Yet another part of me whispered that justice wouldn’t bring Adrian back, that it was a false horizon, that I’d still be lost after I got it. God, my head was a mess.
I clicked on the email.
Michele:
May I come to your home this evening for a follow-up interview?
Detective Young
I frowned. He wasn’t asking to come over for a “follow-up report” or “to talk about your husband’s case.” He said for a “follow-up interview.” I lawyered his email to death, pulling the words apart and putting them back together, looking for the meaning behind them.
I had a case once where a child who needed a cutting-edge leukemia treatment was denied coverage by her insurance company, whose executives held the contracts to their chests in court like armor, brandishing their definitions and treatment codes. Their words killed an eight-year-old little girl, and I’d represented them. It was the last case I took before I moved from the law to editing, where I could exert more control over language.
Words matter, and I didn’t like the ones Young was using.
Chapter Nine
The kids had almost finished cleaning up after their Taco Bell takeout when I saw Detective Young’s dark city-issued sedan park in front of our house.
I hollered to the kids. “Take the trash outside.” The smell of Grilled Stuft Burritos turns sour quickly. I headed for the front door and swung it open before Young rang the bell. He wasn’t alone.
“Michele, this is my partner, Detective Marchetti. He just got back from vacation, but he’s up to speed.”
“Detective.” I shook Marchetti’s hand. “I’m Mrs. Hanson.”
He nodded. “Mrs. Hanson.” Marchetti was shorter than Young by four inches but heavier by forty pounds. And sweatier. Not many people love Houston when it hits a hundred degrees and ninety-eight percent humidity, but Marchetti wasn’t holding up at all. I escorted them into my dining room and went to the kitchen for a pitcher of ice water and glasses.
We settled into high-backed green chairs at the glass-topped dining room table, the detectives on one side and me on the other. A gallery of family photos watched over us like a jury. I wondered if that made me the defendant. Young and Marchetti looked at each other. Marchetti nodded.
Young arranged a yellow pad in front of him. He didn’t look up. “I hope we’re not keeping you from your triathlon training or your busy book-shilling television schedule.”
I held in my snort. Well, I guess I knew who was going to play bad cop. Why play bad cop with me when he knew I didn’t kill my husband, when I was a victim of the crime, too? Was this a new strategy with grieving widows? “Not at all. I just managed to squeeze you in.”
He grunted, then said, “We need to be thorough, Michele, so I’m going to ask you some harder questions tonight, just so we can dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s.”
I checked my tension meter: 7.5. Manageable. I just had to remember to breathe and retreat to visualization. “That will be fine, Kevin.” He looked up at me, and I thought I saw him almost smile. Well, at least the asshole had a sense of humor.
He stayed seated, but it was clear he had the floor as he went back over ground we’d already covered. Did Adrian have enemies? No. Who did he consider his closest friends and associates? I listed them. He moved into more pointed questions fast.
“What kind of relationship did Adrian have with his former wife’s family?”
“It was fine. They live in New York and had very little interaction with him.”
He asked his next question almost before I got my answer out while Marchetti took notes. “What about the relationship between Adrian and his daughter?”
“Superb. They amazed me.”
“And with your son?”
“Sam? Good. They didn’t fight. They’d disagree sometimes, but it never got ugly, which is more than I can say for Sam and his father.” Which reminded me that I needed to answer Robert’s text from earlier in the day; he was concerned about Sam and wanted to talk. Get in line.
“Okay, let’s talk about your ex-husband, then. Did he resent Adrian? Feel threatened by him in anyway?”
“Robert? No. He and Adrian got along fine when they saw each other. Their paths didn’t cross much.” Young’s pace nudged my tension up to an eight. He never broke eye contact, looked at notes, or allowed a pause. I’d faced worse as an attorney, but this was about me.
He fired off another question. “Of course, we’ll need contact info for each person we talk about. Maybe if you could just keep a list as we go, and then when we finish you can pull those together for us. So where were we? Oh, yes, with you. Did Adrian ever cheat on you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very.”
“No matter what I read about this Rhonda Dale?”
I snapped at him. “Asked and answered, Detective.”
“Tell me about his life insurance.”
“I’m the beneficiary of $500,000, about $100,000 of which I’ll use to pay for Belle’s college.”
“His will?”
My answers were coming out faster than his questions now. Easy, girl. “What about it?”
“Tell me about his estate.”
“Well, he has half of our common possessions—house, cars, personal stuff—and a few hundred thousand in savings.”
He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot for a writer-triathlete.”
“His dead wife was wealthy.”
“So who gets what now?”
“Everything goes to me.”
“No one else?”
“No one.”
“But you gave your son Adrian’s truck?”
What the hell? How did he know that? “It was mine to give.”
“And, of course, I can have copies of all the documents we’ve talked about?”
“Of course.”
“Including financial records.”
“No problem.”
“And we can have your phone records?”
I shifted in my seat for the first time, thinking before I answered. “Why do you need them?”
“As part of our investigation, Mrs. Hanson.” At least he’d dropped the use of my first name.
“Honestly, I don’t care. Whatever helps.”
“Will this include the kids’ phones as well?”
