Q: At any point, did Mr. Grayson appear to be crying or similarly emotional?
A: No. He made some noises. But there were no visible tears.
Q: Did Detective Mendez eventually get Mr. Grayson to move outside?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Why not?
A: Because I was injured at the scene.
Q: How were you injured?
A: Mr. Grayson hit me in the face.
Q: With his fist?
A: No. Detective Mendez put his hand on Mr. Grayson’s arm, you know, to encourage him to come away from his wife’s body, and Mr. Grayson jerked his arm away, and I think he might have said “Fuck you” or “Fuck off” or words to that effect.
Q: To Detective Mendez, who was asking him to step away from his dead wife’s body?
A: Yes.
Q: And then what happened?
A: He swung his arm back and his elbow made contact with my face, breaking my nose.
Q: Was it intentional?
A: He knew I was standing there. You tell me?
Q: Sorry, Officer Finnegan, but it’s my job to ask the questions, not answer them. I need to know whether you think it was intentional.
A: Then, yeah. In my opinion, it was intentional.
Lizzie
JULY 8, WEDNESDAY
I took a deep breath as I rang the doorbell to Sebe and Maude’s stately brownstone. It was on First Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, not far from Zach’s and almost as impressive. As I waited for someone to answer, I tried to keep myself from imagining the upstairs goings-on at the party. Who could possibly survive a marriage where partners strayed openly? Who could possibly survive marriage, period?
I’d stopped at Café du Jour after leaving Hope First with the journal I’d swiped from Amanda’s office. It was indeed her most recent one, with detailed entries for each day since they’d arrived in Park Slope. There were also summaries of life with Case, how lonely and lost Amanda felt with him at camp, her intimidating running habits, the mundane details of her trying to handle foundation business, and chats she’d had with Carolyn. But, most importantly, there was a log of incidents—somebody calling and hanging up, following her.
In the entries I’d read so far, Amanda hadn’t identified this person. But she was scared of him, that was clear. Excellent reasonable doubt for Zach’s case, if I could eventually find a name. Luckily, I had time. A new suspect—no matter how compelling—wouldn’t be useful until trial.
When the door finally opened, there was an alarmingly good-looking man in the doorway.
“Hi?” he said like it was a question, pushing his thick black hair back with one hand, his eyes boring into me as he waited a beat for me to explain myself. “Can I help you?”
He had an accent, too. French, as Sarah had said. Sebe.
“I’m Zach Grayson’s lawyer,” I began, bracing myself for another hostile reception. “I called. Your wife said I could come by and ask some questions.”
“Of course, come in,” he said cordially. “Tragic, what happened. Amanda was a lovely person.”
“Lizzie Kitsakis,” I said, extending a hand once we were in the foyer.
“Sebastian Lagueux. But everyone calls me Sebe.” He shook my hand firmly before motioning me onward into the house. “Come have a seat in the living room.”
The inside of the house was as grand as the outside, with lots of dark polished wood and vibrant modern rugs. It had been renovated, but in a way that retained more of its historic charm than Zach’s house, which really was quite modern inside. The art was particularly eye-catching, especially a large blue and red abstract painting directly through the main entryway on the living room wall.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
Sebe laughed gently. “Ah, did Sarah tell you to say that?”
“He means he painted it.” When I turned, there was a striking woman, with reddish-brown hair falling in long tendrils, barefoot and barefaced. She was wearing a peasant-style wrap dress with a deep V-neck, so sheer it was almost see-through. “And Sebe’s not even a painter—he’s a doctor. A doctor and a painter and a tech start-up entrepreneur and an amateur horticulturist. He did this painting in one day with no planning. How annoying is that?” And she did seem actually annoyed.
“This is Zach’s lawyer, Maude,” Sebe said.
“Oh, yes.” She reached forward to shake my hand. “Is Zach okay? Sarah told me he’d been arrested.”
Her tone was so different from Sarah’s, reserved and concerned, but not at all hostile.
“He’s very upset about Amanda, obviously,” I said, because that was the right thing to lead with, even if—truthfully—it wasn’t necessarily the first thing that jumped to mind. “And, to clarify, he’s only been arrested for assaulting an officer at this point. It was a misunderstanding. But it does seem likely he’ll be charged in Amanda’s death eventually. It’s horrifying to be suspected of a crime you didn’t commit, even more horrifying to be wrongly accused of murdering your wife. It doesn’t help that he’s being held at Rikers. It isn’t just any jail.”
I saw Maude and Sebe exchange a nervous look. “Rikers?” Sebe asked.
“There are only a few places people are held over pending trial if they aren’t granted bail, which, ridiculously, Zach wasn’t. Jail is jail, but none are quite as bad as Rikers.” I considered how much to tell them. But the truth could motivate them to be more helpful. “He’s already been assaulted more than once.”
“Assaulted?” Maude looked worried, but there was something off about her affect. As though she was also suppressing some other reaction. Like a piercing scream.
“That’s awful.” Sebe reached over to squeeze Maude’s hand. And then they exchanged a look, having an entire wordless conversation with their eyes. No wonder they could have sex with other people. Sarah was right: they were bound by some preternatural force.
