the studio.
Pearson had reacted to Kerney’s innocuous questions in a way that made him believe she was hiding something. A straight-out lie just might shake it loose. “I know you worked for Norvell,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Do I really need to be more graphic? I’ll put it another way: Norvell pimped for you.”
Pearson trembled, hugged herself, and said nothing.
Kerney stepped in closer. Pearson backed up. “It looks like you’ve built a new life for yourself,” he said. “Talking to me doesn’t have to ruin it.”
She laughed, harshly, shallowly. “Oh, so you’re the good cop, right?”
“Or the bad cop,” Kerney replied, “depending on how you want to play it.”
“What would the bad cop do?” she asked, struggling for composure.
“You have a husband, children, a thriving business, a reputation, new friends . . .”
Pearson finished Kerney’s thought. “Do I want them to know I was once a whore, a hooker, a prostitute?” The words spilled out of her.
“Something like that.”
She caved, lost her poise, buried her head in her hands. Kerney stayed back and let her cry. She forced herself to straighten up, composed her face, and spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the hilltop house, the views of the mountains in the distance, her reinvented, respectable life.
“If I hadn’t done what I did, I would have none of this,” Pearson said. “Can you understand that?”
Kerney nodded.
“How can you possibly protect me?”
“When the time comes, I’ll ask the DA to have you appear before a grand jury. Your testimony will be sealed and never made public.”
Kerney knew he might be making a false