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Montoya was shaking his head. “No, I don’t ‘know’ her, not personally, but I think I’ve seen her.” His eyebrows were knitted, his lips pursed. “Like she’s famous or something. Wait a second. She’s wearing contacts, one’s slipped. Her eyes aren’t brown, they’re blue. And . . . look.” He pointed to a spot by the dead woman’s nose. “Her skin’s peeling off here or . . .” He glanced up at Bentz. “She’s wearing a prosthetic?”
“You sure?”
“Don’t know.”
“You think she might be famous and tricking?” The woman was obviously a prostitute.
“I don’t know, man.” He was still studying the woman’s face and from the looks of it, thinking hard. “But I’ve seen her. I’m sure I have.”
“Any ID?” Bentz looked over at Connors, who was still standing in the doorway.
“Yeah—her purse is in that closet.” He pointed to a door near the bed. “There’s a wallet inside. I looked at it. The name on the driver’s license and credit cards, health cards all say Helene Laroche. The picture on her ID doesn’t match the vic and I thought maybe she’d stolen the purse, but I talked to the roommate. She confirmed that she’s Ms. Laroche.”
Bentz felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.
Montoya let out a long, low whistle. “I knew I recognized her.”
Bentz hadn’t. Her disguise was too complete. But he knew the name. Helene Laroche was a bit of a legend around these parts. Helene Sands grew up dirt poor, as a preteen and teenager, always in trouble with the law, dropped out of high school despite an off-the-charts IQ, married and divorced twice, and then met Hugo Laroche, who was old enough to be her grandfather and rich enough to be one of the city’s biggest patrons of the arts and donor to all kinds of charity causes and universities. Laroche’s grown children had been scandalized by the affair and marriage and the city had been abuzz with gossip as just two years ago Hugo had dumped his wife of nearly fifty years for the young porn star.
As the coroner arrived, followed in short order by the crime investigators, Bentz and Montoya walked outside to the sultry October afternoon. The sky was gray, the heat oppressive for this time of year, humidity higher than usual.
Bentz felt sweat trickle down his neck and tugged at his suddenly too-tight collar.
Connors walked them to the cruiser where a tall, leggy woman with short, spiked red hair, sunglasses, and glossy, nearly colorless lips was taking a long draw on an e-cigarette. A female officer, short and stocky, stood next to her.
“Wouldn’t stay in the car,” the female cop said as they were introduced to Sherilynn Gordon, Helene Laroche’s roommate.
“It was like a sauna in there,” Sherilynn complained as she motioned toward the cop car.
“Sorry, ma’am, I thought we were on our way downtown.”
“We are,” Bentz said. Already a crowd had gathered, all with cell phones, all taking videos and pictures of the police activity. “Go ahead and we’ll meet you there.”
“What? No! The station?” Sherilynn was shaking her head, tiny lines of worry around her mouth. “I freak out at police stations. Freak the fuck out! Besides there’s not much more to tell you. I came back here and found her and called nine-one-one.” She took another hit from her device, and saw the crowd. “Oh, shit! A fuckin’ TV crew.”
Sure enough a van from a local station was rolling into a parking spot and Bentz thought he saw a reporter he knew, next to a female photographer, camera lifted. All of that was nothing, though, as cell phones from all the lookie-loos were hoisted high and before the five o’clock news aired, videos of the activity would be streaming on the Internet.
“Downtown is better,” Bentz said.
As if Sherilynn, too, finally got it, she said, “Okay. Fine. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“It’s just for a statement,” Montoya said. “Won’t take long.”
She sized him up: goatee, leather jacket despite the heat, diamond earring, and that Montoya swagger.
“You’re a cop?” she said almost incredulously, though he’d shown her his badge. “You work vice?”
“Homicide.”
“Hmm.” Somewhat satisfied, she said, “Can’t you just take my statement here? Now?” she demanded as the coroner’s SUV rolled up, a news van on its tail. “Oh, shit. More TV is here. This is turning out to be a fuckin’ three-ring circus!”
“That’s what I mean,” Montoya said. “Probably best to talk in private.”
Sherilynn adjusted her sunglasses and took another hit on her e-cigarette, a thin cloud of vapor roiling around her as she exhaled. “Fine. Let’s go. But make it short.”
They didn’t.
The interview at the station took over two hours with Bentz and Montoya both in the room asking the questions.
