CHAPTER 18
MITCH TANDY AND Len Ziegler entered my office and looked around as if they’d just bought the place at a blind auction and were seeing it for the first time.
I showed them to the seating area, and Tandy and I sat down. Ziegler wanted to look around—at the view, the bookshelves, the photos on the wall.
Tandy said to me, “Why did you mess with the crime scene, Jack? It’s just a little too neat, you know what I mean?
“Girl dies in the middle of the bed with her shoes on. Doesn’t leave any fingerprints, not even in the bathroom. In my experience, the girl always uses the bathroom.”
The cops hadn’t come to bring me news. They were here so that they could read me, scare me, catch me in lies or deviations from what I’d told them last night.
“She was dead when I got home,” I said. “What you saw is what I saw.”
“Jack, I’m a fair guy.”
Aside to self: No, he wasn’t. He was a poisonous human being. His unexamined lack of self-respect and his envy of others made him that way. Dangerous.
He said, “Tell me what really happened so you can get ahead of this thing.”
“Mitch. I told you everything I know.”
“Okay.”
He leaned over the coffee table, straightened a stack of books, and said, “Now I want to give you my theory of how this girl got killed. Colleen Molloy was in love with her boss. That’s not in dispute. Not unusual. Happens all the time. But this particular girl, Colleen, she tried to kill herself after you and she broke up. That’s a fact. Attempted suicide tells me she was emotional. Unstable.”
“Slashed her wrists about six months ago,” Ziegler said from across the room. He had a pocketknife, about six inches long, pearl handle. He tossed it in the air and caught it. Did this throughout as he went on. “Colleen survived. Quit her job and moved back to Ireland, returned to LA two weeks ago to see friends.”
“That’s right,” said Tandy. “Now we’re up to date. So last Wednesday, Colleen has lunch with you at Smitty’s, but whatever went down wasn’t entirely satisfying to Colleen. She knows your schedule, when you’ll be coming home, et cetera, and last night she takes a cab and shows up at your house uninvited.”
His tone was even. No rough stuff. No threats. But Tandy was laying out his theory, that it was me, and he was setting it in concrete.
I said, “You’ve got a good imagination, Mitch. But Colleen had a boyfriend in Dublin. She wasn’t stalking me.”
“Not saying she was stalking. She wanted to talk. She knew when you’d be home. She uses her access code and waits for you. You walk in. She says, ‘Surprise, I still love you, Jack. I’ll always love you.’”
“Tandy, you’re making me sick, you know that? Nothing like that happened. Colleen and I were friends. Just friends.”
“You were tired when she showed up. That’s what you told us. That long flight, all those layovers. You’re not in the mood for the needy ex-girlfriend, but maybe you try to be a gentleman.”
Ziegler was on his feet, knife in his back pocket now, moving around toward my desk. I got up, went over to my desk, shut down my computer, and said over my shoulder to Tandy, “Nothing you’ve said is true.”
“It’s just talk,” Tandy said pleasantly. “Just talk. When I’ve finished telling you my theory, you can tell me yours.”