“Could be. He and his wife don’t sleep in the same room. He keeps his door locked.”
Walt let out a quiet whistle. “Some marriage,” he observed, taking a swallow. “A woman with a string of lovers and a husband who locks his doors and keeps strange hours. Have you ever asked him about his late night activities?”
“A couple of times. He’s pretty vague.”
“So you think he’s hiding something?”
“I know he is. I just want to find out what.”
Walt wiped a hand over his mouth. “I’d be glad to do the honors. Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“More than.”
“I think it’s time I paid a visit to Cousin Monty. You’ve got his address?”
“Yep. We can go ther
e after we meet with Julie Johnson. But we’d better be careful,” Walt advised, finishing his drink and slamming the bottle onto the scarred table top. “The guy’s dangerous.”
Nick dropped some bills onto the table. “No problem.” His grin was pure evil. “So am I.”
Chapter Seventeen
“What’s in it for me?” Julie Delacroix Johnson asked as she sat in a tufted chair in her apartment in Santa Rosa. Dressed in a miniskirt and tight black sweater, she crossed one leg over the other and swung her foot nervously, her slip-on shoe in danger of falling off her toes. She’d allowed Nick and Walt into her home, but she was wary. Her husband, Robert, who looked all of eighteen, regarded the other men with wary dark eyes, pulled out a kitchen chair, swung it around and straddled it. His arms were folded over the back, biceps bulging as he cradled a beer between his hands. Trying to look tough. To Nick’s way of thinking it wasn’t working. The kid was a punk. And he was hiding something.
Walt had taken a seat on a velvet couch that looked new, sharing the tan cushions with a black cat that lifted its head disdainfully before scuttling off and hiding under a table that held a vase of silk flowers. Music was blaring from big speakers, the bass so loud that the floor shook. “If I tell you all about Mom, what do I get out of it?” Julie asked.
“Peace of mind,” Nick said.
“She’s talkin’ cash here,” the husband cut in, clarifying the situation. “Cold hard cash.”
“And I’m talkin’ freedom.” Nick stood at the doorway. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by some punk kid with a thin goatee and a know-it-all smirk. “She won’t have to do any jail time for aiding and abetting a crime.”
“She didn’t do nothin’ illegal,” the punk said, his chest swelling as he jabbed a finger in the air over the back of the chair.
“If she has any information about a crime, then she could be charged,” Nick said coolly. “If not aiding and abetting, then withholding information, or something. Believe me, the cops won’t dick around. Charles Biggs was murdered and probably Pam Delacroix was, too.” Nick turned his eyes back to the sultry girl. “I’d think you’d want to nail her killer.”
“It was an accident,” she said, her voice uncertain, her round eyes suspicious.
“I don’t think so. Neither do the police. So don’t try to shake me down. I’m not in the mood.”
“Why not, dude?” the husband asked. “You said you’re a Cahill, right. They got plenty of money.”
“That’s my brother,” Nick explained. “Alex. He’s the dude with the bucks.” Sick of the situation he went to the stereo and snapped off the amp.
“Hey!” Robert protested.
“You can turn it back on after we leave.”
“Shit.”
Julie’s face turned the color of chalk.
Walt picked up on it. “Do you know Alex Cahill?” he asked. “Did you meet him somewhere?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly.