“To talk about Flora Newsome.”
“Now? I’m working.”
“We’d appreciate a few minutes, Mr. Nichols.”
“About what?” A flush rose from Nichols’s bull neck and made its way up his cheeks.
“We’re taking a fresh look at the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”
“I knew her all right, but I don’t know who killed her. I’ve already been through all that crap with some other cops—I’m on the job, man, and they pay me by the hour. They’re Nazis, man. I stay too long in the bathroom, they dock me. If it was a union job, they couldn’t do that, but it isn’t, so give me a break.”
“I’ll square it with Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Right,” said Nichols. He toed dirt, rolled his neck some more.
“Just a few minutes.”
Nichols cursed under his breath. “At least let’s get out of the fucking sun.”
*
We walked to a corner of the site shaded by two portable toilets. The chemicals had failed, and the stench was aggressive.
Nichols’s nostrils flared. “Reeks. Perfect. This is all bullshit.”
“You get upset pretty easily,” said Milo.
“You would, too, if your time was money and someone wasted it.” Nichols unsnapped the leather lid of his wristwatch and peered at the dial. “Those first cops spent days with me, man. What a hassle. I could tell right away they thought I was a suspect because of the way they played around with me.”
“Played?”
“One’s nice, the other’s an asshole. A he and a she. He faked being the nice one. I’ve seen enough TV to know the game.” He ran a hand over his skinhead. “Now, you. What, you’re getting overtime, trying to stretch it out?”
Milo stared at him.
Nichols said, “Didn’t they tell you I had a perfect alibi for when Flora was killed? Watching the game in a sports bar, then I shot pool and played some darts and got drunk. A buddy drove me to my house just after midnight, and I threw up all over the living room couch. My wife tucked me in and didn’t give me shit until she woke me up two hours later after stewing on it and then she reamed me. So I’m accounted for, okay? A whole bunch of people verified it, and your buddies know it.”
Milo glanced at me. Both of us thinking the same thing: His wife hadn’t mentioned that.
“You have any theories about who killed Flora?”
“No.”
“None at all?”
Nichols licked his lips. “Why should I?”
“We’ve heard you do have a theory.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Flora’s sex drive. Or lack thereof.”
“Shit,” said Nichols. “You’ve been talking to Lisa. What do you expect her to say? We’re getting divorced, she hates my fucking guts. Didn’t she tell you I was home that night? Shit, she didn’t. See—she hates my guts.”
“What about your theory?”
“Yeah, yeah, I told her that, but I was talking out of my butt—like you talk to your wife, you know.”
Milo smiled.
“They need you to talk,” said Nichols. “Females.” He opened and shut his hand several times, miming chatter. “You come home after a hard day’s work and just wanna chill and they want to talk. Myah myah myah. So you tell them what they want to hear.”
“Lisa wanted to hear about Flora’s sex drive?”
“Lisa wanted to hear that she was hot, the hottest, hotter than anyone else I ever met in my life.” Nichols humphed. “That’s what that was all about.”
Milo stepped closer to Nichols. “You stroked Lisa by putting down Flora? Any particular reason you chose Flora as the bad example?”
Nichols edged back.
“Did Flora have sexual problems, Roy?”
“If you call not being able to do it problems,” said Nichols.
“She couldn’t have sex?”
“She couldn’t come. She had no feelings down there, used to lie there like a . . . a carpet. She didn’t like to do it. Wouldn’t come out and say so, but she had a way of letting you know.”
“What way was that?”
“You’d touch her, and she’d get this . . . upset look. Like she—like you hurt her.”