Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
if I’d had to guess, some form of consternation. She said, “Two months ago a friend of mine double-dated with a friend of hers over in Orange Beach. A friend of my friend’s, that is. Her friend. And guess who my friend’s friend brought along as her date?”
While I unlinked the chain of friends, Abbot produced a facial display of such distracting variety I had to turn away to think.
“Was it Peter Deschamps?”
Abbot looked side to side as if crossing a busy street and leaned toward me. “This was two months after he’d proposed to Cheryl.”
“Friends out for an innocent night together.”
“It’s possible.” She winked three times and smiled.
“You believe it was more than that?”
“My friend’s friend is, how shall I put this, an energetic woman, physically energetic.” Abbot batted her eyelashes. “Does that say it?”
“Someone who…celebrates her libido?”
Abbot winked, nodded, pursed her lips, grinned, grimaced, and frowned.
I took it as a yes.
“We heading over to see this ‘friend’s friend’?” Harry asked.
“Stop at the morgue first?”
Harry didn’t say a word. He U’d the car to a cacophony of horn blowing while I shut my eyes and gripped the door handle. He pulled up to the morgue a few minutes later.
“I won’t be long,” I said, closing the door and walking away.
“Carson?”
I turned. Harry had his thumb in the air. “Good luck,” he said.
Ava was at her desk doing paperwork. I stepped into her office and shut the door.
“Get out,” she snapped. Her eyes were bagged and bloodshot.
“I’d like to take you to lunch or to supper. If you’re busy today, how about tomorrow?”
She scribbled on a form, pushed it across her desk, grabbed another.
“No way in hell.”
I moved forward to the edge of her desk. “We should talk about last night.”
She started to initial a form but the pen tore the paper. She threw the pen into the wastebasket and glared at me.
“There’s absolutely nothing to say.”
I said, “I’m scared.”
“You’re what?”
“Maybe worried’s a better word. Listen, Ava, I consider you a friend—”
“And I consider you a snoop and a meddler. I suppose you’ve already told half the town.”
“I’ve told no one. It’s not their business.” I didn’t mention Harry; telling him was like writing her secret on a slip of weighted paper and dropping it into the Marianas Trench.
“Oh, I’ll bet. I’ll just bet.”
“Listen, Ava, I know some people who’ve had experience in things like this. Good people. Maybe you could use a little assistance with—”
She stood with such force it rocketed her chair backward to the wall. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about with this ‘assistance’ business, Detective Ryder. Maybe I had too much to drink last night. It was a mistake and it’ll never happen again. I didn’t like your insinuations then and I like them less now. We have to work together professionally, I can deal with that. But I want nothing from you on a personal level and that means conversations, insinuations, prevarications, advice, or lunch. If you really want to be helpful you can close the door from the outside. If you can’t figure out how it’s done, I’ll call security and they’ll be glad to help you.”
“How’d it go?” Harry asked when I dropped into the passenger seat.
“What’s that big-ass river in Egypt?” I asked, shutting my eyes against a too-bright sun.
“De Nile,” he said, not missing a beat.
Abbot’s friend’s friend was named Monica Talmadge. She was in her mid-thirties and lived in an expensive brick home in West Mobile with a perfectly manicured lawn and a canary-yellow Beamer in the drive. Monica was not happy to see us.
“I’ve never heard of Peter Deschamps. You’ve got to believe that.”
She wore open-toed high heels, lavender jeans, and more makeup than midafternoon generally required. Her bra made the most of small breasts, the tight, scoop-neck pink shirt not hurting either. Auburn waves of hair hung halfway to the outswooping of her derriere, as round and succinct as an orange.
“Look, guys, officers, whatever, my husband’s going to be here any minute.”
Harry looked at his watch. “Maybe he can help us with the Deschamps question.”
“No! I mean, he doesn’t know anything.”
“Doesn’t know anything or doesn’t suspect anything, Mrs. Talmadge?” Harry asked softly.
Monica looked down like memorizing her toes for a test. I could have given her the answers: perfectly tanned, pedicured, and pinkly lacquered. I knew she was debating whether or not to tell the truth. When she looked up her face held harder eyes and harsher shadows.
“Peter and I went out a few times, a friendly kind of thing.”
Harry said, “Discreetly friendly?”
There was a long silence and her eyes narrowed.
“Look, my husband’s what they call a man’s man. That means when he ain’t in fucking Montana or Canada with a bunch of other men hunting for mooses or beavers or whatever, he’s out fishing the blue water for days at a time. When he’s not being the American Sportsman, he’s halfway across the world selling generators. I grew up in a single-wide in Robertsdale and I like all this a lot”—she gestured around her, meaning the car, the house, the neighborhood—”but there are a few other things I like too. I’m just trying to keep a little balance in my life, y’know? So when Peter answered my ad—”
I said, “Your ad?”
“I put an ad in that ratty paper, NewsBeat? Personals. Semi-attached woman looking for a semi-attached man. Someone for intelligent, adult fun, no strings and no tales.”
A vehicle approached and Monica froze. When she saw it wasn’t her husband she released her breath. Harry said, “What happened after the ad ran?”
“I got a bunch of responses. More than I ever thought I’d get. Peter enclosed a photo, and he looked and sounded nice. It fit perfect he was engaged and had to be careful too. We had a few dates, nothing serious, just good fun, you know?”
“Did you get the impression this, uh, dating was something he’d done before?”
“No. I think he wanted a final fling before getting married. He as much as said so. Made sense to me.”
“Did you get any sense Mr. Deschamps might have orientation other than heterosexual?”
“God, no,” she said. “He was very masculine. You’re not telling me he—”
“No. But in any murder we have to ask all sorts of questions.”
“I cried when I heard about it. Such a good guy. Great body. I feel so sorry for his girlfriend.”
“Why’d you break the relationship off?”
“We both sorta did. I think we just ran out of things to say.”
I heard the roar of a big diesel engine. Her eyes looked past us to the street.