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The door opened quickly, Vincent Laroche on the inside, a tall, lanky man in a baseball cap, three-days’ growth of beard shadow where bits of silver were visible, shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. “Detective Montoya. Thanks for coming here. I’m Vincent. Vince.” He swung the door wide and Montoya looked inside, saw that they seemed alone, there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that appeared dangerous, so he let his hand drop from his service weapon once he’d stepped inside.
“I’m sorry for all of this . . . you know, the secrecy and cloak and dagger stuff,” Vincent said, and Montoya noticed that he smelled like a brewery, as if he were actually sweating beer.
“I thought you didn’t want to meet at your home.”
“I don’t. And this isn’t.”
“Then what?”
“Just another place I keep.”
Again, Montoya swept the condo with his gaze. Nothing out of the ordinary in the modern, sleek apartment with an oversized TV, sectional, and small dining table. The door to a bedroom was open and he noticed the corner of what appeared to be a massive bed. Windows stretched along the one wall and offered a view of the river, sunlight glinting on the slow-moving water, and in the kitchen, several empty bottles of Bud stood like soldiers on the counter near the sink.
“Look, I know we don’t have much time. I’m scheduled to get to the station with my family and lawyer and . . . Have a seat.” He motioned to the couch.
“I’m good.” Montoya stood with his back to the wall, able to see all of the doorways. Just in case he missed something. The meeting didn’t smell like any kind of ambush, but it didn’t smell right.
Vincent Laroche was agitated, had something on his mind. “Okay,” he said. “So here’s the deal. I’m hoping this conversation is confidential and that it can be avoided later.”
“What conversation?”
“About Helene,” he said nervously, and scratched his beard. “My—um, my step—my dad’s wife.” He walked to the window, seemed to study a boat passing on the Mississippi. “She and I . . . well, we knew each other.”
“How?”
He sucked in his breath. “I knew her before she got involved with Dad.”
“Knew her how?”
“She was tricking. We hooked up and saw each other a few times. I think, well, I know, she heard about Dad from me and she set her sights on him.” He lifted his hat from his head, rubbed his hair, and turned to face Montoya. “And then he, you know, got involved with her, divorced Mom, and they were married. Like in less than a year. It was wild. Crazy.” Tossing his hat onto the coffee table, he shook his head and appeared beyond distressed.
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing! Watch it go down! Like a goddamned dirigible—a blimp on fire!” He flung up his hands and made an exploding sound deep in his throat. “Ka-Boom! I mean, it was so, so wrong.”
“It wasn’t working out?”
“What? No! There was no chance of it. Helene married Dad for his money and connections, you know, because he was cool, I guess, a big-time philanthropist, society guy or whatever.” He walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, and pulled out a beer. “You want?”
“No.” Montoya held up a hand. “No, thanks.”
Vince cracked the bottle and took a long swallow.
“So about Helene,” Montoya suggested.
Vince took another swig. “So, she and I, we like, never really broke it off, y’know?” He slid a glance in Montoya’s direction. “It just kind of—you know, kept going. We stopped for a while, right before the wedding, but then, after a month or two, once she and Dad got back from their ‘honeymoon’”—he made exaggerated air quotes—“well, she kind of came on to me and one thing led to another and then it went on. Hotter than ever and I figured you might find out, but I don’t really want to rub it in Dad’s face, y’know. He might have suspected, but it was never said, and so why bring it up?”
“It’ll probably come out.” Helene Laroche as Helen of Joy’s death was already high profile and gaining ground in the scandal sheets and gossip platforms. All the old dirt about Hugo dumping his wife for a stripper was resurfacing.
“I know, but I’d rather break it to the family myself. Marianne—she’s gonna blow a gasket.”
“Did Helene have any regulars?”
“Besides me?” he asked, eyebrows arching. “Who knows?”
“Did she know a woman named Teri Marie Gaines?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. If she mentioned her, I don’t remember.” He let out a sigh. “It’s not like we did a lot of talking, you know what I mean?”
