"That's right." Dean Marcella nodded, then looked back at Rex. "I remember you now. How are ya?" He dropped a shoebox and extended a hand to shake.
"I thought she looked familiar." Dean nodded at Viv, who was hastily putting the shoes he'd given her back in the box. She slid the box on the tailgate as he continued to talk.
"Aren't you the couple who sat together at the meeting—right before…" He stopped abruptly. "…the cop burst in." Then he coughed into his hand. "Pretty grizzly, right? A dead man in one of our casitas?"
"Carmine Nelson." Viv stood and spoke up. "That was his name." She confronted him with a steely gaze. "Do you do a lot of laundry at the Fluff and Fold, or is this just a stop for selling sneakers?"
Her voice sounded innocent enough, but Rex knew what she was up to. That's how Viv got to know people, the combination of a sharp eye and quiet voice. The technique was a good one, especially for a detective. But she pulled it off not because she was like him, a practiced performer, but because she genuinely cared about getting to know people and didn't care to hear any nonsense.
Instead of interrupting, he kept his mouth shut. Watching the master, he kept his thoughts to himself.
Dean deliberately ignored Viv, turning around to move a shoebox. "What's your job for HOA?" Viv wasn't deterred. "I haven't seen you around. Which street do you live on? Maybe we can have you and the wife over for cocktails."
Lines etched on Dean's forehead. So I'm not the only one, ol’ Dean has had some work done too. But he hadn't disguised his age much. Probably around seventy-ish. That scar on your face is pretty well camouflaged, but it took a good surgeon. Your hair—probably plugs a few years back. Glossy and black but not natural for a guy your age.
As Dean kept talking, Rex kept assessing. Black eyes. Kinda tall, just over six feet. The stooped shoulders of an older man. That five o'clock shadow of gray whiskers and the jutting chin gave him a seedy appearance. Rex tuned back in to the conversation with a start.
"I have a house near yours," Dean said. "It's near the golf course. But I don't stay there all the time," he added hastily. "I sing all over at different nightclubs and venues, so sometimes I stay at hotels afterward."
"So you sing for a living?" Viv said.
By now Rex grew impatient. "And here I thought you were a shoe salesman." He pointed to the boxes of sneakers lining the bed of the truck.
A sheepish grin came over Dean's face. "No, I sell these for my son. He's the shoe guy. Keeps track of all the latest brands and makes deals for a few people. When you pulled up I thought you were customers."
Sure you did, Deano. Customers for what? Knockoff Nikes from China… Let me have a closer look here. With one swift motion Rex leaped onto the tailgate. He reached forward to take a shoebox off the top of the pile. Lifting the lid, he glanced inside. "Hey, I saw a pair of these yesterday." Rex held up a shoe. "On a pastor, of all people."
"Like I said, they are the latest from Nike." Dean made his way to the end of the tailgate. Using his hand for balance, he jumped off the end. "That hurts," he groaned.
Straightening, he glared at Rex. "My hip. Had surgery a year ago but it still gives me trouble." He'd effectively changed the subject away from the shoes.
But Rex didn't respond. He kept staring inside the box.
Dean growled impatiently, "You're kinda nosey, aren't you. Get down and out of my merchandise."
Rex pretended he didn't hear, opening one more box. Dean's face contorted in anger. But before he could say anything more, Rex slid the lid back on and slowly turned around.
"Oh yeah, whatever. Just interested. I know a few things about Nikes. I can spot a counterfeit, for example. The stitching is the first thing that gives it away." His voice sounded reasonable, but the implication wasn't lost on Dean Marcella. Perspiration broke out on his forehead.
"My son is very picky about his clients. And since you're not one of them, you don't need to be assessing the merchandise."
Rex held up his hands. "Okay, I get it. Just trying to be helpful." He jumped off the tailgate, nearly colliding with Viv, who managed to step backward before getting knocked over.
"I have laundry to do,” she said loudly, pointing to the SUV.
"I'll get that for you, dear," Rex said in a perfectly modulated voice. His hand reached down to his knee. He grimaced. Unlike Marcella, he didn't groan aloud. He was too proud for that.
Rex had learned from the best not to acknowledge pain or when someone got under your skin. He'd handled hecklers back in the early days by pretending he was just fine, even when he was insulted.
Refusing to limp, Rex walked toward his SUV. He opened the back to reach for the laundry basket. By the time he returned, Dean was shuffling more boxes in the back of his truck.
Meanwhile Viv moved away, ending any further conversation. She looked at her phone.
"Honey, why don't you find an oversized washing machine?" Rex suggested, loud enough for Dean Marcella to overhear.
"Of course, dear," she said. She clicked off her phone and put it back in her purse.
Rex felt a tingle up his spine. Even if she was only playing, the word dear from her lips had a surprising effect on him. He felt his heart beat harder in his chest, hoping it was a good sign.