Pescoli slashed a look at her partner. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Alvarez lied. “Let’s get to it.” She turned her attention back to the victim. Get a grip, Selena. You can do this. You have to. For Gabe. But the gold earring, with its winking, if fake, stone, seemed to mock her, and the panic that she fought so determinedly welled deep, questions echoing through her brain, plaguing her as they had no answers.
Who is this psycho?
What the hell has he done with my son?
This had just gotten personal. Extremely personal. As if she thought the freak could hear her, she whispered under her breath, “Get ready, you bastard, because I’m going to nail your ass and I’m going to nail it good.”
“... and that’s all you know?” Pescoli asked hours later as she stared across the small table in the interrogation room at Ezzie Zwolski. Ezzie’s small hands were folded in her lap as she sat in a chair next to an attorney who looked as if he’d just graduated from law school. Shaved head, nervous smile, pressed suit with a shiny tie, the lawyer said little during the questioning. To Pescoli, he seemed useless.
As for Ezzie, she was a mere mouse of a woman if one believed first impressions. Ezzie’s graying hair was pinned tightly onto her head, a ruffled blouse was buttoned primly at her neck and a brown cardigan sweater was cinched around her waist. In her late fifties, she was still petite, wore little makeup and appeared more like a fussy Sunday school teacher out of the forties than the femme fatale Len Bradshaw’s family painted her to be.
Except for her eye glasses. The frames were stylishly sleek, thin lavender plastic that was at odds with the rest of her aging, farm-wife ensemble. And she wore a pretty good-sized diamond ring on her left hand, a little flashier than the rest of her attire. Then there were her near-perfect teeth. Again, just a little out of sync with the rest of her.
“I’m telling you that Martin swore to me, on the family Bible no less,” she insisted now, “that poor Len’s death was an accident.”
“Even though he’d embezzled money from the farm equipment business and had an affair with you?”
Ezzie’s spine stiffened and her pale lips pursed ever so slightly. “Water under the bridge, Detective.”
“It was over between you and Len?”
“Long ago.”
“And your husband forgave you?”
“He’s a good man.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, Martin forgave me.” She stared up at Pescoli with wide eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “As I said, he’s a good God-fearing man.”
“Not a murderer.”
“Of course not! It was a hunting accident! Why don’t you people just believe him? There’s no proof otherwise and ... from what I understand, you have a real killer on the loose.” Her little chin jutted in indignation, but still, Pescoli wasn’t buying her sudden defense of a man she’d betrayed.
“Why didn’t you come forward before?”
“Because, as you so aptly pointed out, I had nothing more to add. I wasn’t with Martin and Len when the accident happened. I was home canning applesauce, but I can tell you this, when Martin got home that day, he was distraught. Horribly so. He couldn’t believe that the gun had gone off and that Len had died. It tore him up inside. Still is.” She let out a long sigh and looked away, as if gathering herself.
For what?
“What about the money that Bradshaw embezzled?” Pescoli asked. “Did Len ever offer to pay it back?”
“No ... I don’t think so. Martin was going to take it as a write-off somehow.” She waved her hand rapidly as if she didn’t understand all of the details and was shooing the question aside. “You can do that, I guess, over time. Like a bad debt.”
Maybe. If you truly were a “good, God-fearing man.” Then again ...
Pescoli asked a few more questions, didn’t learn much more and decided Ezzie was right; she did have a more pressing case. But as the petite woman left the interrogation room, her attorney on her heels, Pescoli was left with a bad taste in her mouth.
Maybe it was the chic lavender glasses.
Or the fact that she’d been in a bad mood since roused from Santana’s bed this morning. She’d called Jeremy and left a message that he go and let the dog out, then driven straight to the crime scene where Alvarez definitely was not her usually cool, level-headed self. Ever since spying the nipple ring, she’d flipped out. Well, maybe before that. Who wouldn’t? Pescoli would have been a basket case if a child she’d given up for adoption had suddenly come knocking on her door, then ripped her off. Weird, all that. Disturbing. But then, so was Esmeralda Zwolski.
Bad mood aside, Pescoli sensed she couldn’t trust Esmeralda “Ezzie” Zwolski any farther than she could throw the prim little woman, sensible shoes and all.
Still bothered by the interview, she collected her notes and recorder, then made a quick stop in the lunchroom to survey whatever of Joelle’s Christmas goodies might have been left on the tables. Nothing of interest had been left for the “weekend warriors,” as Joelle had called those who pulled Saturday and Sunday duty. Seeing nothing that appealed to her, Pescoli grabbed a cup of coffee and walked to Alvarez’s work area.