“In that folder,” I tipped my head to the folder. “Why do you have a sketch of Mr. Pierson’s cousin Otis?”
It was then Mitch’s brows knitted and he studied me closely. He looked down the folder, flipped it open and flipped through papers until he reached the sketch of Otis.
“Are you talking about that?” he asked, tapping the sketch with his finger but his words were strange, cautious.
“Yeah,” I answered, looking at the sketch then I looked at Mitch. “That’s Otis Pierson. Mr. Pierson’s cousin. He works at the store.”
Mitch stared at me, his arm suddenly very tight but he didn’t say a word.
Crap!
I knew what that meant seeing as he was a police detective that was a folder probably from work and in it was a sketch of Otis.
It was me who was talking cautiously when I asked, “Is Otis in trouble?”
“Mara –” Mitch started but I kept talking.
“I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised. Otis is kind of like Mr. Pierson’s Bill except, I thought, without the felonious aspects.”
“Mara –” Mitch began again but I kept right on talking.
“Still, that would stink, you investigating a member of Mr. Pierson’s family.”
“Mara, baby,” his arm gave me a squeeze, his voice coming at me carefully, gently, “that sketch is the sketch the artist drew from the description Bud gave him of the man that came to their house.”
My body locked.
Then I whispered, “What?”
“Fuck,” Mitch whispered back and his eyes drifted over my head.
“Mitch,” I called, putting my hand on his chest and pushing in lightly. “Are you serious? That’s the bad man Billie was talking about?”
“Fuck, f**k, f**k!” Mitch clipped then lifted a hand, tore his fingers through his hair and looked down at the sketch.
“Mitch!” I cried, beginning to get freaked. “Talk to me!”
He looked at me and declared strangely, “The mattresses.”
I shook my head. “Honey, you aren’t making sense.”
His head dipped closer to mine and his other arm curled around me. “You say that man works for Bob Pierson?”
I nodded my head. “Yes. In the warehouse. He does a lot of the ordering, or he did until he kept messing it up.”
“Jesus, shit,” Mitch muttered, looking over my head again.
“Mitch!” I exclaimed, pressing into his chest again and his eyes came back to me.
“Sweetheart, when your place was tossed, it was tossed. But there was special attention paid to the mattresses. They were decimated, all the beds were.”
Oh God.
He was right. They were.
“Has this Otis guy been in your space at work? Giving you extra attention? Giving you any attention at all?” Mitch asked and I shook my head.
“No,” I added my negative answer verbally. “He doesn’t come to the showroom. Mr. Pierson doesn’t let him. He turns off the customers because he’s creepy.”