SATISH
“Cassie Nixon?”
“Yes.” Barefoot, she answered her door in bright red short-shorts, a cropped purple tee, and rhinestone-studded sunglasses. A cloud of platinum hair cascaded past her broad shoulders. The air of feminine softness conflicted with Satish’s appraisal of her total physique. Her height—well over six feet—and the span of her hands, with long, muscular fingers that would reduce professional basketball players to envy—decided him.
Transgender. Like him, an oddball. A different kind of oddball.
“You from India?” Her husky contralto clenched Satish’s gender assessment.
“Born there, but I’ve lived here off and on for twenty years.”
“Love your accent.” Her smile, hesitant, jumpy, canceled her superficial remark. “You want to come in—or are you afraid?”
He stepped through the door she opened wider. “You understand I’m not a cop.”
“Yeah, you’re a PI. Nothing like the ones on TV, but come on in.”
The apartment floorplan was identical to the O’Rourkes’ place—except Cassie’s gleamed. Three pictures—two of Cassie and Michelle O’Rourke, one of Cassie and Maverick. Lots of knick-knacks on polished surfaces. Cassie offered coffee or water. Satish accepted the water. She’d have to leave the living room to get a glass. A MAC laptop on a nearby desk interested him, but she returned too fast for him to cross the room.
She carried the glass on a small enameled tray. A good quality cloth napkin lay folded beside the water. No sign of the glamorous shades, but she kept her eyes down as she set the tray on a round, clutter-free coffee table.
Her hands trembled as she fussed with the napkin too long. She caught him watching her and made one last adjustment to the fold. Without speaking, she floated downward into a purple, overstuffed sofa. She crossed her mile-long legs and immediately pumped one foot. After two bounces, she banged her big toe against the table. Her laugh sounded forced.
She planted both feet on the area rug. “Bet you can’t guess I’m nervous.”
“Why?” He picked up the water, holding it without drinking.
She shrugged and pushed her thumb against her front teeth. “Not every day my best friend gets murdered.”
“How long did you know Miz—”
“Chellie. Everyone called her Chellie.” Tears welled, and Cassie switched her gaze to her crimson fingernails, pressing her cuticles as if they were threatening to overtake the entire nail. “You ought to check out her ex. Guy’s a piece of shit.”
“Any idea where we can find him?” Satish replaced the glass on its tray.
The click of glass on enamel swiveled her attention away from her cuticles. “Guy lives out of his van—one of those old VW models hippies used to drive. Last I heard, he hung around Santa Cruz. And if I use my head, he couldn’t’ve killed her. His buggy sounds like a tank.”
A muscle jumped under Satish’s left eye. A tank at o’dark-thirty would rouse someone.
Disappointed, they’d eliminated one logical suspect so fast, figuring he knew the answer to his next question, he asked it anyway. “Did Chellie know anyone with a red Audi? Anyone who’d come here?”
Cassie snorted with unladylike gusto. “Is that a trick question? She wasn’t into drugs.”
“I didn’t mean to imply she was. Someone else—another neighbor mentioned seeing a red Audi in the neighborhood this morning.”
“Mr. Jerk-Off,” she muttered. “Consider the source before you go chasing red Audis. Guy’s a coke freak. His regular reports to the cops swear pink elephants dance in the street.”
“Thanks for the tip.” Although the lie about the Audi didn’t pan out, Satish asked a few more questions—the usual kind that rarely offered any surprise.
Chellie’s age? Young, three years short of the Big 4-0. Sixteen when Maverick was born. She could pass for his sister any day.
Chellie’s family? None. Both parents killed in a car accident twenty years earlier. No sibs or grandparents.
Chellie’s work? Waitress. Marie Callendar’s for the past month, before that Chili’s for six months. Before that …
“Waiting tables is hard work.” Cassie’s voice rose on a note of defensiveness. “Maverick helped out moneywise.”
Anger unexpectedly hammered Satish’s skull and tightened his larynx. “So why’d he sleep in the garage?”
For the first time, fat, non-stop tears streamed down her cheeks. She pulled the napkin from under the water glass and scrubbed her face, shaking her head and dabbing her eyes.
Adrenaline shot into Satish, but he let her cry. Okay, he’d struck out on the red Audi, but she could still prove useful if she didn’t fall apart.
She mashed the soggy napkin against her lips and brought her blood-shot gaze to meet Satish’s eyes. “He was the sweetest kid. Ask anybody. I called him Scout—short for Boy Scout. No matter what I needed done, he’d do it. Why Chellie took asshole Jimmie’s side over Mav—”
Her face crumpled. Sobs wracked her body. The napkin was a mushy ball. Satish stood, went to the windowless bathroom, and flipped on the fluorescent. Like the living room, this tiny space was immaculate. A box of lavender tissues sat on the stool. He picked them up, took a second, and opened the medicine cabinet.
Lipsticks, face creams, a good razor, deodorant, and jars of makeup occupied the three shallow, glass shelves. No aspirins. No Ibuprofen. No cold remedies or cough syrups. No prescription bottles.
When he returned to the living room and handed her the box, she ripped it from his hand. “Find any uppers? Or coke? Or maybe a kilo of H?”
“The world is full of actors, Cassie.” He sat down. “I want to believe you’re playing straight with me … that you want to find whoever killed Chellie and Maverick.”
“That means you think I’m playing you.”
“That’s still possible, but your medicine cabinet gives me reason to think you’re not.”
She blew her nose—a loud trumpeting sound that under other circumstances would generate a laugh. She crumpled the tissue and clenched her fist.
“I loved Chellie, but she was a lost cause. If she wasn’t getting it on with Jimmie, it was some other low-life loser.” Her voice dropped, made lower by an undercurrent of mourning.
Chellie … Born a lost cause? Alexandra’s smirking face mocked him. He fought the urge to leave, find AnnaSophia, console her in some way he couldn’t at that moment imagine.
Whether or not Cassie picked up on his downward spiral, she meandered on, talking more to herself than to him. “I’ve known Chellie since grade school. She wasn’t gonna change. Didn’t make her a bad person, but it made her a lousy mom. Didn’t matter. She needed something Maverick and I couldn’t give her. Nobody could give her what she needed.”
The statement should’ve sounded harsh, but Satish picked up on the sorrow, and his own despair fused with the memory of the kid he’d liked despite the circumstances.
“Maverick had a chance, dammit.” Cassie pressed her hand over the one crushing her used tissues. “Find his killer, okay?”
“That’s my plan, Cassie.” When he stood, he worked his jaw from side to side but couldn’t bring up IDing Chellie’s body.
“Do the cops need identification of the bodies?” Her tone vibrated with pain—and hope?—he’d say no.
He swallowed. “Let them find someone else.”
“Huh-uh.” She stood, swayed, regained her balance. “Maverick deserves someone who cares. This may be the best thing I’ll ever do in my life.”