“You didn’t ask that.”
“I am now.”
“Take them. I don’t care.”
“We’ll need to copy your hard drives, too, the desktop,” he pointed toward the office across the hall, “and any other computer Adrian used. Passwords, too.”
I thought about it. Just copies, I wouldn’t lose my data. “Okay.”
“And after you and I are done, I need to talk to your kids.”
“All right.”
If he didn’t rule out these issues, I told myself, they wouldn’t be able to move on to the real ones. And to finding the suspects.
He went on. “Teenage boys are often jealous of their mothers’ boyfriends.”
What? “Adrian wasn’t my boyfriend. He was my husband. For four years, he was my husband. He was my boyfriend for one year before that.”
“Yes, I understand. And, I would like to confirm the days and times Sam worked at his lifeguarding job anyway, to satisfy my lieutenant.”
“Do you need my permission?”
“No, but it would make it easier, and it would keep any red flags from going up.”
“Is this based on anything real—anything other than gender and age profiling of my son?”
“Oh, no, of course not, although he got your husband’s car, and that can be important to a boy his age.”
“I want to tell you to shove it. You can’t even begin to know how badly I want to.” My emotions swelled and lifted until I was nearly levitating above the table. “But I want you off of my son, who did nothing, and the faster we ‘dot all your i’s and cross all your little t’s,’” I made exaggerated quote
signs with my fingers over my head, “the sooner you will be. Permission granted. Sam?” I called to my son in a voice I hoped didn’t scare him.
The detectives didn’t react. They probably trampled over grieving widows and mothers every day.
Sam walked in.
“Remember Detective Young from the funeral? He and Detective Marchetti need to ask you some follow-up questions. I’m going to sit here with you, so try to just relax and listen and think. Their questions might seem odd, but it’s going to be all right, I promise. Just tell them the truth.”
Belatedly, I realized I could have called another attorney for Sam, but I knew my son, and he didn’t hurt Adrian. “And just so you two know, Detectives, I am representing my son in this interview. Sam, if I tell you not to answer something, don’t. We can stop anytime, so if you need a break, or if this gets to be too much, just tell me.”
Sam’s eyes had turned into Os within Os, rims, orbs, irises, pupils all enlarged, framed by his impossibly long lashes. “Okay.”
Young lifted one eyebrow. “Representing him?”
“As his attorney.” He raised both brows now, his lips puckered. “What, your research didn’t tell you I practiced law?”
His expression didn’t flicker. “Noted.” Young gestured at Marchetti.
Ah, so paunchy Marchetti would lead. He was a complete enigma to me. I couldn’t believe they were wasting their time on Sam, and anger burbled in my gut. Temper was a luxury I couldn’t afford, however. I issued myself a stern warning: You’re on, Attorney Lopez. Forget the mother stuff.
Marchetti inclined his head toward Sam. “Hello, Sam. I’m Detective Marchetti. Detective Young and I are partners. We’re trying to figure out who killed your mom’s husband. So I have to ask you some questions, and it is really important that you answer them with the truth. The whole truth. Can you do that?”
“I guess.” His voice cracked. “I mean, yes.”
“Good. Let’s get started in the same place we do with everyone: where you were when it happened. So, where were you from three forty-five to four fifteen p.m. on the Friday before last, when your stepfather was killed?”
Sam looked at me, clearly scared. I nodded at him. He dropped his eyes down to the table. “Umm, at baseball practice.”
The detective had been scribbling notes, but he looked up to stare Sam in the eye. “Can you give me the name of someone who can verify that, son?”
He’s not your son, I thought.
Sam licked his lips. “Billy Mays.”
“Who is he, your coach?”
“Uh, no, he’s on the team. He’s my friend.”
“Give me the name of your coach, if you could, please.”
Marchetti’s fake-friendly voice made me want to punch him.
“Coach Metcalfe. Are you going to call him?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Well, he doesn’t take attendance. I don’t know if he’ll remember whether I was there or not.”
“Who would?”
“I don’t know. Billy, maybe.”
“Okay, son, we’ll remember that when we ask Coach Metcalfe about it.”
Precious jumped up on the dining room table. She catwalked the length of the table and sat by Sam, then turned her unblinking eyes on me. “You have to make them stop,” she seemed to say. “I know. I will. I’ll try,” I said back to her in my mind. I was lying, though. I could do nothing. I had no power, and even the cat knew it. Marchetti wasn’t crossing the line, and Sam needed to answer his basic questions. Annabelle would have to do the same.
“Do you know of anyone you think would have wanted to hurt your stepfather?”
“No.”
Marchetti wiped perspiration from his lip. “Did your mother tell you that the driver who killed Adrian was a teenage boy?”
Sam’s mouth made an O. “Uh—”
His mother hadn’t, because she didn’t know that it was true, no matter what some witness said. But this explained some of their interest in badgering Sam. “Or a young man in his early twenties,” I said. “And no, I didn’t tell him.”
“How’s your new car?”
I cut Sam off. “Don’t go there, Detective.” Sam looked at me, wide-eyed.