“I think I need a whiskey,” Sebe said finally. “Ladies?”
“Yeah, me too.” Maude turned to me. “What about you, Lizzie? I feel like we could all use a drink.”
Oh, no, thank you, was my immediate reaction. These days anything involving alcohol was immediately off-putting. But then why should Sam be the only one who got to drink at work? All things considered, I felt like I deserved a whiskey. Besides, there was this unearthly quality to Maude and Sebe that made me want to say I want to do whatever you do.
“Sure, thank you,” I said. “That would be great.”
Maude nodded, pleased, it seemed, by my willingness to join in. We both watched Sebe at the built-in bar at the far end of the room. And I wondered: Was this the way it happened? These upstairs affairs? Did the husband return with the drinks, and instead of sitting next to his wife, go to sit next to the other woman? Or maybe the husband and wife sat next to each other and began kissing and waited to see if the other woman would join in. I could picture all of it suddenly. I could see how it could happen. I could even see myself in the role of the other woman.
And the real dark truth? I realized I was intrigued. Less by the sex itself than by the notion of doing something wrong. Something to hurt Sam. I already had my own secrets, sure, but mine didn’t have a thing to do with our marriage. My mind flashed to the earring tucked in the pocket of my bag.
How stupid had I been, and for how long?
Three years into dating, Sam proposed while we were in New Orleans for the weekend, getting down on one knee in the middle of Bourbon Street, in front of a jazz bar. By then we’d been living together in Brooklyn for a year and both so focused on our careers. We were working hard and we were tired, but we were doing things that mattered. Sam somehow made me feel challenged and yet accepted; liberated, but also taken care of. And so very undamaged.
When I first saw Sam down on the ground that night, I thought for a second he’d fallen. But then I saw that little box in his hands. People were staring. And I was glad. It was the proof I’d been waiting for. I had survived, and I was happy. I wanted the world to
see.
“Lizzie, I promise to live every day trying to be the man who deserves you. Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” I’d shouted, grabbing Sam’s face in my hands and kissing him. “Yes.”
After Sam had slipped the eye-popping ring—a long-ago-gifted family heirloom—onto my finger, we’d raced into the jazz bar for champagne. It was after our third drink that I started thinking we should slow down. Sam was stressed working at the Times, though, and it was hard to blame him. The standards there were impossible, and he’d made a couple of stupid mistakes. High-pressure jobs like that weren’t easy. I knew firsthand. I was finishing up a clerkship in the Southern District, on my way to another in the Second Department and then the US attorney’s office. It was all lined up—a steep, prestigious, terrifying ladder. Anyway, we were celebrating. We were getting married.
“Did you ever imagine when we met that first night that we’d be getting married?” I asked him as he ordered us another round and a new jazz band began to play. The bar was smoky and packed and perfect. And I was getting married. After all these years, I was getting a family back.
“God only knows.” Sam laughed a little too hard and then took another sip.
“Well, that wasn’t exactly the romantic response I was hoping for,” I joked back, but it stung. That was the problem with a night like that—the night you were engaged—the stakes were too high. “Well, I knew the second I met you. Maybe I was imagining things.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said lightly, oblivious. Drunk already. “I was swept off my feet by you. About that I have no doubt. It’s the specifics of the conversation that get fuzzy. We had all been drinking for hours. But who needs specifics when I have you?”
I’d laughed because that was my favorite thing about Sam and me—unlike a lot of couples, we didn’t pretend to be perfect. We were honest about our flaws. And truthful was so much better than perfect.
Maude had said something.
“What?” I asked.
“Why do they think Zach killed her?” she asked, seemingly for the second time.
“They found his golf club at the scene,” I said. “And he found Amanda. It was their house. He’s the husband. It’s a routine assumption. Also, they’d been at your party, so …”
“Our party?” Maude sounded nervous. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I know there was …” The hesitating was death. So much for passing myself off as casual about it. “The police are calling it a key party. Apparently there have been problems in the past.”
“The police,” Sebe scoffed. “Thanks to this unstable neighbor of ours, they get called every year. She’s a very old, very angry sort—racist, too, I’m fairly certain. If Maude and I were both white, I suspect she’d never even consider calling the police. Anyway, last year the police carted off two dads because they’d gotten into some kind of foolish argument, about American football of all things. If the police hadn’t been called, it would have been nothing. It was nothing.”
“I know what it sounds like, the ‘upstairs,’” Maude said, more seriously. “But it isn’t that big a deal. Only a handful of people participate, and it’s all very discreet.”
Sebe’s cell phone rang then. “I apologize. This is the hospital,” he said. “I need to speak with them.”
“Of course,” I said, as Sebe swiftly exited the room.
“The police have already interviewed you?” I asked Maude once he was gone.
“Not yet. They’re supposed to come tomorrow morning.”
“They haven’t been here at all?”
“Is that a problem?” she asked, nervous again.
“This is the last place Amanda was seen,” I said. Was the prosecution’s case already locked up that tight that they didn’t even need to talk to anyone else? “I’d think they’d want the names of the party guests and that kind of thing.”
