Free The Immorality Clause by Brian Parker Page B

were stacked across them haphazardly.
    The lingering smell of paint and mineral spirits told me that the shop doubled as a workspace as well. The lighting in the store wasn’t as bright as I’d have preferred, but it seemed to fit the mood and theme of the hobby shop well. Somewhere toward the back of the store, I heard the soft clacking sound of what I imagined to be a toy train circling a track. Just barely audible above the noise was the soft cry of a woman.
    I followed a walkway formed by shelving units to the counter. As I neared the back of the store, glass-encased cabinets came into view. These held painted figurines and an assortment of expensive-looking handheld electronic games. I gave them a wide berth; my luck with electronic products was downright shitty and I couldn’t afford to break an entire display case of them.
    No one was at the counter, so I tapped the plunger on an old chrome bell. A sharp, metallic ping rewarded my efforts and after a few heartbeats, the beaded curtain leading to the stockroom separated.
    An older Hispanic woman appeared. She had dark circles under red-rimmed eyes. Maybe thirty years and forty pounds ago, she might have even been attractive. Given her current state, I thought I’d found the shop’s co-owner. “Can I help you?” she asked.
    “Mrs. Wolfe?” I inquired tentatively.
    “No. My daughter, she is Mrs. Wolfe,” the woman replied in heavily accented English. “But she got bad news today. You leave your number. She call you in a few days.”
    I wanted to comply, to give the widow her space, but this case was strange enough as it was. I didn’t know if the wife was somehow involved, so I needed to talk to her in order to rule her out or add her to my list. I slipped my hand into my duster and pulled out my badge. “I’m Detective Zachary Forrest from the NOPD. I need to speak to your daughter. Only for a few minutes.”
    The woman’s eyes widened. “ Sí , I’ll get her.” She turned and fled into the back room.
    I heard hushed Spanish voices drifting through the curtain and they parted once more. I wasn’t prepared for the person who appeared through the beads.
    The woman was only in her mid-twenties, possibly early thirties, thin through the waist, but curvy up top and down below. She was pretty, with dark skin, wavy black hair and she wore a light green t-shirt with the name of the hobby shop and a phone number. The resemblance between the older woman and her daughter was evident. “Yes, Detective? Have you found my husband’s murderer?”
    While not as heavily accented as her mother, Mrs. Wolfe’s voice did nothing to hide her heritage. “No, but we’re looking.” Then, to be sure, I asked, “Are you Jacqueline Wolfe?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ma’am, I know this is hard for you. Do you have a few minutes to talk to me about your husband?”
    “ Aye, cabrón ,” she muttered. “What do you want?”
    I let the fact that she called me a bastard slide. “I need to talk to you about the whereabouts of your husband last night.”
    Mrs. Wolfe began crying. “He was with his whore. That puta robot he liked so much. I told him that no good would come of it. He said that it wasn’t cheating since it was with a sex bot.”
    I blanched. “You knew about his ah…visitation?”
    “Of course, I knew. Letting him go to the club was the only way I could keep him from finding a mistress. He went every two or three weeks, no matter what I did for him, it wasn’t enough.”
    “Ah… Your husband had a history of dating outside of your marriage?” I asked incredulously. Charles Wolfe was grotesquely obese. How could he find women and I couldn’t find one? Maybe he had a great personality compared to my generally shitty and skeptical outlook on things.
    “Yes.” She pointed toward the parking lot. “You might not understand with your fancy car, nice suit and police department morals, but if a man has money in New Orleans, they can get hundreds of women, no matter