Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [58]
Obligingly Peters reopened the paper. “The top corner,” Carstogi said.
Peters glanced at me over the top of the paper. “It’s Cole’s column,” he said.
“Read it.”
“”Who is the Lady in Red? The mysterious lady, although that may be a title she doesn’t deserve, first appeared in a red dress, driving a red Porsche, and carrying a red rose at the funeral of Angela Barstogi, Seattle’s five-year-old murder victim. The lady has since been seen several times in the company of Detective J. P. Beaumont, the homicide investigator assigned to the case.
“”Seen last in a red sweatsuit in an area restaurant, she became verbally abusive when questioned about her connection to the case. She was accompanied by Detective Beaumont at the time.
“”Because you, my faithful readers, are the eyes and ears of Seattle, I would appreciate knowing about this lady and why Seattle’s finest are keeping her under wraps.“” Peters handed me the paper. Next to the column was a picture of Anne Corley as she had appeared at the funeral, tears streaming unchecked down her face.
“Who is she?” Carstogi asked. “What does she have to do with all this?”
“Nothing,” I said. “We’ve checked her out. She’s collecting data for a book on violent crimes with young victims.”
“But he says you’ve been seen together.”
“We happened to hit it off, just like you and that girl did the other night, except she’s not a professional. Understand?”
Carstogi looked chagrined. “Yeah, I understand.”
I was furious at Maxwell Cole. It was one thing to keep my professional life under the bright light of public scrutiny. It was another to expose my personal life, to make my relationship with Anne a topic of casual breakfast conversation.
“I think you’d better hurry up and remember anything you can about that date you had the other night,” Peters was saying to Carstogi. “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack, but with what you’ve given us, we don’t know what kind of needle or which county the haystack’s in.” He shook the folded newspaper in Carstogi’s direction for emphasis. “Detective Beaumont may not think you’re the one who killed Brodie and Suzanne, but he’s going to have one hell of a time convincing us.”
“I already told you. Her name was Gloria. That’s all I know,” Carstogi said, caving in under Peters’ implied threat.
“Try to remember where you went.” Peters pressed his advantage, finally getting through Carstogi’s reluctance to a bedrock of fear beneath.
“I was kind of drunk. I think we drove over a long bridge.”
“In a cab, a car?”
“A cab. I think I came back in the same one the next morning.”
“Pickup-and-delivery prostitution,” Peters muttered. “Where did you go?” he continued. “A motel? A house?”
“It was a house, I guess. I didn’t pay much attention. A man came out to the cab and took my money, then Gloria and I went inside, into a bedroom.”
“What about the cab?” I asked. “Do you remember anything about it?”
“No. It was blue or maybe gray. The guy chewed gum. He was a big guy, dark hair, kinda oily. That’s all I remember.”
“Nothing other than that?”
“No.” Carstogi shook his head.
I looked at Peters. “What say we take him for a spin and see if he can lead us back to the little love nest?”
“You do that,” Peters said. “Drop me at the department. I’ll see if vice has been able to dig anything up.”
Carstogi came with us reluctantly. There had been some photographers outside the hotel when we went in, and we attempted to avoid them by leaving through the garage. We weren’t entirely successful. Maxwell Cole’s sidekick from the funeral caught us as Carstogi climbed into the backseat.
Once in the car Carstogi seemed more dazed than anything. “Why does everyone think I did it?” he asked.
“For one thing, your alibi isn’t worth a shit,” Peters told him. “And the place where the bike was found is well within walking distance of the Warwick. But most important, you’re the guy with the motive. Our finding your friend Gloria is probably your one chance to avoid a murder indictment. You’d better hope to God we can find her.