"She was… she was… what?" Chick looked at them, his mouth agape. He put his hands to his face, then dropped his head into them. How little is too little? How much is too much? Don't overdo it… Don't underdo it. It was a hard balance to strike. Since he felt absolutely nothing, it all had to be performance. Instead of concentrating on real feelings, he was focused on behavior, which he knew might cause him to come off as emotionless and mechanical.
He moved away from the matinee-idol detective, trying to get some distance from the man's probing stare. He knew he was being carefully evaluated by both cops, and it made him tense. His body language seemed stiff and jerky, even to him. Then he had a sudden wave of flop-sweat. Was he already fucking this up?
"Are you okay? Can we get you anything? Some water?" Demetrius asked.
Chick sort of shook his head, breathing through his mouth, trying to look like he was in some kind of emotional free fall.
"Why would anybody…? It can't be… Are you sure it was her?"
"Yes. Her stylist, Edward Paul, heard the shots, identified the body, and pinned the time of death for us. He saw your wife's murderer driving off in her car, but didn't get a good look at the shooter. The car was just turning the corner. She was already dead in the parking lot behind his salon when he found her."
A strange incongruous thought flickered. Mr. Eddy's last name was Paul… He'd never known that. So why not Mr. Paul? That was what went through his head, but he sobbed and said, "Oh… oh… my God… Oh… no, not Evelyn… " Too much? Too little? He was flying blind. He was hyperaware of his every movement, like a bad actor in a high school play.
"We have some questions," Demetrius said. "I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but we need to establish where everyone was. Could you tell us where you were about six o'clock?"
"Right here. I was right here in the house." Trying for shock and dismay. Maybe pulling it off, maybe bungling it badly.
"Can anybody confirm that? Was anybody here with you?"
"Uh… no… Well, my daughter was… " Chick paused. "I mean, she's here."
"Can you get her, please?"
So Chick got up, and with what he hoped was an anguished expression on his face, walked down the hall to his daughter's room. The plain-looking detective followed so he could monitor what was being said. Chick found Melissa sprawled on her bed, still zonked. That girl had honed the art of sleeping to a razor's edge. She could sleep through a cat fight, or more to the point, through a crystal meth raid.
"Melissa, wake up," he said, shaking her by the shoulder.
"Lemme alone," she growled, and rolled over, facing the other way. "Can't I get a moment's peace in this fucking house?"
Great, Chick thought, let's show this eavesdropping detective what a tight, happy little family we are.
"Your mother has been murdered," he said bluntly, going for maximum effect, trying to shock her into some sort of grieving response. He saw her breathing stop, saw her back freeze, then after ten seconds or so, she rolled over and looked at him.
"Huh?" Her eyes were slits of unpleasantness, her hair a two-day nest of bad grooming. Her face glittered with metal as she studied him with sleepy, suspicious eyes.
"Somebody carjacked her at Salono Bello. Shot her dead… took the Mercedes. The police are here." He said it softly, sounding sad while at the same time trying to get the gravity of the situation across to her.
"No shit?" she said, struggling to sit up.
No shit was hardly the appropriate response. "Oh, my God," or "Oh no, not Mom, please." But Melissa's first words were "No shit?"
She was hopeless. But at least she was sitting up now, looking at Chick. "How the fuck?" was her next stab at communication.
"I just told you. She was carjacked. Shot." He plowed on. "The cops want to talk to us. Get out of bed."
She scowled at him. "The police? I didn't do anything." Then she got up, put on her robe, and stood in the darkened bedroom. "Did they also shoot that shithead, Mickey D, I hope?"
Chick didn't answer, but thought, Good going, Meliss. Exactly what we needed.
The plain-looking cop retreated from his listening post in the hall as Chick led his scowling child back into the living room and made the introductions. "This is Melissa… Detective Demetrius, and Detective… what was it again…?"
"Watts," said the ordinary-looking cop.
"I already told her what happened," Chick said, then realized that this was all becoming very matter-of-fact, so he added, "My God… my God… I still can't believe… "just to let them know he was in major heartbreak here, in deep shock at hearing the horrible news.
"We're trying to establish where your father was at the time of the incident," Demetrius said. "Can you attest to his whereabouts this evening, say, starting any time after 4 P. M.?"
"How the fuck would I know?" Melissa said. She was scowling while looking at them, but Chick could read her like the morning paper. She was already trying to figure out what this murder would do to her life. Would it change anything? Would her credit card get frozen?
"Your father said he was here," Demetrius added. "Can you confirm that?"
"I was asleep," she scowled. "How the hell would I know?"
It wasn't going at all the way he'd planned. Chick thought her attitude was atrocious, and he could read shock at her behavior on both cops' faces. But they had a job where they witnessed the worst of mankind, so they waited patiently without comment. Chick didn't want to prod her, but Watts was writing everything down in a spiral crime book, and Chick desperately needed Melissa for his alibi, so he tried to jog her memory.
"Wait a minute. Didn't I come in earlier to wake you up for your date? What time was that? Do you remember?"
"Huh?"
At this rate, they wouldn't even need a trial. They might as well just drag the electric chair over here and plug it in.
Chick tried again. "Remember, I woke you up? I think it was about… "
"Let her tell it, please," Demetrius interrupted.
"Okay, yeah… I guess I remember." Melissa was snapping out of it. A look of feral shrewdness came into her eyes. "Six o'clock or six-oh-five… something like that. He came in and woke me up for my date."
"You're certain?" Demetrius asked, a little disappointment creeping into those two words.
"I said it, didn't I? You think I'd lie?"
Shit, Chick thought.
"I don't know, Miss Best, I just met you. Your mother was murdered. You don't seem very upset."
"I just woke up!"
Chick thought it couldn't possibly be going much worse, but that was Melissa. She hated both of them. Forgetting for the moment that he had pulled the trigger, Chick was irritated that Melissa wasn't at all bothered that the woman who had given birth to her and raised her had just been brutally murdered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Demetrius and Watts exchange a private look.
"Look, give me a lie detector test if you don't believe me," she suddenly blurted. "The cops never believe anything I say, anyway. They always think I'm lying."
Of course they absolutely believed her confession about the crystal meth when she was lying, but that's another story. The idea of a polygraph test was the last thing Chick wanted to introduce into this conversation. Next thing, the cops would want him to take one too. He was hoping they'd find the Mercedes, find the gun, get Delroy's prints off both, and solve this thing quickly, put it behind him before anybody started asking for a polygraph.
"A lie detector test might be a very good idea," Demetrius said. "Would you also agree to take one, Chick?" Now using his first name like they already owned him. "Just to get this part of the investigation behind us?"