“I mean,” she amended, “how can I help your investigation, Detective?”
He gave a white-toothed Dudley Do-Right smile that matched his Dudley Do-Right chin. The man was, however, anything but stupid and insipid. He knew he made her hot and uncomfortable, but at least he was gentlemanly enough not to mention it. “Advise me on everything. Every bit of gossip dropped around Hackett’s”
“You know gossip is usually stretched to fit the imagination, if not an out-and-out lie.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t act on anything you tell me without corroboration from another source.”
“I don’t get it. You’ve questioned everyone down there. What makes you think I’ll get any further than you?”
“You’re a helluva lot prettier.”
She laughed. “That doesn’t cut jack with Theresa, our sweet teenage...” She avoided using the word bimbo. It wasn’t polite. “You’d get more out of her than I’d ever want.”
He gave that lopsided grin again. “STDs aren’t what I’m looking for.”
“STDs?”
“Sexually Transmitted Diseases.”
Surprised he could say it without blushing, Max wagged her finger at him. “Very bad, Detective. Theresa is only sixteen.”
“Going on thirty-six.” He finally wiped the butter from his chin. It hadn’t made it to his suit. Too bad. He might have been forced to replace the brown with blue. Maybe he’d have asked her to help him with that, too.
Bad, bad girl.
As he balled the napkin in his big hands, he no longer smiled. “Help me. I haven’t got a damn thing to go on yet.”
“You’ve got Hal Gregory.”
He regarded her a moment before answering. “Anyone ever call you tenacious?”
“My husband calls me bullheaded.”
“Thought your husband was—”
“Dead? He is.” She wondered at the ease with which the word rolled off her lips, then stopped. Hey. “How did you know?”
Long shrugged unapologetically. “You were on file.”
A shudder passed over her shoulders. “You read everything?”
“Yeah. Sorry about what happened to your husband. And what his killers did to you—”
She smacked a hand on the plastic table. “Don’t.” The word came out more strident than she’d intended.
Max shuddered, trying to cover it with a shrug. God, did everyone know her dirty secrets? Or had Cameron had psychically nudged the man into asking simply to get her to talk about his death. And what came after they shot him.
Not even I’m that callous, my love.
She swallowed with difficulty. She should have known that. “What I meant was thanks for the condolences, but I’d prefer not to discuss it. Not any of it. Did you do your research before or after I gave you Wendy’s calendar?”
“Before. Right after you called.”
“Why yesterday’s game with calling me Miss?”
He smiled, neither contrite nor sheepish. “Cops enjoy a little push. Make a statement; wait for a reaction.”
“I feel like I’m being investigated.” It was a very uneasy feeling.
“You passed, for now, if that’s any consolation.”
“You mean my name’s not on your list of suspects, and asking me to help you isn’t some weird Columbo ploy?”
He cocked his head. “Did he do that kind of stuff?”
“You’re avoiding the question, Detective.”
“Call me Witt. Say you’ll help.”
The plea skittered across her flesh, made her quiver. Why did everything the man said have to seem sexual?
Because you’re hot for him.
She’d have liked to shake her finger, or worse, at Cameron. Instead she turned the tables on the detective. “Something’s going on here I don’t quite get. The police on TV never involve civilians like this.”
“Obviously you watch too much TV.” He held up his hands. “No ulterior motive here. Truth is, the longer a case goes on, the lower the odds of solving it. Cleared every case I’ve ever had. And I don’t intend for this killer to escape justice.”
Every victim deserves justice. Nice sentiment. She wondered if he really believed that or if it was some public service line they taught in cop school. “So what you’re saying between the lines is you can’t pin it on Hal Gregory.”
He shook his head, a slight smile creasing his face. He found her terminology amusing, she was sure. “His alibi is rock solid. For the time being. He was with the father of the victim during a three-hour window surrounding the ME’s—sorry, medical examiner’s—estimated time of death.”
“I know what an ME is.” TV was useful for some things. “What about Wendy’s mother, was she there, too?”
“Deceased. Died when the victim was born.”
The flat statement didn’t surprise her. In fact, she’d have been far more surprised if Witt had told her Wendy’s mother was alive. In many ways, she and Wendy were alike. Here was an example. Max had lost her mother when she was very young, eight years old. Then she’d gone to live with her uncle, and... “Okay,” she said, shaking off the suddenly bad thoughts, “so the husband’s got an alibi. What about motive?”