`OK,’ I said. `So our guess is old Sherman was getting some kind of a subsidy, too, right? Otherwise he couldn’t afford to live here.’
`Sure,’ she said. `But what kind of a subsidy?’
`The kind that gets people killed,’ I said.
Stoller’s building was way in back. Probably the first phase to have been built. The old man in the poor part of town had said his son had moved out two years ago. That could be about right. This first block could be about two years old. We threaded through walkways and around raised up flowerbeds. Walked up a path to Sherman Stoller’s door. The path was stepping stones set in the wiry lawn. Forced an unnatural gait on you. I had to step short. Roscoe had to stretch her stride from one flagstone to the next. We reached the door. It was blue. No shine on it. Old-fashioned paint.
`Are we going to tell her?’ I said.
`We can’t not tell her, can we?’ Roscoe said. `She’s got to know.’
I knocked on the door. Waited. Knocked again. I heard the floor creaking inside. Someone was coming. The door opened. A woman stood there.
Maybe thirty, but she looked older. Short, nervous, tired. Blonde from a bottle. She looked out at us.
`We’re police officers, ma’am,’ Roscoe said. `We’re looking for the Sherman Stoller residence.’
There was silence for a moment.
`Well, you found it, I guess,’ the woman said.
`May we come in?’ Roscoe asked. Gently.
Again there was silence. No movement. Then the blonde woman turned and walked back down the hallway. Roscoe and I looked at each other. Roscoe followed the woman. I followed Roscoe. I shut the door behind us.
The woman led us into a living room. A decent-sized space. Expensive furniture and rugs. A big TV. No stereo, no books. It all looked a bit half-hearted. Like somebody had spent twenty minutes with a catalogue and ten thousand dollars. One of these, one of those, two of that. All delivered one morning and just kind of dumped in there.
`Are you Mrs Stoller?’ Roscoe asked the woman. Still gentle.
`More or less,’ the woman said. `Not exactly Mrs, but as near as makes no difference anyhow.’
`Is your name Judy?’ I asked her.
She nodded. Kept on nodding for a while. Thinking.
`He’s dead, isn’t he?’ Judy said.
I didn’t answer. This was the part I wasn’t good at. This was Roscoe’s part. She didn’t say anything, either.
`He’s dead, right?’ Judy said again, louder.
`Yes, he is,’ Roscoe said. `I’m very sorry.’
Judy nodded to herself and looked around the hideous room. Nobody spoke. We just stood there.
Judy sat down. She waved us to sit as well. We sat, in separate chairs. We were all sitting in a neat triangle.
`We need to ask you some questions,’ Roscoe said. She was sitting forward, leaning towards the blonde woman. `May we do that?’
Judy nodded. Looked pretty blank.
`How long did you know Sherman?’ Roscoe asked.
`About four years, I guess,’ Judy said. `Met him
in Florida, where I lived. Came up here to be with
him four years ago. Lived up here ever since.’ `What was Sherman’s job?’ Roscoe asked. Judy shrugged miserably.
`He was a truck driver,’ she said. `He got some kind of a big driving contract up here. Supposed to be long term, you know? So we bought a little place. His folks moved in too. Lived with us for a while. Then we moved out here. Left his folks in the old house. He made good money for three years. Busy all the time. Then it stopped, a year ago. He hardly worked at all since. Just an odd day, now and then.’
`You own both the houses?’ Roscoe said.
`I don’t own a damn thing,’ Judy said. `Sherman
owned the houses. Yes, both of them.’
`So he was doing well for the first three years?’
Roscoe asked her.
Judy gave her a look.
`Doing well?’ she said. `Grow up, for God’s sake. He was a thief. He was ripping somebody off.’
`You sure?’ I said.
Judy swung her gaze my way. Like an artillery piece traversing.