“Did you know your stepfather was cheating on your mom? I mean, you know now, don’t you? From the Internet?”
I jumped to my feet, but he kept talking as I yelled over him. “That’s it! We’re done here.”
Sam leaped up, too, and he shouted over both of us. “No, he didn’t! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Precious was pacing back and forth in front of him, her tail puffed and whipping behind her.
The three of us finished at the same time, Sam and I standing together, the detectives seated, watching. I swallowed, fighting to regain control. I turned to Sam and reached up to his clothes-hanger shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Sam. You can go now.”
His eyes looked wet. He nodded and left. I heard his feet pounding the stairs to his room and wanted to run after him. I crossed my arms. “Is that how it’s going to go, then? You’re going to traumatize my kids?”
Young stepped back into the lead. “Annabelle’s not your kid, is she?”
“She is in my eyes.”
“Not in the eyes of the law. And she’s next. Can you get her for us, please?”
“No, I think we’re done here.”
“Fine with me. We can do this tomorrow down at the station.”
“Have fun by yourself at your party. I don’t have to produce her.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten, you’re the attorney. A little conflict of interest, don’t you think?”
In my mind, I went for each of their throats with hands that gripped like steel. I had the strength of ten Micheles and I lifted the two of them up against the wall, one in each hand, making them gasp for air like catfish. In real life, I smiled at them as wide as I could and said nothing.
Marchetti pulled at his waistband. Fat bastard. “I know we’ve just met, but I’ve got to say you’re acting like this family has something to hide. These are standard questions.”
“They were up until you goaded my son with Internet gossip like you were trying to break down your chief suspect. You broke my trust.”
“With all due respect, we don’t actually know whether that is gossip or not.”
“Well, I do. And I think I’d already told Kevin that woman was stalking my husband. She’s nuts. I hope you’re looking at her half as hard as you looked at Sam.”
Young rejoined the fray. “Even though we have a description of the car and driver, I can assure you we are running a thorough investigation. In fact, we’re going to talk to your father this week.”
“What?”
“If your husband cheated on you for a year and your father knew, I think he’d be pretty upset, don’t you? Maybe angry enough to do something about it. Didn’t he grow up in the Valley? The Mexican mafia is extremely loyal, and has a long reach.”
“Oh, Jesus. You’ve lost your mind. My father is a respected veterinarian, a Texas A&M graduate. He’s not in the Mexican mafia. My boss has more reason to kill Adrian than Papa does.”
Young grabbed that with both hands. “Your boss? The guy I met at your office, the one who sent me the security video?”
I had no idea about any video, but I knew Young had met Brian. “He wouldn’t. I just said that to emphasize how crazy it is to suspect my father.”
Young snapped his fingers. “He’s the publisher for your book, isn’t he? He’s the one who stands to make money from it.”
“Books make far less money than you’d imagine.”
Young smiled and scribbled notes on his pad. I knew Brian had nothing to do with Adrian’s death, so I allowed myself a delicious moment imagining him being worked over by Young and Marchetti. A balancing of the cosmic scales. Young looked up. “Good. Good. Thank you. Now, let’s get this over with here. Let us talk to Annabelle. You have my promise that Marchetti will restrain himself.”
Everything had gone so wrong so quickly. I wanted this done, and eventually they were going to talk to Annabelle. Better to bite the hollowpoint than take one from the blind side. I’d shut things down the second Marchetti went off script. If I knew Annabelle, she was hunkered down in the living room listening to every word. “Belle, can you come in here, please?”
Sure enough, Annabelle immediately rounded the corner, as quiet as the cat. I made the introductions and explanations and she sat beside me with Precious in her lap, stroking the cat behind her ears.
Marchetti pulled a napkin from my dispenser in the middle of the table. He dabbed at the back of his neck and his forehead. When he started talking, he asked the same basic questions of Annabelle that he had asked Sam, but in a gentler tone. She answered them in an earnest tremor that threatened to make my lips quiver, too.
Marchetti looked at me. “So, Annabelle, you don’t know of anyone that would have wanted to hurt your dad, do you, like an old girlfriend or someone that was jealous of your mother? Anyone?”
Annabelle shook her head no. “No one. My dad was awesome.” And then she started to cry, just tears at first, and then sobs, soft hiccupy sobs. I scooted my chair up against hers to slip one arm around her and guide her head to my shoulder with the other. “Is that all, gentlemen?”
“It is. Thank you.” Young ripped the top page off his yellow pad and slid it across the table at me. “Here’s my list of the documents you agreed to get for us. Please let me know if there are any developments, and we’ll be in touch.”
Marchetti spoke. “Is there anything else we haven’t asked you about that you want to tell us?”
I pressed my lips together hard and shook my head.
“Goodnight, then. We’ll see ourselves out.” Young picked up his notebook and pen and stood.
Marchetti lumbered to his feet, too. “Ma’am.” He lifted a pretend hat from his head.
I dipped my head in return, and they left. I patted Annabelle’s back gently as the anguish came off her in waves. Mine vibrated inside me like a plucked wire.
I knew only one way to deal with this. Run. Run hard, run fast, run away from these feelings.
Going for Kona Page 10