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Chapter16
COCOON, THOUGHT DECKER.
At their meeting Rachel Katz had crossed her arms and legs before settling in to answer his more serious questions. People often cocooned like that when they were getting ready to lie, or at least be evasive. It was as though they were wrapping themselves in themselves, to keep everyone else out. It was an instinctual physical reaction with people, and even though it wasn’t a foolproof indicator of someone lying, Decker had found it pretty accurate.
So, what was she lying or being evasive about?
He filed that query away since he had no way to answer it yet.
He was presently standing in front of the Richardses’ old house. But he was looking at another house that was two homes over from theRichardses’. This was the only house that was still occupied by the people who had lived here when the murders occurred. Back then Decker had interviewed them and the other neighbors. Out of that he had gotten a big fat zero’s worth of help. He hoped the second time was the charm, because Decker seriously doubted he would get a third bite at the apple.
“Mr. DeAngelo, do you remember me?”
Decker stared down at the short, balding, rotund man in his sixties who had opened the door at his knock. Though it was chilly outside he was dressed in a stained undershirt that emphasized his potbelly, and khaki pants with the zipper partially open. He had a cloth napkin in his hand and was wiping his mouth.
He looked quizzically at Decker before recognition breached his features.
“You’re that detective. Pecker?”
“Decker. Amos Decker.”
“Right, right.”
Decker glanced at the napkin. “Looks like I interrupted your dinner.”
“No, we were just finishing up. Come on in.”
DeAngelo closed the door behind Decker, whose nostrils were immediately assailed with the mingled aromas of garlic and pesto.
“Smells good,” he said as he glanced around the tidy interior.
“You want some? Ma made plenty. Always does.” He playfully grabbed his belly. “Why I’m so fat.”
“No, thanks. I already ate.”
“Ma?” called out DeAngelo. “Look who’s here.”
A petite, gray-haired woman came out from the kitchen drying her hands on a dishtowel. She wore a full apron over her skirt and blouse.
“Mrs. DeAngelo, I’m Amos Decker. I used to work as a detective on the local police force.”
“That’s right. I remember.” She looked him up and down. “Heard you moved.”
“I did, but now I’m back. At least for a little while.”
“Well, come in and sit, sit,” said Mrs. DeAngelo. “Would you like some wine?”
“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.”
She brought the wine and poured out three glasses and they all sat in the small living room that held the exact same furniture as the last time Decker had been here.
“We’re retired now,” said DeAngelo. “Well, I am. Ma always took care of the kids and the house. Hell, worked harder than I ever did, taking care of them.”
“Now I just have to look after you,” said his wife with a knowing smile at Decker.
DeAngelo said, “We’re thinking of selling the place. Kids are all grown and gone off with their own families. Maybe get a condo down in Florida. I can’t take too many more Ohio winters. Gets into your bones.”
“I hear you,” said Decker.
