O'Riley rang the bell and, as if she'd been expecting them, a woman answered.
"May I help you?" she asked, her voice midrange and sweet, almost saccharine.
O'Riley said, "Elaine Randle?"
She nodded. "Why yes-what is it? You folks have an…official look."
Were the remnants of a Southern accent, Catherine wondered, lurking in there somewhere?
The detective was showing his wallet I.D. to the woman, introducing himself and the CSIs.
The woman's smile vanished. "Is it Heather? Is she all right? Please tell me she's fine!"
"Yes, she is fine," Catherine said, putting some warmth in it.
"Thank God," Elaine said, and her smile returned, however tentative.
"Sorry to alarm you," Catherine said. "Hey, I'm a mom myself. Mrs. Randle, we'd like to talk to you about your ex-husband."
The smile was gone again, but she opened the door. "Please come in. Is something wrong? Is Gary all right?"
They were all inside before Catherine answered. "Your husband's all right. As for, if something's wrong…frankly, we don't know yet. We'd just like to ask you a few questions."
Nick said, "You may be able to help us determine if there is a problem."
"I'm not sure I understand, but I'm glad to talk to you. Can I get anyone a drink?" They declined and their hostess led them into a small, neat living room with anonymous contemporary decor. A sofa lined one wall and a couple of chairs sat at angles, one at the sofa's far end, the other across the narrow room. A twenty-one-inch TV perched on a cart in a corner and an end table separated the sofa and the nearest chair.
"There's no polite way to say this," Catherine said, having been asked in advance by an embarrassed O'Riley to take the lead with the woman. "But we need to talk to you about Mr. Randle's sexual proclivities."
A hand went to the woman's mouth and trembled there; her eyes jumped. "Oh, God…I thought that was behind me. What has he done? What has Gary done?"
How quickly they'd gotten to this point caught Catherine by surprise, and she was astonished to hear herself pleading the suspect's case, however vaguely: "We're not sure Gary's done anything, Mrs. Randle."
"Oh. Well, I hope you're right…."
"Why would you think he had?"
Elaine Randle shrugged, sighed. "Gary's…appetites always seem to be escalating. When we were married, he just kept wanting more…more of…well, everything."
"When you were involved with him, in that lifestyle, you didn't like it?"
"No. I tried to like it-for Gary. For our marriage."
"Did that pressure, that stress, have anything to do with your drinking problem?"
The woman leaned forward and almost whispered to Catherine: "Could you and I talk, alone? I'm sorry, but this is…" She glanced at Nick and O'Riley. "…this is embarrassing."
"It needn't be," Catherine said. "Detective O'Riley and CSI Stokes are professionals, and they need to hear what you have to say."
"Well…but it's…"
"We gather evidence," Catherine said in a firm but friendly manner. "We don't judge."
Elaine Randle drew in a deep breath, sighed, and pressed on: "Our lifestyle involved…well…there's no other way to say it: Gary's perverted tastes. He always wanted to see me with other men, other women and finally, in groups. It was getting out of hand. It was humiliating, demeaning, and as you guessed, yes, I started drinking to cope, and eventually that got out of hand, too."
Catherine cocked her head, studying the woman. "Was Gary ever interested in younger partners?"
With a derisive laugh, the woman said, "Yes-once I hit thirty, he had an affair with a woman barely out of her teens. And, later, I could see…in the swinging situations? Where Gary was concerned, the younger the partner, the better."
"Really?"
She grunted a laugh. "It's almost like he's obsessed with youth-youth and sex. He was constantly looking for attention from younger women. Maybe that's not unusual."
"What do you mean, Mrs. Randle?"
"Well, he was past thirty, too, remember-younger women, girls, that was a way to prove to himself that he hadn't lost it-that he really wasn't getting older."
"How young were these 'girls'?" Nick asked.
Elaine Randle flushed a little. She answered Nick's question, but looked at Catherine, her voice soft. "One night, shortly before I ended our relationship, I let him talk me into a threesome…I'm not proud of this…with the eighteen-year-old girl babysitting our daughter."
Catherine sat forward. "Did Gary ever display a desire for an even younger girl?"
She frowned. "Younger than that? Teenage girls, you mean? Our daughter's age…?"
The words were barely out of the woman's mouth when she froze in horror.
"Your daughter's age," Catherine said gently. "Or younger."
Elaine Randle leaned forward and gripped Catherine by the wrist; the woman's face was tight with concern. "Dear God, is my daughter safe? Are you sure Heather's safe with him? Where is she? Is she-"
"Heather's fine," Catherine said firmly. "We're investigating a crime where Mr. Randle works."
Fury enveloped the woman's face. She flew to her feet. "Why that no-good son of a bitch! That lousy no-good perverted son of a-"
Catherine stood and faced the woman; held onto her forearms. "Whoa…go slow, Mrs. Randle. We don't know anything yet-your husband may just bean innocent bystander. There are several dozen people at his agency, and he's just one of many we're looking at."
"Well, that may be…but he's the only one with access to my daughter!"
"Elaine?" Catherine said, locking her eyes with Mrs. Randle. "I said I was a mother, too. Do you understand?"
Elaine Randle swallowed, nodded.
"I would feel the same about my daughter," Catherine said. "I know all about the maternal urge to protect…and as one mother to another, I'm telling you-don't worry."
"How can I not-"
Catherine put a hand on Elaine Randle's shoulder. "We won't let anything happen to Heather. She will be safe."
8
FOR THE FIRST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AND THEN SOME, THE "Want" on the radio for the white Chevy had been a bigger bust than the car's broken taillight.
And then a prowl car reported a white Monte Carlo with a broken tail near the New York New York casino resort. The patrolman said the Monte was headed into the hotel parking ramp and that he would follow, but by the time Warrick Brown and Captain Jim Brass arrived, both the patrolman and the Monte were gone.
Livid, Brass radioed dispatch and was told that 2Paul34-the patrol car in question-had responded to a 444…"officer needs help-emergency"…on Russell Road, where a drunken motorist had taken a potshot at another officer during a routine traffic stop.
"Talk about good excuse," Warrick said. This was midmorning-Warrick already several hours into a double shift-so the drunk was either getting an early start or heading home way late.
Brass nonetheless looked pissed-off, though Warrick knew damn well the detective would have done the same as the patrolman-the urge to help a brother officer ran deep. Brass pushed the button on the radio and said, "Dispatch-did 2Paul34 report a license number?"
The female dispatcher's voice crackled: "1Zebra10, that's affirmative. It was a match for your partial."
"Dispatch, you have the whole number?"
"Affirmative."
"Run that for me, will you?"
While they waited, Warrick talked Brass into driving up and down every row in the parking building to search for the vehicle; there were lots of white cars, several Chevys, even a few Monte Carlos, but none the right year, nor with a broken taillight.