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Shaw kept his smile on the inside.
Almost ten minutes passed before Maleah opened the door, this time without the chain. She handed back North’s ID and license, and then she said, “I’m sorry about that.”
“Let me guess,” North said. “Somebody remembered him?”
A tiny smile appeared on Maleah’s face. “I think there was a comment about the Tin Man.”
“I didn’t even think about the Tin Man,” Shaw said.
This time, Maleah laughed. “Come on in.”
The living room was furnished with what Shaw guessed was secondhand furniture—a chintz sofa, its upholstery once fine but baggy and growing dingy; wicker armchairs that looked like they’d moved households one too many times; a coffee table with a few scars. A faux-fur throw was folded over the back of the sofa, and cheery cushions padded the chairs. The candle on the coffee table was the big, fat kind that Shaw loved and that North had a disturbing tendency to try to light, even though Shaw had explained a dozen times they were only for decoration. An opening at the back connected with a kitchen, and two closed doors suggested a bedroom and bathroom.
“I’ve never talked to private detectives before. Do you want to sit down?”
They sat. She smiled at North, but her gaze kept coming back to Shaw.
“You’re the one I talked to on the phone.”
“Sorry about that,” Shaw said. “You wouldn’t believe it, but sometimes people lie to us.”
That made her laugh. “I was…worked up when we talked. I’m not usually like that, but I was so mad. I feel bad—the police have come by twice, and I won’t answer the door because I don’t want to talk about Phil. But I called you back for the money. What does that say about me?”
Shaw nodded. “It says you’re mad. That’s ok; sometimes it’s good to be mad.”
“It doesn’t feel good. It feels like I’m sick.”
She was pretty, Shaw decided. Not beautiful, but put together and healthy and intelligent. She was wearing something light, a floral body spray. She swallowed and looked like she was about to cry.
“How do you know Philip Welch?” North asked.
A tear slid free, and she wiped it away. “We met at a party.”
“He was nice,” Shaw said.
She looked startled and nodded. “He was. He was really sweet, actually. Not like a lot of guys I meet. Especially not a lot of guys around here. He wanted to talk. A lot of guys, they pretend they’re listening, but Phil actually listened. When the party started going, he said maybe we should go somewhere quieter, but I didn’t want to do that, and he said I was smart.” More tears began to run. When she ran her hands over her cheeks, she left a glistening smear of drying salt. “God, I was such an idiot.”
“What happened?” North asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, even though I knew, right from the beginning, he was trouble. He was cute, and he was funny, but I was pretty sure he was using. It was the way he acted. He’d seem…manic sometimes. And then he’d crash. Other times, he smelled like weed, and then he’d be totally different. You know how it is. He always needed money, and at first, I said yes. I didn’t like it; I’m not stupid, and I know a lot of girls who get themselves into situations like that. Their boyfriends never work, their boyfriends always need a loan, their boyfriends get kicked out of their apartment, and the next thing you know, their boyfriends are moving in, the girl gets pregnant, and that’s that. If she’s lucky, maybe they get married. I guess I should say if she’s lucky, the jerk stays. Usually he stays unless he finds an even bigger sucker. I’ve got a lady I work with—sweet, smart, can whip a room full of kindergartners into shape in thirty seconds—and her boyfriend hasn’t worked since he ‘hurt his back’ in the ’90s.”
When she paused for a breath, Shaw said, “You have IOUs?”
Nodding, Maleah rose. She went into the bedroom and came back with a manila folder, which she passed over to Shaw. It held only a few pieces of paper. Several were handwritten, with Welch’s name signed in tiny, schoolboy letters. Two were typed but had the same signature at the bottom. The individual amounts weren’t substantial, but all together, the total came to just over two thousand dollars.
“What happened when you asked him to pay you back?” North asked.
“He made excuses. I knew where this was going, but—but it’s different when it’s you, right? Because I’d make excuses for him too, in my head. I’d say I was jumping to conclusions. I’d say he was having a rough patch. He was so sweet, and you don’t know how hard it is…” Her small smile looked too old for her face, full of self-mockery. “I know what you’re thinking. The drugs. The fact that he didn’t work. How desperate could she be for a man?”
“My husband screwed everything that moved,” North said, his voice rough. “And he beat the shit out of me. For years. You want to talk about twisting yourself into a pretzel to explain things away? I’m your guy.”
Maleah looked at him—not with surprise, not exactly, but with a kind of new, more intense interest. Then she nodded. “He paid me back, eventually. The first note. And I thought, ok, things are starting to turn around. But then it got even worse. He always needed money. And I’m not—I’m a teacher, for heaven’s sake. I have a tight budget.”
“What happened when you started saying no?”
“He got angry. He shouted. We fought. And then he came back, a day later, and apologized. But it happened again. And then again.”
Shaw could hear it in her voice: the turning point, the sharp curve on a dark road, and they were all going too fast to stop now.
