A former Miss USA and reigning queen of a self-named internet cookie empire, Chloe Patrick also had a less fortunate claim to fame. She had been the doting fiancee of the handsome young surgeon police caught in the act of dismembering my roommate. Uncovering exactly what else a mob-connected, drug-running, jewel thieving Hollywood stripper might have had in common with one of Time Magazine's 500 Most Interesting People was the reason for my visit.
Dear? Seriously? Maybe four or five years my senior, here she was ordering me around like one of her little interns. None of this was boding well for my future in police work. Maybe I should have brought a pen.
A chorus line of white orchids fanned her desk like vaginas. Anyway, that's how they always struck me, all eager white petals opening wide around a delicate little center that should know better than to go exposing itself like that. For some reason, it was really important for Chloe to stand there with a water bottle misting the crap out of them.
"I can't get into details, but it's pretty obvious your fiance didn't kill my friend before he cut her up," I said, leaning out of her line of fire. "Maybe if I can figure out how they would have known each other, I can get to the person who did." She stopped spraying and looked at me, still smiling, of course. "I'm sorry, did you say you were a police officer?""I work in Records," I freely admitted, producing a crumpled computer spreadsheet in lieu of a badge. "Theoretically I should have access to every point of contact Dr. Hollister ever had with law enforcement prior to his suicide." I lowered my voice, hoping she'd know what I was getting at without my spelling it out. "Unfortunately, certain key information seems to be missing from the database."
"Apparently, police responded to numerous disturbances at your home." I explained that while it isn't unusual for domestic assault victims to decline to file charges, all of that should have been reflected in the required field reports. "There's just nothing here," I said. "I'm not even sure which officers cleared the calls -- or whether you were the female in question." I promised not to repeat anything sensitive she might want to share -- to the extent that was even possible. "I'm actually surprised the press never caught wind of all this during the trial," I added. "It's a pretty glaring omission." I'm not sure when I started talking like a bad-ass girl cop, but I was on quite the roll.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. She grabbed a Kleenex from a cut glass box and stooped to mop up a pool of excess water falling from the desk. I managed to catch a glimpse of her unsmiling face in the reflection of the polished marble flooring. "I know this is hard," I said, "but I really need to put this to rest. Don't you?"
She wheeled around to meet my gaze, her lower lip quivering. Dropping the smile was one thing, but crying sad tears rather than fanning her face from a deluge of happy ones was all-new territory between a pair of pageant survivors. "You're good," she said."I know!" I replied, as if I'd just swept the talent and swimsuit competitions without even dieting. "Wouldn't you rather talk to me than a grand jury?"
Part of her had to be relieved. All these months since Hollister's suicide and finally someone was asking some real questions. "Can you honestly say you never picked the wrong guy?" she blurted out, watching her cookie stocks plummet in my eyes -- right along with her seat on the board. I dropped my own smile and offered up some hard core, honest to God girl talk. "I never picked the right guy," I confessed. "I've been lied to, ignored, locked up and left for dead in the desert. And that's just in the last week."
By the time it was over she had let it all out -- how Hollister had privately confessed to sneaking home any number of working girls while Chloe was away on business. Each was quietly squired off after police intervened in an increasingly disturbing altercation. One little visitor came to after a blackout with a heart carved into her skin. Another told officers her hair had been lopped off after she was slipped a date rape drug. I couldn't understand why no arrests had been made. "Did the arriving officers seem friendly with these girls?" I asked. "Did Dr. Hollister have friends in the department?"
"He had one," she said. Even the brilliant FBI profiler -- who bested a three-time Miss Southern Sonoma County for her husband's affections -- hadn't elicited that tidbit from the budding serial killer who slipped through her hands. Then again, as a rival queen of denial with a court of her own to appease, Special Agent Knowles probably hadn't tried that hard.
I asked Chloe if she knew the name of her husband's secret cop pal. "Of course," she told me, blowing her nose to unburden herself of the truth with one last, indelicate honk. "So do you."She looked at me and smiled. I didn't smile back.
