close, or outside of the movies, or even counting the movies, but she was still a witness.
He picked up the black envelope and looked at the label, addressed to Kelly Barr, from a photographic studio. He turned to Kelly-as-Chloe, almost as tall as he was.
“You think this will tell me something about her?”
“They’re just photos.”
He walked away, bringing the catalog and the black envelope to the counter, took a kitchen knife from a rack and slit the envelope open.
“We’ll need pictures of the complainant.”
“The what?”
“The victim.”
“They’re swimsuit shots.”
“Taken recently?”
“Last week.”
Delsa pulled out a half dozen color prints and a proof sheet and laid them on the counter: Kelly full length in bikinis, tiny ones.
----
S HE CAME TO THE counter to look at herself, leaning in on her arms to study the proof sheet.
She heard him say, “Your glasses are in your bag. You don’t need them?”
She straightened and turned to him.
“You figured it out.”
“Even without the glasses.”
“You saw her in the chair, her skirt up. You look at these shots . . .”
“And I know Chloe doesn’t model swimming suits,” Delsa said.
“Yesterday we happened to be looking at this catalog and she said, ‘If you want to know why I never wear a thong, ask Mr. Paradise.’ You know what she meant?”
“He didn’t go for the Hitler look,” Delsa said. “Just an old-fashioned guy. Are you gonna tell me who you are?”
“You already know.”
“I’d like to hear you say it.”
She shrugged in her cinnamon coat.
“Okay, I’m Kelly Barr. Now what?”
H E TOLD HER SHE had gone through enough for one day. He’d pick her up in the morning and take her statement at 1300, police headquarters.
She didn’t like the sound of that. Take her statement? She said did he mean, like, what she was doing when it happened?He said, from the time she arrived at the house. Okay? He hadn’t taken his coat off, he was ready to go . . .
Later, it reminded her of the thing Peter Falk used to do playing Columbo. Gets to the door and turns with one more question.
Delsa was still at the counter fastening his toggles. He said, “The main thing we’ll get into, why you wanted us to think you’re Chloe.”
She knew it was coming and had to say something because he was looking at her, waiting. She had to give him an answer and had made up her mind to tell the truth. Up to a point.
“Montez threatened me. He said I had to do it if I wanted to stay alive.”
“What was his reason?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“All that time you were together—you didn’t ask him why?”
“Of course I did. He still wouldn’t tell me.”
“Have you thought about it since?”
“Have I thought about it—all I keep thinking, I never should’ve been there in the first place.”
“Chloe asked you to come and you couldn’t say no?”
“She talked me into it. Help her out with the fucking cheerleading because the old man loved it.”
“Were Chloe and Montez friends?”
“She said they got along okay.”
“They have something going?”
“No. She would’ve told me.”
“You were close? You confide in each other?”
“We were good friends.”
“But she was a prostitute.”
“She gave it up for Mr. Paradise.”
“There was a time before that—”
“She never brought them home. She told really funny stories about weird things that guys liked. I asked if she ever beat them. She said, ‘Hon, I even pee on some.’ “ Kelly picked up her pace saying, “We met doing a runway show for Saks. I’d see her at studios—photographers loved her hands—or we’d meet for a drink. We laughed a lot and she invited me to move in.” Kelly took hold of Delsa’s dark eyes saying, “She got tired of fucking strangers, especially the regulars. Mr. Paradise made her an offer and she quit being a ho.”
This time he did smile, though she didn’t.
Smiled and let it fade and said, “How’d
He picked up the black envelope and looked at the label, addressed to Kelly Barr, from a photographic studio. He turned to Kelly-as-Chloe, almost as tall as he was.
“You think this will tell me something about her?”
“They’re just photos.”
He walked away, bringing the catalog and the black envelope to the counter, took a kitchen knife from a rack and slit the envelope open.
“We’ll need pictures of the complainant.”
“The what?”
“The victim.”
“They’re swimsuit shots.”
“Taken recently?”
“Last week.”
Delsa pulled out a half dozen color prints and a proof sheet and laid them on the counter: Kelly full length in bikinis, tiny ones.
----
S HE CAME TO THE counter to look at herself, leaning in on her arms to study the proof sheet.
She heard him say, “Your glasses are in your bag. You don’t need them?”
She straightened and turned to him.
“You figured it out.”
“Even without the glasses.”
“You saw her in the chair, her skirt up. You look at these shots . . .”
“And I know Chloe doesn’t model swimming suits,” Delsa said.
“Yesterday we happened to be looking at this catalog and she said, ‘If you want to know why I never wear a thong, ask Mr. Paradise.’ You know what she meant?”
“He didn’t go for the Hitler look,” Delsa said. “Just an old-fashioned guy. Are you gonna tell me who you are?”
“You already know.”
“I’d like to hear you say it.”
She shrugged in her cinnamon coat.
“Okay, I’m Kelly Barr. Now what?”
H E TOLD HER SHE had gone through enough for one day. He’d pick her up in the morning and take her statement at 1300, police headquarters.
She didn’t like the sound of that. Take her statement? She said did he mean, like, what she was doing when it happened?He said, from the time she arrived at the house. Okay? He hadn’t taken his coat off, he was ready to go . . .
Later, it reminded her of the thing Peter Falk used to do playing Columbo. Gets to the door and turns with one more question.
Delsa was still at the counter fastening his toggles. He said, “The main thing we’ll get into, why you wanted us to think you’re Chloe.”
She knew it was coming and had to say something because he was looking at her, waiting. She had to give him an answer and had made up her mind to tell the truth. Up to a point.
“Montez threatened me. He said I had to do it if I wanted to stay alive.”
“What was his reason?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“All that time you were together—you didn’t ask him why?”
“Of course I did. He still wouldn’t tell me.”
“Have you thought about it since?”
“Have I thought about it—all I keep thinking, I never should’ve been there in the first place.”
“Chloe asked you to come and you couldn’t say no?”
“She talked me into it. Help her out with the fucking cheerleading because the old man loved it.”
“Were Chloe and Montez friends?”
“She said they got along okay.”
“They have something going?”
“No. She would’ve told me.”
“You were close? You confide in each other?”
“We were good friends.”
“But she was a prostitute.”
“She gave it up for Mr. Paradise.”
“There was a time before that—”
“She never brought them home. She told really funny stories about weird things that guys liked. I asked if she ever beat them. She said, ‘Hon, I even pee on some.’ “ Kelly picked up her pace saying, “We met doing a runway show for Saks. I’d see her at studios—photographers loved her hands—or we’d meet for a drink. We laughed a lot and she invited me to move in.” Kelly took hold of Delsa’s dark eyes saying, “She got tired of fucking strangers, especially the regulars. Mr. Paradise made her an offer and she quit being a ho.”
This time he did smile, though she didn’t.
Smiled and let it fade and said, “How’d
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