Or maybe just predatory.
“Who do you think is the brains of this outfit?” Laura asked as they drove past the apartments on Euclid, rounded the block and came at the apartments from the other side.
“Ruby’s got the money. And she’s older, so she might be the straw boss on this cattle drive.”
“But Alex is such a good liar.”
Anthony nodded. “If you look like a sociopath, if you talk like a sociopath—”
“You may just be a sociopath,” they finished in unison.
“I’m guessing they cooked it up together. I wonder what happened first, though, the chicken or the egg? Were they attracted to each other and became lovers and then decided to off Sean? Or . . . ”
“Did they meet somehow because Ruby was looking for a partner? Or a patsy?”
“I don’t think Alex could ever be described as a patsy,” Laura said. “Not the way she lies. My mother had a saying about obnoxious couples: ‘They’d spoil another couple.’ Maybe that’s the case here.”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Anthony said.
The apartments were located on a sleepy stretch of Euclid Avenue —a labyrinth of beige stucco boxes stacked three stories high. Pocket patios, plenty of palm trees, the glitter of a swimming pool through wrought iron fencing—the definition of generic student apartments in a sunbelt city.
The lot was less than half-full. That was because final exams were over at the U. of A., and students were moving out, if they weren’t gone already. There were lots of units just coming empty. Alex’s Ford Focus was in a covered parking area.
“Looks like she’s home. There’s 14C.” Laura nodded toward the apartment and then looked back at the Google satellite map just to make sure.
They parked and got out—and were blasted by the heat. Tucson was a good-sized city now, with plenty of roads and buildings that attracted the sun’s rays. The city was a heat island.
Laura positioned herself to the left side of the door. Anthony knocked and stepped back so his weight was on his left leg. Hand down by his side.
They waited. Laura’s hand also hovered near her weapon. Just in case.
Anthony knocked again.
The door opened. Alex Williams looked like your typical college student, in short shorts and a skimpy top. Barefoot, hair caught up in a barrette that looked like chopsticks, glasses pushed up on the top of her head. “Hi there.”
Hard not to look at that model-perfect body.
“Can we talk to you?”
She opened the door wider. “Oh, sure. Come in!”
She showed no surprise that they were here on her doorstep. No surprise that they had found her under the name Alex Williams. She looked friendly . . . and helpful.
She led them into a neat, spare-looking living room. No knick-knacks, just the furniture the place came with. There was a MacBook Pro on the dinette table and a big textbook—geology, Laura thought.
The graduate student at work.
She motioned them to the couch and said, “Did you find out who killed Sean?”
“Not yet,” Anthony said, sitting down. It was a cheap apartment couch and he sank into it.
Laura perched on the edge beside him, hoping to avoid the quicksand.
The girl’s brows knitted together. “I was hoping the furniture wasn’t so crappy. . .” She pulled a chair from the dinette table, sat down on it, and hooked her bare feet around the legs. “ . . . . But, you know.” She shrugged. “So how can I help you?” She leaned forward, earnest and attentive and not the least bit surprised they were here.
Anthony said, “I was wondering . . . could you clear up why you called yourself Madison Neville?”
Her face turned suddenly grave. “I was worried my ex would find me. That’s why I changed back to my maiden name.”
“He wouldn’t find you under the name ‘Madison Neville?’”
“I know. Pretty dumb, huh? But I wasn’t thinking straight. I just wanted to get away from him.”
“Did you change it back officially?”
“Nope.”
“Do you know where your ex is now?”
“Nuh-uh. I have no idea.” She looked confused and sad at the same time.
Quite a show she was putting on. But Laura sensed Williams, Neville—whoever she was—didn’t give a rat’s ass whether they believed her or not. She gave Laura the impression that she knew she’d already won this round and she was not the least bit worried about what she said.
Anthony took the lead. He went over Sean’s movements—the ones Alex knew about.
“Was he interested in you?”
“Oh, he flirted with me. But I wasn’t interested.”
“Did you spend much time together?”
“No more than I did with any other guest. All that lying—it’s fun for a while, and then it gets boring.”
“Go on any hikes together?”
“Hikes?” She looked confused. “Why would I go hiking with him?”
Laura asked if she could use the bathroom.
“Go ahead,” Williams said. “It’s on the left.”
Laura looked at the bedroom, which was neat and somehow generic. She looked at the bathroom. Also neat and generic. She flushed the toilet, turned the faucet on and off.
She came back and stopped by the waist-high bookcase. It was crammed with books.
There were a few textbooks, some paperbacks—and a volume Laura recognized because she had it herself: Vernon Geberth’s Practical Homicide Investigation.
“I have that!” Laura said.
Alex looked up. “Oh, you do? I guess you would. That belonged to Nate. My ex. He wanted to be a homicide cop.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He made it through the Academy but as far as I know he never made detective.”
Laura would track down Nathan Williams and find out if that were true. She was beginning to suspect everything that came out of this girl’s mouth was a lie.
Anthony asked, “You’re majoring in geology?”
“Actually, the degree I’m working on is geochemistry. That’s the reason why I was staying at Madera Canyon in the first place.”
“I thought you said you were trying to get away from your ex-husband.”
“Yeah, that, too. Not everything is either-or.”
She actually pouted.
Anthony ignored the remark and the pout. “What’s in Madera Canyon?”
“I’m writing my thesis on the geochemistry of the Santa Rita Mountains. I’ve been collecting water samples from the watershed, trying to find out how much the leaching from the mines around there has affected the water chemistry over the last century and a half.”
It was all Greek to Laura. She could tell Anthony was having a hard time trying to follow that, too.
The girl went on about metamorphic core samples and geochemical watersheds until finally Anthony stopped her. “Do you own a firearm?”
“What? No! I’m scared to death of them!”
“So if we were to get a search warrant, we wouldn’t find a firearm?”
The mask fell away. “You’d have to have P.C. first, and frankly, I’m not seeing it.”
P.C. Probable cause. Either the girl was watching too many cop shows, or she’d been dipping into hubby’s Practical Homicide.
“Your friend Sean was shot with a .22,” Anthony said. “Do you know of anyone who has a .22, either a revolver or semiautomatic pistol?”