True Detectives

“But talk to Mrs. Newfield, next door. She knows about that girl, talked to me about it.”

“What she say?”

“That my ‘predecessor’ was murdered and it was never solved. Like that was supposed to scare me. But the rent's great and with what they pay residents, no way I'm leaving. Then I found out the girl hadn't even been killed here, so what's the big deal?”

“Why would Mrs. Newfield try to scare you?”

“I'm not saying she did, it was more like sharing the anxiety. Like she's still freaked out. Anyway, I need to get some sleep. Going to be on call again before I know it.”

Moe thanked her and continued up the corridor.

His knock was followed by a strained “Who is it?” through the door.

“Police.”

“Who?”

“Police, ma'am.”

“About what?”

“Adella Villareal.”

Two beats. “Hold on.”

The door cracked an inch. Dark eyes peered out behind a chain.

Moe parted his blazer, showed the badge on his shirt pocket.

“Hold on.” Silver-nailed fingers fumbled with the chain. The door swung open quickly, as if destined for that position. The woman who stared at Moe was his height and broad-hipped. Seventy, seventy-five, with shoe-polish black hair cut in a pageboy. Gray-shadowed brown eyes were a pretty good match to her nail polish. Thickly powdered skin was the color and consistency of wet tissue paper. She wore a pearl-gray kimono printed with mauve fish. Diamond-colored gems strung around a scrawny neck were too huge to be real.

“Detective Reed, ma'am.”

“You're new.”

Did he look that green? “Pardon?”

“The first time the cops sent a woman. I was in the hospital with gallstones, my husband talked to her. Totally useless, what with his memory. Leonard said she was pretty, kept going on about it, trying to get my goat. He succeeded. I burned his di

Moe smiled.

“I'd have thought,” said the woman, “that she'd be interested, seeing as Leonard's memory is useless.”

“Did you call to let her know you were available?”

“That's my responsibility? You've got to be kidding.”

“True,” said Moe. “Well, I'm here, ma'am.”

“A new one,” said woman, looking him up and down. “They're growing 'em young nowadays.”

“I'm interested in anything you have to say, ma'am. May I come in?”

“I'm Ida Newfield. Sure, why not-uh-oh, hold on, wait wait wait. Show me that badge again, along with some printed I.D. You look like a cop, but a girl can't be too careful.”

After thirty seconds of squinty-eyed, bifocaled scrutiny, Ida Newfield let him into her living room.

He'd expected musty, overstuffed clutter, found very little of anything.

Gray felt walls, matching carpet, one low-slung charcoal leather couch, a chrome-and-glass coffee table, a single black lacquer chest with no handles.

All the warmth of an airport terminal. Like Aaron's place.

Ida Newfield a

“Nice,” said Moe.

“It's all about negative space,” said Newfield, pushing another button and causing the TV to descend. “Know what that means?”

“Stuff you don't see?”

“All the stuff that surrounds the stuff you do see,” she corrected. “Meaning sanity, because space feeds the soul. She didn't get that.” Hooking a thumb at the wall shared with the unit next door. “Not she, the doctor. She, the other one. The one you're here about. She was clean enough, but stuff was everywhere-baby clothes, cribs, her pullout bed, bottles, food. Ugh.” Head shake. “Have you heard George Carlin on stuff? First you acquire stuff, then you need stuff to take care of your stuff and places to store your stuff. Man was a genius. I almost did his house, years ago.”

Moe said, “So you knew Adella Villareal.”

“Not in the sense of friendship. But I sure know what she did.”

“What did she do?”

“As if you don't know.”

Moe waited.

“You don't?” said Ida Newfield. “Oh, come on. She had sex for money. I'm a feminist and that offends me deeply.”

“How do you know she-”

“Because she went out late dressed like a tart. Because she offered to pay me to take care of her baby when she had to ‘work’ suddenly. Always at night. I've raised my own two, the last thing I want to do is burp and change pooey diapers. No, sirree.”

“How often did she go out dressed like a tart?”

“I wasn't out in the hall keeping count. I saw her that way by accident-let's say six times, does that work for you? What a getup, you'd think men would tire of the old clichés and show some imagination.”

“What kind of getup?”

“Tart-couture. She tried to hide it under her coat but I knew what was going on. Fishnets, skintight micro-dress that she's falling out of, five-inch spikes, tiny little purse for her condoms. A lot different than what she pretended.”

“Pretended what?”

“That she was just a nice young mommy.” Ida Newfield clucked her tongue. “A nice mommy should live with a daddy. Or at least, another mommy, I don't judge. But raising a kid all alone? Oh, sure, that works. Even Leonard was somewhat helpful, back in the back-then. Maybe if she'd had help, that baby wouldn't have squalled so much.”

Another hoarse laugh, this one bereft of glee. “He offered to babysit for her. Leonard, I mean.”

“Doing a good deed,” said Moe.

“Oh, sure, I married a saint. Not that he'd ever follow through. No memory. He was just in one of his moods. ‘Why didn't you offer my services, honeybunch? In exchange for her services.’ I punched his arm. He loves that.”

“Where is your husband?”

“Hillside Memorial,” she said, without blinking. “He passed two months ago.”

“Sorry-”

“He was ninety-three. I was his young chick. So who killed her?”

“That's what we're trying to figure out, Mrs. Newfield. Do you have any idea who did babysit for her?”

“Different people.”

“You saw them.”

“Coming in and out.”

“How many different people?”

“At least two-no, three. There could've been more, I saw three. Like I said, it's not as if I was spying. If I just happened to notice something, I noticed.”

“Such as?”

“Such as people going in and staying there while she went out all tarted up.”

“Can you describe these people?”

“I didn't get a close look. A couple of times it was a man and two women, one looked like she'd been around the block-probably helping out a fellow tart. For all I know, the younger one was, too. The man was just a bum-I've seen him around the neighborhood, near the bars.”

Moe showed her Raymond Wohr's photo.

She said, “You bet. Is he the one killed her?” Even voice, but her hands were quivering.

“There's no evidence of that, ma'am.”

“You're just carrying his picture around for fun.”

“I'm carrying pictures of various people Ms. Villareal knew. Such as this woman.”

Alicia Eiger's mug shot elicited another “Yup, that's the older one. That's a police photo, right?”

Moe nodded.

Ida Newfield said, “Maybe I can be a detective, too. I read that on the back of a matchbook. Show me the younger one and we'll go three for three.”

“That's all I've got. Can you describe the younger woman?”

“Typical.”

“How so?”

“California,” said Newfield. “The whole blondey-blond thing. Not overtly tartish, but who knows? Maybe she fulfills stupid men's fantasies-deflowering the i

“How young was she?”

“Young. Like a college student. Not that she went to college.”