Slidell gestured me to one side, out of view. Then he banged again, this time with gusto. After some rattling, the door opened.
Laura Lonergan was a portrait titled The Face of Meth. Fried orange hair. Rawhide skin peppered with scabs. Cheeks sculpted with deep hollows created by the loss of dentition.
Lonergan smiled, lips closed, undoubtedly to cover what unsightly teeth she’d managed to retain. One hand brushed breasts barely altering the topography of a pink polyester tank. Her chin rose, and one shoulder twisted in under it. The coy seductress.
“Save it, Princess.” Slidell held out his badge.
Lonergan studied it for about a week. Then she straightened. “You’re a cop.”
“You’re a genius.”
“I’m closed.” Lonergan stepped back and started to shut the door.
Slidell stopped it with one meaty palm. “Not anymore,” he said.
“I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Yes. You do.”
“What have I done?”
“Let’s skip the part where you play innocent.”
“I’m a masseuse.”
“You’re a tweaker and a whore.”
Lonergan’s eyes skittered up and down the hall. Then, softer, “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Yes. I can.”
Lines crimped Lonergan’s forehead as she thought about that. “How about you cut me some slack?”
“Maybe.”
A beat as she considered what that might mean. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t bust me?”
“That depends on you.”
The skittery eyes narrowed. Bounced to me. Back to Slidell. “A three-sixty-nine is cool. But it’ll cost.”
I felt the urge to scrub down with antibacterial soap.
“Let’s move this inside,” Slidell snapped.
Lonergan didn’t budge.
“You feeling me, Princess?”
“Whatever.” Trying for indifference, not even coming close.
The front entrance gave directly onto a small living room. Lonergan crossed it and dropped onto a couch draped with leopard-skin fabric, one skinny-jeaned leg outstretched, the other hooked over an armrest.
The sofa faced two ratty wicker chairs and a coffee table scarred by dozens of cigarette burns. Beyond them, against the far wall, which was red, a desk held a TV and a plastic banker’s lamp repaired with duct tape. Black plastic trash bags lined the walls, bulging with treasures I couldn’t imagine. An unshaded halogen bulb threw sickly light from a pole lamp twenty degrees off-kilter.
Through a door to the right, I could see a shotgun kitchen, the counter and table stacked with dirty dishes and empty food containers. I assumed the bedroom and bath were in back. Had no desire to view them. I eyed the chairs. Chose to remain standing.
Slidell balanced one ample cheek on the edge of the desk. Folded his arms. Stared.
“This gonna take all day?” Picking at a scab on her chin. “I got things to do.”
“Talk about Colleen.”
“Colleen?”
“Your niece.”
“I know she’s my niece. You here to tell me something bad about her?”
Slidell just stared.
“Where is Colleen?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know.”
“You heard from her lately?”
“Not since she split.”
“When was that?”
The ravaged face went slack as she searched through the rubble of her mind. “I don’t know. Maybe Christmas.” Back to the scab, the perimeter now smeared with blood. “Yeah. She was here for Christmas. I got her a six-pack. She got me the same. We had a laugh over that.”
“Where’d she go?”
“To crash with friends. To shack up with a guy. Who the hell knows?”
“Hard to imagine her leaving, you providing such a nurturing environment and all.”
“The kid got tired of sleeping on the couch.”
“Tired of watching you tweak and bang johns.”
“That’s not how it was.”
“I’m sure you prayed the rosary together.”
“Colleen was no angel.” Defensive. “She’d spread her legs if a dude made it worthwhile.”
“She was sixteen.” Sharp. I couldn’t help myself. The woman was repulsive.