Free Mr. Paradise A Novel by Elmore Leonard Page A

still wearing the skirt but not the sweatshirt, a thin white bra covering her breasts.
    “Could I have the bag, please?”
    Delsa stepped to the doorway, the operator license still in his hand. They looked at each other. He didn’t say anything. She took the brown Vuitton bag from him and closed the door.
    H E SAT AT THE dining room table going through Kelly’s handbag, identical to Chloe’s exccept it was black.
    Michigan Operator License: Kelly Ann Barr, 9-11-1976, F, 5-8, BLU, Type A, no restrictions, sunglasses in the bag, an ATM card, Visa, Saks, Neiman Marcus, Marshall Field’s, the Detroit Zoo, Detroit Public Library, AT&T, Blockbuster, more cards than Chloe carried, but not anywhere near asmuch cash, eighty dollars in the wallet, loose change in a pocket, keys. No condoms.
    He brought Chloe’s operator license from his pocket and laid it on the table next to Kelly’s, both laminated plastic cards.
    Here, tonight, both girls had the same mess of semi-spiked hair, and both were blond, right? In real life?
    But in the license photos Kelly had light-brown hair that flipped up, and Chloe’s was long and blond. The photos, taken two years ago according to the license expiration dates, could be of the same girl wearing different wigs.
    He studied the photos again side by side. Good shots for driver’s license I.D.’s. Or these two couldn’t take a bad picture.
    He looked at Kelly.
    He looked at Chloe.
    He looked at Kelly again and remained staring at her eyes. They looked alike when you weren’t looking at them together. But Kelly’s expression was more appealing to him, something familiar in her eyes he didn’t see in Chloe’s and it made him think of the Halloween eyes upstairs, eyes peering out from all that makeup, watching him with a quiet expression . . . The same eyes he saw when the bathroom door opened, cream covering her face but there were her eyes.
    Delsa picked up both plastic cards from the table and went into the living room where an M.E. investigator, Valentino Trabucci, at one time with Homicide, an older guy in a jacket and wool shirt was taking pictures of the victims.
    He said, “What’ve you got, Frank, anything?”
    “Cause and manner.”
    “I think we’re pretty clear on that.”

    “Otherwise they’re lying to me, as usual.”
    Val Trabucci said, “That busted-in front door is bullshit. I hope you made a note of it.”
    “First thing,” Delsa said.
    “The one I like is Montez Taylor. If he didn’t do these two he opened the fuckin door.”
    “Montez said he saw the guy.”
    “One guy, alone?”
    “That’s all, running out of the house.”
    “Take Montez back to 1300 and beat it out of him.”
    Delsa handed him Kelly’s operator license.
    “Tell me what you think.”
    Val looked from the photo to the girl covered in her blood. “This is the same girl?”
    “Kelly Barr.”
    “If you say so.”
    Delsa handed him Chloe’s license.
    Val made the comparison and said, “I could go either way, Frank.”
    “Can’t nail it down for me?”
    “I don’t have to. We’ll print her, locate family . . .”
    Delsa said, “Val, you want to call the old man’s son?”
    “That’s one I won’t mind doing,” Val said. “I imagine you want the bodies out of here first.”
    “We’d appreciate it,” Delsa said.
    Val handed over the plastic cards. He said, “I’ll have the removal service come in,” and walked away.
    Now Delsa looked at the two license photos close to the dead girl’s face. The eyes closed, she could be either one.

    Harris came along leading their boss like they were on a tour of the scene: Inspector Wendell Robinson, his trench coat hanging open over a sweater, and wearing his beige Kangol. Most of the time the man wore a good-looking suit and tie, a Kangol to match, their dude leader, cool mustache, tall, slim, Richard Harris’ idol. Every detective at 1300 called him Wendell.
    “Frank, you see Val Trabucci?”
    “He was just here.”
    “He