Mazzano fancied himself a ladies' man. In his day he'd been quite successful with lower class dames who bought into the whole dating-a-cop mystique. He was settled now, but he would still stop and stare at any reasonably attractive woman. For the next few seconds he'd remain dumbfounded as though he'd never seen a broad before.
Detective Mazzano led me to an interview room at the station. When I noticed Harris sitting at the table, I realized that this wasn't going to be a discussion. It was an interrogation.
"Harris," I acknowledged him respectfully.
"Daniels." His voice was polite but contained an overtone of contempt.
Detective James Franklin Harris was a fair-skinned African American. (Yes, both of the detectives in the room now were named James.) At fifty, Harris was a few years older than Mazzano and a couple of inches taller. He wore a conservative brown jacket with gray slacks and well-made brown shoes over socks with a fancy pattern.
Harris was quiet, but he had a wicked temper. His strict, Bible-thumping father had beaten young Harris obsessively, and a dangerous rage seethed in the man to this day. I had seen Harris lose control. I do everything that I can to avoid setting him off.
"Have you heard from Mrs. Pemberton?" Det. Mazzano asked directly.
"Not for a couple of days," I replied.
"No contact with her?" he clarified.
"I tried to call a couple of times," I explained, "but she didn't pick up." That was the truth. I wasn't willing to contradict phone records that they could verify easily.
"She hasn't attempted to contact you?" Jimmy continued.
"I haven't received any calls or messages," I confirmed.
"You mentioned the other day that you thought that she might be in trouble."
"Yes," I confirmed.
"Why?"
"She told me that her husband could be rough, and she thought they might be headed for divorce. She told me that he was having her followed."
"Why would he do that?"
"You'd have to ask him," I answered coldly.
"I assume that you've been poking around," Jimmy surmised correctly. "You find anything?"
"Not really," I said. "But I'm not sure whether to believe the dame's story."
"Why is that?" Harris chimed in for the first time. I looked him in the eye as I replied.
"I stopped by a couple of Mr. Pemberton's businesses. His employees think that the guy walks on water."
There was no sense in hiding any of this information from the cops. It was better to keep them close and leverage their assets if possible. If Mrs. Pemberton were in trouble, she might need their help.
Harris and Mazzano sat quietly for a moment. They were deciding what to say next.
"What's going on guys?" I asked. "Is the dame in trouble? Do you know where she is?"
"We don't know where she is," Jimmy confided, "and apparently, neither does her husband. He filed a missing persons report this morning."
"Interesting!" I wasn't completely surprised, but it added a new twist to their complicated relationship.
"There's one more thing, Mike." Mazzano opened the folder and placed a couple of 8x12 prints on the table.
"We've got photos of the dame leaving your place at 7 o'clock in the morning," Mazzano continued.
"Do you want to revise your story?" Harris asked.
"Revise it how?" I asked. "Everything I told you is true."
"Is there anything that you might have forgotten to mention?" Mazzano asked in a delicately scolding tone.
"No," I said with a questioning tone.
Harris took the opportunity to advance his gambit. "Are you involved with Mrs. Pemberton, Michael?"
"Absolutely not!" I insisted. "The dame was at my place for fifteen minutes. We talked business, and she left."
Now I was the one who was getting steamed.
"And only my mother calls me Michael."
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