Liquid Smoke

THIRTEEN

Thirty minutes later, an army of cops was wrapping yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of my place.

I was sure my neighbors would find it charming.

I’d called 911 immediately, then called Liz and told her what I’d walked in on. She put me on hold for a moment, then came back to let me know the responding detectives were already on their way and she’d be there as soon as she could.

Her colleagues found me on the boardwalk.

Harold Klimes looked like a life-size beach ball. Between his neck and his knees, he was a perfect circle of what I guessed to be about three hundred pounds. Not attractive on a guy just under six feet. His pudgy cheeks were bright red and sweat clung to the thinning gray hair above his ears. His eyes looked like tiny targets. He wore a white short-sleeve polyester shirt, a tie that I thought was a clip-on, and gray slacks that barely contained him. A badge was stuck to his belt below the rolls of fat.

I introduced myself, and he stuck out a thick hand. “Hey, Noah.” He motioned to my house. “Not good in there, huh?”

I shook his hand, and his grip was what I imagined Superman’s to be. “No.”

Through the glass slider, I saw several people in coats milling around, staring downward. A camera flashed, no doubt capturing an ugly image of Darcy Gill. I looked away.

Luis Zanella gave me the once-over longer than he needed to before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Hello.”

Zanella was a runway model next to Klimes. Brown hair slicked back off a chiseled, tanned face. Alert, green eyes. An expensive-looking pale blue button down open at his neck, exposing a thin, gold chain. Tailored tan slacks that fell to shiny burgundy loafers. Cologne, too much of it, drifted off him. He was a little over six feet with a broad chest and the puffed-out shoulders of a guy who liked looking at himself in the mirror at the gym.

Liz had told me on the phone that Klimes was a good guy and Zanella was a bit of a prick. I thought she was dead on with Klimes but had underestimated his partner.

Zanella lifted his chin at the house. “When did you meet the vic?”

I recounted my meeting with Darcy and my trip to San Francisco again.

Klimes’ laugh sounded like he was coughing up a cat. “San Quentin’s a fun place, huh?” “Lots,” I said.

“So we should assume this has to do with Simington?” Zanella asked, his eyes moving between me and the house as though he were watching a tennis match.

“Seems like a safe bet. Why else?”

Zanella’s eyes zeroed in on me. “Good question. Why else?”

I didn’t like his look. “You wanna ask me something, then ask.”

He shrugged and the eyes went back to moving.

“No sign of forced entry,” Klimes said, dabbing at his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Remember if you had any doors open?”

“Patio might’ve been unlocked,” I said. “Normally is. Liz was here when I left, but I’m sure she locked it behind her. You can check with her.”

Klimes nodded. “Makes sense. The tech located blood on the patio near the door.”

I glanced in that direction. Two men were hunched over the area, and I couldn’t see anything.

“Anybody else’s blood on your patio, Mr. Braddock?” Zanella asked.

“Christ, Luis,” Klimes said. “Santangelo vouched for him.”

Zanella made a face like he didn’t know what was what. “Maybe she did that for other reasons.”

I’d already had a long day and now Zanella wanted to make it personal, rather than concentrating on the dead woman in my home. I’d had enough.

“How fucking dumb are you?” I asked, stepping in close to him.

I’d caught him off guard, and he took a step back.

“You know I didn’t kill her. You know where I was. So that means you’re just being an asshole.” I leaned closer. “And I don’t like assholes, especially ones that smell like they showered in their mothers’ perfume.”

Zanella’s attention was now focused solely on me. He tried to take a step toward me, but I was too close. It was like an awkward hop on his part. And he was pissed.

“I’m running an investigation,” he said, the skin around his eyes pinching tight. “You don’t like it? Get over it.”

“Easy, fellas,” Klimes said. “Just cool off.”

“And the fact that you are fucking Santangelo doesn’t mean shit to me,” Zanella said, a little sneer starting to emerge from his lips. Only the sneer didn’t make it all the way onto his face. My fist got in the way.