Detective Carson Ryder Thriller Series Books 1–3: The Hundredth Man, The Death Collectors, The Broken Souls. J. Kerley A.
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like? We’ve got questions for them.”
Terri stood on her tiptoes to put the peanut butter on a top shelf. “I don’t really remember, ah—”
“Miss Losidor,” I said suddenly, “why didn’t you tell us you met Jerrold through the Personals section in the Mobile NewsBeat?”
Her head snapped toward us and the p-butter went bouncing across the floor.
“Love those plastic jars,” Harry said approvingly.
Terri turned. “I met him at the Game Club. I told you that.”
“You met him through the personals. I know it, Detective Nautilus knows it, and now we’re just waiting for someone to tell you.”
Terri pondered a moment. Her head slumped forward and she rubbed her temples. The motion looked stolen from a high-school play.
“You’re right,” she said, raising her head, doing pity-me eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry I’m right?”
“I’m sorry for misleading you, I just…”
“Just wanted to go to jail for obstruction of justice.”
She studied her folded hands. “My mom always told me personals ads were for, well, people more interested in…sex than relationships. I was embarrassed.”
“You write this stuff yourself or do you have comedians on staff?” I rolled my eyes and snickered wickedly. Maybe that was in the high school play too.
Harry said, “Be civil, Carson. It’s all in the open now.”
“I’m getting tired of her filling my ears with shit.”
“Hey, watch your language,” Terri snarled. “I fuckin’ live here.”
I said, “Yep. You and Mr. Puff. Remember the last time we were here? Mr. Puff knocked some stuff over in the bedroom?”
Her eyes went wary. “He knocked a book off a shelf. Why?”
“This the same Mr. Puff likes to wear his white hair kinda long and full, prefers his collar to be pretty pink?”
“I don’t know what this has to do with—”
“The same Mr. Puff we saw come in your door right after we left?”
Terri Losidor’s mouth made shapes but not sounds. It took several seconds for them to synch up. “You’re nosing in my personal life. It’s time you left.”
I said, “Did you bag Jerrold after the money thing? Or did you keep scr—seeing him?”
She pointed to the door. “I want you both out.”
“We’re here until I hear the truth,” I growled, moving into Losidor’s personal space. Her jutting jaw wanted to stay but her feet moved back.
Harry patted my shoulder. “Carson, chill out and let Ms. Losidor and me talk a bit.”
I leaned against the wall and pouted. Harry turned to Losidor. “We’re just trying to get our facts straight, ma’am.”
Terri repeated her assertions, her routine nailed down to the word. The more time I spent with Terri, the more I saw her as softly innocuous on the outside, hard and driven inside. I wanted to cut to the core, see what lurked there. But we had no leverage: all we held were a couple pebbles with no idea what direction to throw them. I shouldered off the wall and chucked the largest one. “I’ll bet she knows what Jerry-boy was doing in Biloxi. And who he was doing it to.”
The stone landed heavier than expected—fear flickered in Terri’s eyes. She masked it with volume. “What in the hell? What are you talking about?”
“Lady, I got three dead bodies and a killer crawling through the personals in the NewsBeat. Why didn’t you tell us that’s where you found Smilin’ Jerry, the Love Machine.”
She jabbed her finger at me in time with the words. “You…are…freaking…nuts!”
Harry slipped between Terri and me. “Carson, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Go somewhere and relax.”
Terri whined, Harry coddled, I backed to the counter. There was an ashtray on it, empty save for two lipsticked butts and something resembling an insect chrysalis, gray. I’d seen similar objects in ashtrays at the station. Terri was looking at Harry and I flicked the object with my fingernail.
Amazement.
It felt right. Could it be? I started to pick the thing up, but Terri angled my direction, still holding to her Game Club story.
I thundered across the kitchen and shouldered Harry aside.
“I’ve had it with you, lady! You lie anymore and you’re gonna wake up in the slammer with MORE DYKES AROUND YOU THAN THE FUCKIN’ NETHERLANDS!”
She shrieked and bolted for the bathroom. I returned to the counter, pocketed the object, and nodded at a wide-eyed Harry, Let’s haul ass. Losidor leaned around the door frame, shaking her fist and threatening lawyers if we weren’t gone in seconds. Harry showed her his palms as he backed away, pretending to pull me with him. “We’re leaving, Miss Losidor. Sorry about the inconvenience. My partner’s having a bad day, his ferret died this morning. Thanks for your time. Bye now.”
We climbed into the car. “I don’t know what you were trying in there,” Harry said, “but it was Oscar quality. Miss Terri’s working a shuck. I smell it.”
“Does it smell like this?” I asked, fishing the object from my pocket.
Harry eyeballed it. “Dirty gum?”
“Chewed newspaper, Harry,” I said, bouncing the dried wad in my palm. “Know anyone with that odd habit?”
“You gonna start getting your mail here?” Briscoe Shelton asked. His door was chained and he peered between door and frame. He wore the same T-shirt and painter’s pants he’d worn the past two visits. Watching the same porn video as last time, by the sounds of it. The man needed a vacation from his life.
“You mentioned seeing a guy with Nelson, someone hanging around now and then.”
A moaning male from inside, “Oh, bay-bee you make me need to…” Shelton looked down and his neck reddened; capable of embarrassment, a surprise. I’d copied a photo of Burlew from the files and floated it just outside Shelton’s pupils.
“This the guy?”
A woman on the tape made a sound like yodeling. Shelton grimaced, talked louder. “Huh-nuh. Head’s too fat. He can see outta them slitty little eyes?”
I slipped him the photo. “Study it. Be sure.”
“Ain’t the one.” Shelton pushed it back. “Ugly bastard, ain’t he?”
“Big and ugly. But uglier than he is big. And he’s damn big.”
I put the photo in my pocket. The players on the tape were in contrapuntal harmony now; the male grunting, the female emitting monosyllabic imprecations.
Shelton raised an eyebrow. “Big like a football player? That kind of big?”
“Six three or so, two seventy maybe.”
“I was chopping hedge over by Building B—Nelson’s building—and saw a guy getting into a car. Week back? Wouldn’t a thought twice ’cept the guy was a gorilla. Didn’t see his face, he was either turned crosswise or back to me.”
“You seen this woman?” I held up a publicity photo of Clair. Shelton took a long time studying it.
“Huh-unh, nope. That I’d remember real good.”
The female on the video vocalized a gale-force orgasm, the male trumpeting in her wake. Maybe I looked at