“Maybe they got those from Sarah. I know they talked to her.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry about Zach being assaulted in jail. It would be awful if something really happened to him. Especially, I mean—poor Case.”
And so I decided to raise the stakes. “Yes, Rikers can turn a false accusation into a death sentence.”
“Death sentence?” Maude blanched. “But what would happen to Case then?”
I felt a guilty burn at the base of my gut. Maybe I was overstating the situation a bit, but it wasn’t a complete fabrication. Zach had been attacked.
“I’m not saying that will happen,” I went on. “I’m just saying that it could. That’s why I’m focused on getting Zach out on bail. I feel confident he’ll be acquitted once there is an actual trial.”
“What can we do to help?” Maude asked.
“Did you speak to either Zach or Amanda at your party?”
Maude nodded. “To Amanda only briefly.”
“How did she seem that night?”
“She was sweet and lovely as always. She tried to make me feel better about my daughter—she’s been having some, ah, issues. Amanda was always a very good friend, so supportive.” Maude stared down in silence into her whiskey glass. “Listen, I know that Zach didn’t kill Amanda.” She hesitated. “Because, um, I was with him when she died.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
She closed her eyes, and I watched her jaw tighten. “Zach and I were together at the time Amanda died.”
That didn’t mean what it sounded like, did it?
“But not … You mean, together together?” I asked.
When Maude finally looked up, her eyes were cold, almost angry. As though she was being forced to make this disclosure, rather than volunteering it. “Yes.”
“Oh.” My cheeks felt warm again.
Why the hell hadn’t Zach told me? Was he worried about how it would look? Assuming the time windows matched, being with Maude would give him an alibi, which was huge. On the other hand, being an unfaithful husband didn’t exactly go down in the innocent column. A skilled prosecutor would have a field day with it. Here was a man who wanted to sleep with other women, like this gorgeous woman Maude here, exhibit A. That’s why he killed his wife. A jury might believe that, even though Amanda was so beautiful herself. But an alibi was still an alibi.
I swallowed hard. “What time did Zach leave, then?”
“It was late, two a.m., maybe?” Maude said stiffly. “Anyway, you can say we were together. I mean, to the police.”
Of course—aside from the infidelity implications for Zach—I wouldn’t know whether that alibi was truly helpful until I knew Amanda’s official time of death and what time Zach had placed his 911 call. And I wouldn’t know either until the DA’s office turned over a copy of the medical examiner’s report and the 911 records. All of that was a ways off. Zach hadn’t even been indicted for Amanda’s murder.
“It’s probably one of those helpful, not helpful things.” I didn’t like how flexible Maude was making the truth sound. “Though you should be completely honest when you talk to the police, of course.”
“Sure, yes.” Maude seemed even more agitated now. “My alibi won’t get the case dismissed? I mean, if Zach wasn’t there when Amanda died, he obviously didn’t kill her.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said, and it never was. “An uncorroborated alibi from a witness who is acquainted with the defendant only means so much.”
“Meaning they won’t believe me?”
“They might not,” I said.
The truth was, I wasn’t sure I believed her. Maude in bed with Zach didn’t fit with anything Zach or Sarah had told me. Also, why did Maude seem angry?
“Did anyone see you together?”
“No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t think so.”
“The party was ongoing at two a.m.?”
“No, no,” she said. “It had ended by then.”
Already the holes in her story were growing. “But Sebe was here?”
“Yes,” she said, though she did not sound sur
e.
“Then he can corroborate the alibi,” I said. “Obviously, it would be better if the two of you weren’t married …”
“Right,” Maude said, then forced a stiff smile. “Well, I guess we can’t change that.”
“Did Amanda mention any problems she was having with anybody?” I asked. “Before the night of the party?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Anything in Amanda’s past stand out for you?” I asked. “About her family, maybe?”
I needed to be careful with what I revealed about Amanda’s journals. It wasn’t just a matter of protecting Amanda’s privacy; I didn’t want word of this stalker getting back to the prosecution. It would give them more time to figure out how to prove why he—whoever he was—couldn’t possibly be a viable suspect. And to subpoena every last one of Amanda’s journals, yanking them, and whatever other secrets they contained, right out of my hands.
“I do think she had a hard childhood,” Maude said. “She was vague about it, but she mentioned something at Kerry’s—Sarah’s husband’s—birthday dinner. I got the sense there was a story there.”
“Did you know her friend Carolyn? I’m trying to track her down, too.”
“Amanda mentioned her,” Maude said. “But we never met.”
“Any chance you know her last name or where she works?”
“No,” Maude said. “I’m sorry.”
“Did Amanda tell you about some anonymous flowers that had been sent to her? Or any unwanted calls or anything like that?”
Maude looked concerned. “No,” she said. “Was that happening?”
“I have reason to think it was.”
“Why wouldn’t she have told us?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes it can be easier to pretend something isn’t happening if you keep it to yourself.”
Wow. That explanation had popped out of my mouth with disconcerting ease.
“We were her friends, though,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “We would have helped. Whatever it was.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I don’t mean to be getting so upset. I know it’s not helpful. Like I said, my daughter has been … Between her and Amanda, it hasn’t been an easy time.”
A Good Marriage Page 17