Deep Freeze (Virgil Flowers #10)(32)

“Where’s Moore Financial?”

“Go out the door, take a left, walk two blocks. You’ll see a barber pole, and it’s the next door down the street.”

—

People on the street were hustling along, shoulders hunched, puffing steam into the frigid air, but, all in all, looking reasonably happy with themselves. One or two of them nodded to Virgil, and one, a dog owner, said, “Hey, Virgie. Investigating Gina Hemming?”

Virgil said yes, and after the man expressed bewilderment about the murder, Virgil asked after the man’s Labrador retrievers and got a two-minute lecture on the care of dogs’ paws in sub-zero weather. Moving on down the street, trying not to limp, Virgil spotted the barbershop, waved at the man behind its single chair, and turned into Moore Financial.

A receptionist sitting behind a high counter, typing, smiled at Virgil and said, “You’re Virgil, I heard about the black eyes and the blue thing. You’re here to talk to Margot. She thought you might be coming around.”

“Is she in?”

“Yup. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

—

Margot Moore was a forty-two-year-old gym rat, short, thin but not delicate, with carefully cut hair wrapped tightly around her oval face. She was wearing narrow black computer glasses. She had three computer screens on a side desk, and an expansive center desk stacked with paper files in different colors. She took off the glasses and stood up when Virgil walked in and shook his hand.

“Sit down, Virgil. Isn’t this unbelievable?”

“You know who did it?” Virgil asked.

“Of course not or I would have called you up. I suspect somebody told you I was Gina’s best friend, which is true enough. But this . . .”

“Was she seeing a man? Somebody who would not be happy to have that get out?”

Moore swiveled in her chair, looked out the window behind her desk, swiveled back and said, “I really don’t know for sure . . .”

“You think she was,” Virgil said.

“No, no, I really don’t know. I really don’t know if she was seeing a man, or, if she was, who it would be.”

“Let’s not focus on what you know for sure. Give me your opinion. Was she seeing a man?”

Moore hesitated, then said, “No. Not in what you’d call a real relationship.”

“Did she talk about her relationships?”

“Oh, sure. With me anyway. The thing she was most private about was money. She wanted people to know that she was rich but not how rich. For one thing, they might have thought she was a lot richer than she really was and she wouldn’t want them finding out she wasn’t as rich as they thought. People think she was the richest person in town, but if she was, it wasn’t by much.”

“Did she ever talk to you about Corbel Cain?”

“Corbel . . .” She half laughed, rubbed her forehead with her middle three fingers. “Yeah, she told me about Corbel. About everything. Corbel wouldn’t hurt her, though. If you wanted a good, rousing fuck—excuse the language—Corbel was the man to see. Nothing fancy, meat and potatoes, but he knew how to dish it out.”

Virgil studied her for a moment, said nothing, and she added, “Yeah, yeah, Corbel and I had a thing, too, right after my divorce. I sort of borrowed him from Gina, who thought that was hilarious.”

“You were close enough to . . . borrow. Was there anyone else?”

“No, no, no . . . Corbel was sort of our girl thing.”

“I’m a little surprised that Corbel’s wife hasn’t shot somebody,” Virgil said.

“Corbel’s wife takes care of her own self,” Moore said. “I once knew for sure that she was banging the guy who has the diesel fuel franchise here. She came in for the annual investment tune-up, and, since we were friends, I said, ‘Janey, there’ve been some rumors going around, you got to be more careful,’ and she waved me off and said, ‘Keeping two men happy is the only way I can stay happy myself.’”

“This place . . .” Virgil said.

“Is exactly like every other place,” she said.

—

They sat for a minute or so, Virgil mulling it over and then asking, “How long has Gina been involved in B and D?”

For the first time in the conversation, Virgil realized he’d delivered a shot. Moore’s eyes opened wider, and her forehead went red, and she said, “Gina doesn’t . . .”

“Yes, she does,” Virgil said. “I’m wondering if her partner . . . or partners . . . might have gone too far, or maybe Gina said something that freaked him out and he hit her a little too hard.”

“My God, Virgil . . .” Her eyes slid sideways, and Virgil understood that she was about to tell a large, whopping lie, and she said, “I don’t believe that she would ever have been involved with anything like that.”

“I found a whip under her bed, along with a couple of sex toys. I’ve got a crime scene team coming down to check it all for DNA,” Virgil said. “The medical examiner found light bruising on her wrists, ankles, and buttocks consistent with being tied up and spanked.”

“Virgil . . .”

“You don’t know anything about that?”

“No!” A little anger this time.