“So, were those Jillian's panties we pulled out from under your driver's seat, Gil?” Kovac asked bluntly.
Vanlees kept his head down. “No.”
“Lila White's? Fawn Pierce's? Melanie Hessler's?”
“No. No. No.”
“You know, I wouldn't have guessed it looking at you, but you're a complex individual, Gil,” Kovac said. “Multilayered—like an onion. And every layer I peel away smells worse than the last. You look like an average Joe. Peel one layer back and—oh!—your wife's leaving you! Well, that's not so unusual. I'm a two-time loser myself. Peel another layer back and—jeez!—she's leaving you because you're a window peeper! No, wait, you're not just a window peeper. You're a weenie wagger! You're just one big, bad progressive joke. You're a drunk. You're a drunk who drives. You're a drunk who drives and gets somebody killed.”
Vanlees hung his head lower. Quinn could see the man's swollen mouth quivering.
“I didn't mean to. I couldn't see,” Vanlees said in a thick voice. “They won't leave me alone. That's your fault. I didn't do anything.”
“They want to know what happened to Jillian,” Kovac said. “I want to know what happened to her too. I think there was something more going on between you than what you're telling us, Gil. I think you had the hots for her. I think you were watching her. I think you stole those panties out of her dresser so you could whack off with them and fantasize about her, and I'm gonna prove it. We already know the panties are her size, her brand,” he bluffed. “It's just a matter of time before we get the DNA match. A few weeks. You'd better get used to those reporters, 'cause they're gonna be on you like flies on roadkill.”
Vanlees was crying now. Silently. Tears dripping onto the backs of his hands. He was trembling with the effort to hold them back.
Quinn looked to Kovac. “Sergeant, I'd like to have a few moments alone with Mr. Vanlees.”
“Oh, sure, like I got nothing better to do,” Kovac complained, getting up. “I know where this is going, Quinn. You G-men want it all to yourself. Fuck that. His ass is mine.”
“I just want a few words with Mr. Vanlees.”
“Uh-huh. You don't like the way I talk to this piece of cheese. You're sitting there thinking I should go easy on him on account of his prostitute mother used to beat his bare ass with a wire hanger or some such psychobabble bullshit. Fine. I'll see you in the headlines, I'm sure.”
Quinn said nothing until the cops had gone out, and then he said nothing for a long time. He took a Tagamet and washed it down with water from the plastic pitcher on the table. Casually, he turned his chair perpendicular to Vanlees's, leaned ahead, rested his forearms on his thighs, and sat there some more, until Vanlees glanced up at him.
“More of that good cop-bad cop shit,” Vanlees said, pouting. “You think I'm a dumb shit.”
“I think you watch too much TV,” Quinn said. “This is the real world, Gil. Sergeant Kovac and I don't have identical agendas here.
“I'm not interested in headlines, Gil. I've had plenty. You know that. I get them automatically. You know all I'm interested in, right? You know about me. You've read about me.”
Vanlees said nothing.
“The truth and justice. That's it. And I don't care what the truth turns out to be. It's not personal with me. With Kovac, everything is personal. He's got you in his crosshairs. All I want to know is the truth, Gil. I want to know your truth. I get the feeling you've got something heavy on your chest, and maybe you want to get it off, but you don't trust Kovac.”
“I don't trust you either.”
“Sure you do. You know about me. I've been nothing but up front with you, Gil, and I think you appreciate that on some level.”
“You think I killed Jillian.”
“I think you fit the profile in a lot of respects. I admit that. Moreover, if you look at the situation objectively, you'll agree with me. You've studied this stuff. You know what we look for. You know some of your pieces fit the puzzle. But that doesn't mean I believe you killed her. I don't necessarily believe Jillian is dead.”
“What?” Vanlees looked at him as if he thought Quinn might have lost his mind.
“I think there's a lot more to Jillian than first meets the eye. And I think you may have something to say about that. Do you, Gil?”
Vanlees looked at the floor again. Quinn could feel the pressure building in him as he weighed the pros and cons of answering truthfully.
“If you were watching her, Gil,” Quinn said very softly, “you're not going to get in trouble for that. That's not the focus here. The police will gladly let that go in trade for something they can use.”
Vanlees seemed to consider that, never thinking, Quinn was sure, that the “something” they were looking for could in turn be used against him. He was thinking of Jillian, of how he might cast some odd light on her and away from himself, because that was what people tended to do when they found themselves in big trouble—blame the other guy. Criminals regularly blamed their victims for the crimes committed against them.
“You were attracted to her, right?” Quinn said. “That's not a crime. She was a pretty girl. Why shouldn't you look?”
“I'm married,” he mumbled.
“You're married, you're not dead. Looking is free. So you looked. I don't have a problem with that.”
“She was . . . different,” Vanlees said, still staring at the floor but seeing Jillian Bondurant, Quinn thought. “Kind of . . . exotic.”
“You told Kovac she didn't come on to you, but that's not exactly true, is it?” Quinn ventured, still speaking softly, an intimate chat between acquaintances. “She was aware of you, wasn't she, Gil?”
“She never said anything, but she'd look at me in a certain way,” he admitted.
“Like she wanted you.” A statement, not a question, as if it came as no surprise.
Vanlees shied away from that. “I don't know. Like she wanted me to know she was looking, that's all.”
“Kind of mixed signals.”
“Yeah. Mixed signals.”
“Did anything come of it?”
Vanlees hesitated, struggled. Quinn waited, held his breath.
“I just want the truth, Gil. If you're innocent, it won't hurt you. It's just between us. Man to man.”
The silence stretched.
“I—I know it was wrong,” Vanlees murmured at last. “I didn't really mean to do it. But I was checking the yards one night, making the rounds—”
“When was this?”
“This summer. And . . . I was there . . .”
“At Jillian's house.”
He nodded. “She was playing the piano, wearing a silky robe that wanted to fall off her shoulder. I could see her bra strap.”
“So you watched her for a while,” Quinn said, as if it was only natural, any man would do it, no harm.
“Then she slipped the robe off and stood up and stretched.”
Vanlees was seeing it all in his mind. His respiration rate had picked up, and a fine sheen of sweat misted his face. “She started moving her body, like a dance. Slow and very . . . erotic.”
“Did she know you were there?”
“I didn't think so. But then she came to the window and pulled the cups of her bra down so I could see her tits, and she pressed them right to the glass and rubbed against it,” he said in a near whisper, ashamed, thrilled. “She—she licked the window with her tongue.”
“Jesus, that must have been very arousing for you.”
Vanlees blinked, embarrassed, looked away. This would be where parts of the story would go missing. He wouldn't tell about getting an erection or taking his penis out and masturbating while he watched her. Then again, he didn't have to. Quinn knew his history, knew the patterns of behavior, had seen it over and over in the years of studying criminal sexual behavior. He wasn't learning anything new here about Gil Vanlees. But if the story was true, he was learning something very significant about Jillian Bondurant.