once he gets an idea in his head you can’t move it with dynamite, and he’s got connections—his brother-in-law is the mayor.” She looked directly at Labeck, her rhinestone frames glinting in the dim light. “I think he’s going to finger you for themurder, Bonaparte.”
Labeck nodded glumly. “He gave me the third degree today. I was covering that Iraq veterans’ demonstration at the courthouse and he hauled me off the job, tossed me in the back of his car, and grilled me for about an hour. I told him the truth—that I’d dropped Rhonda off at her place Monday night, then left.”
“Did he believe you?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?”
The waiter brought our pitcher of beer and three glasses, and we waited until he left before resuming our conversation.
“You two aren’t the only suspects,” Josie said. “That pyromaniac neighbor lady was questioned, and there’s a couple others on the short list. You can bet Rhonda’s ex-hubby will be getting a proctology exam, too.”
Josie drank, wiped foam off her upper lip, then looked up and stared meaningfully at Labeck. “The techies found an unknown male’s fingerprints on the tarpaulin used to cover Rhonda’s body. Same prints on her purse, the front door, and a coffee table indoors.”
“Mine?” Labeck asked.
“You tell me, Bonaparte,” Josie said. “You don’t have a police record, so your prints aren’t on file in some database. But you’ll be asked to ‘voluntarily’ go in for printing. And there’s something else.” Josie drew figures on the wet tabletop. “The forensics guys found traces of skin under Rhonda’s nails.”
“Christ,” Labeck said. “Rhonda had her hands up under my shirt, she was gouging into my back. What was I supposed to do—karate chop her?”
Sometimes you had to feel sorry for guys. Defending yourself from a predatory female is a lose-lose. Let her have her way with you and you feel unmanly. Tell her no thanks and you feel even more unmanly. Guys are supposed to want sex however they can get it.
“They can have my prints, my DNA, whatever the hell they want,” Labeck said, raising his voice. “It doesn’t matter, because I didn’t kill Rhonda. Why would I kill a woman I barely knew?”
Josie looked at him in a way that was almost pitying. “You took her home thatnight, you started fooling around, the rough sex got a little rougher—you got carried away. Or maybe Rhonda got you all stirred up, then said no at the last minute and you killed her in a fit of thwarted lust.”
“With a shoestring I just happened to have in my pocket? Or did I tell Rhonda to stand still while I unlaced my shoe?” Labeck is probably the coolest person I know. He treats most provocations with mockery or laughter. But now I saw him truly angry, his jaw clamped so tight the cords in his neck strained.
Josie held her hands up. “Oh, simmer down, Boney. I’m on your side. I’m just telling you how Trumbull will sell it to the judge. He’s already obtained a search warrant for your car and apartment.”
“Seriously?” Labeck stared at Josie.
“Serious as death, Boney. Next Trumbull is going to request that a judge issue a warrant for your arrest. He’ll say you were the only one with motive, opportunity, and the strength to do the deed. When Forensics discovers that it’s your skin beneath Rhonda’s nails, they’ll nail your hide to the wall.”
“This is all bullshit.” Labeck looked disgusted.
“I know. What can I tell you? Trumbull’s got a one-track mind. And right now it’s tracking on you.”
Our sandwiches came and we dug in. Sloppy joes on kaiser rolls, potato chips, and dill pickles so sour they puckered my mouth. The sloppies, whose secret ingredient, I’ve heard, is tapioca, were so good I was unable to use my usual strategy of saving half for my next meal. I had to stop myself from licking the plate.
“What I don’t get,” Labeck said, “is why whoever killed Rhonda dragged her body
Labeck nodded glumly. “He gave me the third degree today. I was covering that Iraq veterans’ demonstration at the courthouse and he hauled me off the job, tossed me in the back of his car, and grilled me for about an hour. I told him the truth—that I’d dropped Rhonda off at her place Monday night, then left.”
“Did he believe you?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?”
The waiter brought our pitcher of beer and three glasses, and we waited until he left before resuming our conversation.
“You two aren’t the only suspects,” Josie said. “That pyromaniac neighbor lady was questioned, and there’s a couple others on the short list. You can bet Rhonda’s ex-hubby will be getting a proctology exam, too.”
Josie drank, wiped foam off her upper lip, then looked up and stared meaningfully at Labeck. “The techies found an unknown male’s fingerprints on the tarpaulin used to cover Rhonda’s body. Same prints on her purse, the front door, and a coffee table indoors.”
“Mine?” Labeck asked.
“You tell me, Bonaparte,” Josie said. “You don’t have a police record, so your prints aren’t on file in some database. But you’ll be asked to ‘voluntarily’ go in for printing. And there’s something else.” Josie drew figures on the wet tabletop. “The forensics guys found traces of skin under Rhonda’s nails.”
“Christ,” Labeck said. “Rhonda had her hands up under my shirt, she was gouging into my back. What was I supposed to do—karate chop her?”
Sometimes you had to feel sorry for guys. Defending yourself from a predatory female is a lose-lose. Let her have her way with you and you feel unmanly. Tell her no thanks and you feel even more unmanly. Guys are supposed to want sex however they can get it.
“They can have my prints, my DNA, whatever the hell they want,” Labeck said, raising his voice. “It doesn’t matter, because I didn’t kill Rhonda. Why would I kill a woman I barely knew?”
Josie looked at him in a way that was almost pitying. “You took her home thatnight, you started fooling around, the rough sex got a little rougher—you got carried away. Or maybe Rhonda got you all stirred up, then said no at the last minute and you killed her in a fit of thwarted lust.”
“With a shoestring I just happened to have in my pocket? Or did I tell Rhonda to stand still while I unlaced my shoe?” Labeck is probably the coolest person I know. He treats most provocations with mockery or laughter. But now I saw him truly angry, his jaw clamped so tight the cords in his neck strained.
Josie held her hands up. “Oh, simmer down, Boney. I’m on your side. I’m just telling you how Trumbull will sell it to the judge. He’s already obtained a search warrant for your car and apartment.”
“Seriously?” Labeck stared at Josie.
“Serious as death, Boney. Next Trumbull is going to request that a judge issue a warrant for your arrest. He’ll say you were the only one with motive, opportunity, and the strength to do the deed. When Forensics discovers that it’s your skin beneath Rhonda’s nails, they’ll nail your hide to the wall.”
“This is all bullshit.” Labeck looked disgusted.
“I know. What can I tell you? Trumbull’s got a one-track mind. And right now it’s tracking on you.”
Our sandwiches came and we dug in. Sloppy joes on kaiser rolls, potato chips, and dill pickles so sour they puckered my mouth. The sloppies, whose secret ingredient, I’ve heard, is tapioca, were so good I was unable to use my usual strategy of saving half for my next meal. I had to stop myself from licking the plate.
“What I don’t get,” Labeck said, “is why whoever killed Rhonda dragged her body
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