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Montoya got it. He asked, “So when was the last time you saw Helene?”
“Last week. The night before she died.” Vince motioned toward the bedroom. “Here.”
“And did she seem different? Was anything bothering her? Anyone give her trouble?”
“Not that she mentioned. As I said, we, um, we didn’t talk a lot.”
“What time did she leave?”
“Two-thirty, maybe a quarter to three in the morning.”
“She had a car?”
“Yeah. Her Mercedes. In the parking lot.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I’ll tell Dad about this. I will. Today. But for now, can we please keep my sister out of it?” He threw back his head and squeezed his eyes tightly together as if imagining Marianne Laroche Petrocci coming unglued. “Just please, let me handle it.”
“You’ll make a separate statement?”
“Yeah. But not with the family. I think that’s weird anyway.”
“Unconventional,” Montoya admitted, “but it’s not that you all were called in; this was a meeting your father’s attorney wanted.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you wanted to talk to me anyway.”
“Of course.”
“Okay. It’ll happen. Just so we’re cool.”
Not really, but Montoya had a recording, not that he could use it. In fact if anyone knew about Vince’s statement without being read his rights, the whole thing would never see the light of day in court, but before Montoya erased it, he wanted to be assured that Vincent would actually make a statement after the meeting with the Laroche family.
For now, he took his leave.
He climbed into his warm Mustang, rolled down the window, and headed back to the station. As he drove away from the waterfront he wondered if he’d just been fed a line of bull. Was Vincent Laroche telling the truth, or trying to make an end run around the investigation? He’d know soon enough as the meeting with the Laroche family was scheduled in less than an hour. At the first light he was still thinking about Vincent Laroche being involved with his stepmother. The case was getting weirder and weirder, the entanglements beginning to knot.
His cell rang, and from habit, he answered. Ever since Cruz had called him a few days ago, he hadn’t ignored any calls to his private number, and because of the fact he knew Cruz was or had been in New Orleans due to the belt he’d left with Kristi Bentz’s dog, Cruz would probably soon resurface.
Or at least Montoya thought so. “Detective Reuben Montoya,” he said into the phone.
“Oh, well, yeah. Good.”
“Who’s this?”
“Don’t matter.”
“Then this conversation is over,” Montoya said, though it was a lie. Somehow whoever was on the other end of the line had his personal phone number.
“No—no! Wait. Look.” The voice was male, not young, not old. “My name is Jazz.”
“Jazz?” Montoya repeated. What kind of a name was Jazz? Probably an alias.
“Jazz who?”
“I said, it don’t matter. Look, I’m callin’ ’bout Cruz. He’s your brother, right?”
“What about Cruz?”
“I’m a friend of his. And I just want to say, he didn’t do it. I seen who did and it wasn’t Cruz.”
“Wait a second. What’s your name again and where are you calling from?”
