“I’m not afraid to admit it. ” Trout cut him a sideways look. “What’s your take on her?”
Goat fished a York Peppermint Pattie out of his jacket pocket, opened it, broke it in half, and handed one piece to Trout.
“She’s really something,” Goat said, then nibbled the edge of his candy. “She was maybe twenty, twenty-five years younger, I’d have tapped that shit. ”
“Really? You listen to that tape and the only thing you can say is that you’d throw her a pity fuck?”
“I ain’t talking a pity fuck. She looks like she was hot stuff, and not that long ago. I could really see Helen Mirren playing her, ’cause I’d tap Mirren in a heartbeat. ”
“You worry me at times, Goat. ”
“Why? ’Cause I’m on the prowl instead of pining for a redneck lady cop who’d like to see your nuts on her key chain?”
“Don’t,” warned Trout.
“Don’t what? You telling me you’re not still hung up on Officer Boobs?”
“I’ve interviewed twenty serial killers over the years, Goat. I know everything there is to know about how to hide a body where it’ll never be found. ”
“Truth hurt?”
“I’m talking dismemberment and multiple burial sites…”
“Okay, okay. Subject closed. ”
“Selma,” Trout prompted. “Give me your professional opinion. ”
Goat shrugged. “The theater lost a major player when she decided to fuck for a living. ”
“Meaning?”
“She’s incredibly controlled. I could barely tell where she was lying and where she was telling the truth. ”
“Whoa … barely? So, you could tell some of the times she was lying?”
“Well, sure. ”
Trout glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Like where?”
Goat played part of the tape back. “Here. Listen to this. ”
Ask your questions.
Are you Homer Gibbon’s aunt?
Sure. Why not?
How well did you know him?
Seen him once in a while. Mostly when he was like seventeen and older. After he ran away from foster care the last time.
When was the last time you saw him?
A pause.
Could you be a bit more specific?
I don’t know. Maybe back in ninety, ninety-one.