“Ma’am.” He nodded at Mrs. Miller. (Much as I tried, even in my head I couldn’t call her Coco.) “I’m Detective Jaime Mendoza with the Nashville PD.”
He’s Hispanic, of course, and I’ve seen his name written, so I know it’s spelled the Spanish way, with the I before the M. He pronounces it like the English, though. Jay-me.
Mrs. Miller’s hand flew to her throat. “Police? Oh, my goodness. What’s happened? Is it Nick?”
Of course it was Nick.
And then I chastised myself (silently) for cynicism, when it was clear that she was very upset.
Mendoza’s expression was professional, carefully neutral. “I’m afraid so. Mr. Costanza passed away last night. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Passed away?” Mrs. Miller’s voice shook. “But—but I just saw him last night! He came home around eleven-thirty. I heard his truck.”
“You heard him come home?” Mendoza pulled out a small notebook. “Did you see him? Or hear anything else?”
“I saw his headlights through my window,” Mrs. Miller said. She was still clutching her cardigan closed, her knuckles white. “I was watching the Late Show, like I told the lady.”
She looked at me. “I heard the truck pull up, heard his door slam. That’s all.”
Mendoza glanced at me, too. “Was he alone?”
“I— yes, I think so. I didn’t hear anyone else. Just Nick.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What happened to him? Was it his heart? He was so young, but you never know these days?—”
“We’re still determining the cause of death,” Mendoza said, which was a big, fat lie. “Mrs. Miller, I need to ask you a few more questions, if you don’t mind. Did you hear or see anything unusual last night or this morning?”
She shook her head. “It was quiet. Usually I can hear Nick moving around through the wall—you know how these old places are—but I didn’t hear anything after he came home. Or after he went to bed, I guess. He was banging around a little bit—I heard the water running—and then nothing after that. And nothing this morning.”
“Anyone outside? Coming or going?”
“There was another car,” Mrs. Miller said, “just after Nick went inside. I remember the lights coming through my front window. It rode a little rough, sounded like.”
I winced, and Mendoza shot me a look, although he didn’t comment. Not then.
“Did you get a look at it?” he wanted to know instead.
But Mrs. Miller hadn’t. “I just heard it go by. It backfired a little bit.”
“Are you sure it was a backfire,” Mendoza asked delicately, “and not something else?”
She thought about it. “It sounded like a backfire, but I guess it might have been something else. It wasn’t a blown tire, though. It drove away fast, and didn’t stop.”
Mendoza nodded. I made a mental note to tell him about Zachary and the McNugget binge as soon as I could, hopefully before he got the wrong idea.
“What about other visitors?” he wanted to know. “Not last night, but in the last few days or weeks?”
Mrs. Miller thought for a moment. “There’s his girlfriend. Pretty girl, dark hair, but a bit stuck up if you ask me. Drives a zippy little VW Beetle with eyelashes on the headlights. Can you imagine? Eyelashes on a car.”
I could imagine. I had seen that car, and had the same reaction to it, a few months back.
“Anyone else?” Mendoza had probably placed the Beetle’s owner, too.
“His boss comes by sometimes. Big fellow, walks with a limp. Seems nice enough.”
She paused. “And there’s been a blonde woman recently. Saw her here a few times in the last month or so. Don’t know who she is.”
Megan, I thought. Mendoza might have thought so too, if he knew who Megan was, but all he did was nod.
“Any men? Besides Sal?”
