Vince decided to let her go. She could run, but she couldn't hide. Joe Louis had said that, or was it Cooch, from the corner? "Suit yourself, Mrs. Finch. If I need you, I will subpoena you."
"Send it to my attorney, Detective." Mrs. Finch took her daughter's hand more rudely than necessary. "My daughter and I are leaving right this minute."
"Why your daughter?" Vince glanced at Caroline, who looked like she wanted to cooperate. "She doesn't have an appointment, or a spa to run." Vince addressed the daughter directly. "Do you?"
Caroline reddened slightly, then cleared her throat. "No, but I think my mother's right, Detective. As the wife of a congressman, I probably shouldn't be speaking with you, at least without talking to my husband first. I have to think about the press, for his sake."
This Vince didn't like. The daughter had information, he could tell. "A woman has been murdered here, ma'am. You may have information that can help me bring her killer to justice. In fact, the murderer may still be among us, right here, in the spa." At this, the mud people recoiled in offense, but Vince ignored them. It was homicide that offended him, not honesty. "You're not gonna talk to me, Caroline? With human life at stake?"
"I can't," she answered, her forehead wrinkled with conflict.
"You may be putting all of these people in danger."
"I know, but-"
"If you have information for me, that puts you at greatest risk, do you understand that?"
Caroline looked torn, but her mother showed no ambivalence. "I'll leave the name of our attorney for you at the desk," Mrs. Finch said. Then she turned and walked off, dragging her daughter away as if she were a small child leaving a petting zoo.
Watching them go, Vince decided that Hilda Finch was the type of person who didn't care about others in the least, not even about her daughter. People like that, they were the most dangerous of all.
Vince had arranged to use a spare conference room in the spa for questioning the witnesses, which suited him fine. He didn't believe it would be real productive but it was procedure, and he'd have to make a record anyway. He could interrogate these characters on their home turf, which he hoped would put them at ease, and the room was nicer than the Ritz. Who knew what would happen? A black granite table, round as a black hole, dominated the room, which was otherwise completely white. Black leather chairs ringed the table, and as soon as Vince sat in one, the pain in his knee disappeared. The chairs were called something-ergonomically correct, Vince remembered, and figured he might ask for one of these babies for Christmas. They made his ergonomics feel better.
He eased back in the chair as a uniformed cop ushered in the first of the mud people. He would see them in no particular order, but they had been kept separate by the uniforms, per directive. The first witness was a young model named Ondine, one name only, if Vince had heard her correctly outside. She was gorgeous but so skinny she needed emergency ravioli. Vince watched with concern as she crossed legs thin as spaghettini and all but disappeared into the cushy chair. "I'm Detective Toscana. Can I get you anything?" he asked on reflex. "A drink, or maybe a meatball sandwich?"
The model set her puffy lips. "I cannot answer that question on the grounds it might incriminate me," she answered, with a straight face, and Vince didn't understand.
"What?"
"My lawyer told me not to talk to you. Also my manager, Chris Lund? He said to pound sand." She got up instantly and walked out the door with a speed surprising in the malnourished.
Vince rubbed his forehead. It was going to be a long morning.
Vince waited while his next interview, a man who looked a lot like George Hamilton, sat down opposite him. It was Raoul de Vries, the husband of the dead woman, and he didn't look unhappy enough at being suddenly single. Vince was instantly suspicious. The spouse was always the prime suspect. He leaned over the table toward Dr. de Vries. "My name is Detective Toscana, and I'm very sorry about your loss, sir."
"Not as sorry as I am. And that concludes this conversation." Dr. de Vries leaped to his Gucci loafers.
"Huh?"
"I will not discuss this matter further, on advice of counsel."
"But, Doctor-"
"You heard me," DeVries said and left even faster than the model, owing to his normal caloric intake.
Vince sat a minute in the glossy, quiet room, suddenly cheered. He was getting so much crap, it almost felt like home.
Vince straightened in his wonderful chair at the appearance of King David, who strode through the door as if he were taking center stage. Vince had never heard King David's music, but he knew that the kids were wild for him. The rock star sat in the chair with such a theatrical flourish Vince was tempted to ask for his autograph, even though he didn't like anybody who would name himself King, on principle. It seemed vaguely sacrilegious. Plus what do you call him for short?
"King?" Vince began, taking a flyer. "I'm Detective Toscana." The rock star laughed softly. "You don't really think I'm going to answer your silly questions, do you?"
Vince drummed his fingers and stared at his empty pad until the door opened and Howard Fondulac, the Hollywood producer, entered the room. The producer didn't even bother to sit down and stood inside the door only long enough to announce:
"I take no meetings without my lawyers."
Then he left, his cell phone ringing.
"Pleased to meet you," Vince told the young muscleman, and tried not to notice that the man was wearing only a black bathing suit, thin as a strip of electrician's tape. Vince wondered if the swimsuit was the same type as he had found on the corpse, but didn't want to spend a lot of time staring at the young man's crotch. Otherwise the guy had biceps out his ears and nipples that seemed to be winking at him. It was scary, even for a homicide detective. "I'm Vince Toscana," he said nevertheless.
"Emilio Costanza here," said the man, and Vince broke into a happy grin.
"You're Italian? A paesan? In Virginia?"
"I still ain't talking, goombah. I know my rights."
Vince nodded, understanding.
Vince was about to give it up when Phyllis Talmadge, the psychic author, chugged into the interview room like a diesel-powered tugboat. A red-lipsticked smile dominated her plump face, and her eyes burned an intense and alert brown. Her short hair bounced as she grabbed a chair and plopped down, oblivious to its ergonomic benefits. "I know just what you're thinking!" she boomed, and Vince smiled, startled. "You should. It's your job."
"Damn straight it is." The psychic author burst into merry laughter. "You're thinking that these people are too rich for their own good. You're thinking that they have too much ego and not enough brains. Or heart. Am I right or am I right?"
Vince laughed. "Yes."
"You're thinking that, for once, you wish you had an easy interview. Someone who actually wanted to talk to you. Who could work with you. Who could put it all together into a nice, smooth story."
Vince laughed again, in wonderment. "That's exactly right."
"You want to meet somebody with useful information, who can throw out all the irrelevant facts, highlight the ones that matter, and just get to the point already."
"True!" Vince said eagerly. Her enthusiasm was catching.
"Well, I am that person! I can answer all your questions and wrap it up for you in a neat package. Most of the time, I can answer a question in eight words. That's a trick my media coach taught me. Go ahead. Try me!"