Free Victims by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

obviously cops. I haven’t done anything, so what gives?”
    Broad, faintly Slavic midwestern intonation.
    “Lieutenant Sturgis, Mr. Sloat.” Milo extended his hand. Sloat studied it for a second, endured a brief clasp before retrieving his big paw. “Okay, now we’re all BFFs. Could you please tell me what’s going on?”
    “Sorry if this is upsetting you, Mr. Sloat. It’s certainly not our intention.”
    “It’s not upsetting me,” said Sloat. “I mean I’m not worried personally because I know I haven’t done anything. I just don’t get why the cops are here when I’m trying to work.” He frowned. “Oh, man, don’t tell me it’s something to do with George. If it is, I can’t help you, I just work for the guy.”
    Milo didn’t answer.
    Jay Sloat pressed his palms together prayerfully. “Tell me it ain’t so, guys, okay? I need this job.”
    “It ain’t so. George is the owner?”
    Sloat relaxed, exhaled. “So it’s not about that. Excellent. Okay, then what’s up?”
    Milo repeated the question.
    Sloat said, “Yeah, he’s the owner. George Hassan. He’s really an okay guy.”
    “Why would we be looking for him?”
    “No reason.”
    “No reason, but he’s the first one you thought of.”
    Sloat’s brown eyes turned piggishly small as they studied Milo, then me, then Milo again. “George is going through a complicated divorce and she keeps claiming he’s holding back on her. She’s threatening to close down the business if he doesn’t open the books. Last week, she sent around a private investigator pretending to be a customer,dude’s dressed like a dork, starts asking me if I have more of these nice worsted suits in the back. Worsted . What a doofus. I said, ‘Hey, Dan Tana, if you actually want to try something on, let’s do it, if this is a game, go play it elsewhere.’ Guy turned white and got the fuck out.”
    Sloat grinned and winked. His bronzed face was smoother than when we’d entered; recounting his dominance put him back in his comfort zone.
    Milo said, “I hear you. Well, this has nothing to do with George.”
    “What then?”
    “It’s about your ex-wife.”
    Sloat’s jaw muscles swelled. His pupils expanded. “Vita? What about her?”
    “She’s dead.”
    “Dead,” said Sloat. “As in police dead? Oh, man. What happened?”
    “Someone murdered her.”
    “Yeah, I got that. I mean who, how, when?”
    Milo ticked his fingers. “Don’t know, nasty, five nights ago.”
    Sloat stroked his soul patch. “Wo-ho,” he said, in a soft, almost boyish voice. “Someone finally did the bitch.”
    We didn’t respond.
    He said, “I need a cigarette, let’s go outside.”
    Milo said, “Let’s.”
    Grabbing a pack of wheat-colored Nat Shermans from the steel desk, Jay Sloat led us out of the store to the curb, where he positioned himself in front of the display window and lit up with a gold-plated lighter. “Can’t smoke inside, George doesn’t want odor on the merchandise.”
    Milo waited until he’d puffed a third of the cigarette before speaking. “Someone did the bitch. So for you it’s not bad news.”
    “Me and Vita broke up a long time ago.”
    “Fifteen years ago.” Milo cited the date of the final decree.
    The detail caused Sloat to recoil. “What, you guys are looking into my past?”
    “We’ve researched Vita, Mr. Sloat. Your name came up.”
    “So you know about my arrests.”
    “We do.”
    “Then you also know they were bullshit. Dorks asking for trouble and getting it.”
    Neither of us argued.
    Sloat said, “I watch those shows, I get it, I’m the ex, you think I did it.”
    “What shows?”
    “Crime—true crap, puts me to sleep at night.” Sloat grinned. “When I don’t have help getting some nighty-night.”
    “You get help often?”
    “Get pussy as often as I can, good for the complexion.” He laughed. “Got it every night last week, including five nights ago.”
    “From who?”
    “A chick who rode me like a rodeo