Page 47 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“Go on.”
“She said it the first time I talked to her, which would have been before Bobbie was killed. Then last night she said she was just being mean. Then she told me a story about Bobbie killing a man in Detroit who was trying to drug her by swapping drinks. I didn’t believe it.”
“What do you believe?”
Good question. I thought about it a moment. “I think the first thing she said was probably true. But now she wants to cover it up because it might have something to do with Bobbie’s being killed.”
“Do you think Patty killed her?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. She seemed to have gotten Bobbie out of her life. Did she still have a motive?
“If Bobbie had still been living with her, I’d say yes. But Patty got rid of her last spring.”
He frowned at me. After thinking for a moment, he said, “She was probably being mean when she said that. By the end of their friendship, they hated each other. That’s right, isn’t it?”
I nodded.
“It’s sounding like a common theme in Bobbie’s life.”
“Did you talk to Hal Buckwald last night?” he asked.
“No. Should I have?”
Actually, I’d wanted to. I hadn’t because Lehmann was sitting in the back booth, and I didn’t want him seeing me talking to the victim’s son. I would have said that, but he’d have used it as evidence that I knew what I was doing was wrong. It wasn’t wrong, but I knew he’d think so. Which almost made it wrong.
“You’ve been asking questions about him though.”
Should I have been? Was he Lehmann’s main suspect?
“Was he seen near Bobbie’s place the night she died?”
“Where did you hear that?”
“I didn’t. I’m asking ifyouheard it?”
“I didn’t hear it. The only person seen at Bobbie’s was Melanie Frasier.”
“A lot of people live on the Campbell property.”
“No one saw anything.”
“Yeah, but maybe one of them killed Roberta.”
There was a knock on the door and the deputy who’d driven us over said, “Rudy, there’s a lawyer out here. Bernie Schaub.”
“Junior or Senior?”
“Junior?”
“What’s he doing here?”
“Says this one works for him.”
This one was me.
“Excuse me, I’d like to see my investigator,” Schaub said, pushing his way into the room. Of course, I’d never seen him before in my life. He was barely older than I was and looked a lot like Dennis the Menace after a mild puberty. He wore a gray three-piece suit that he hoped to grow into.
He asked Detective Lehmann, “Are you charging Mr. Milch?”
