Die For You

These details get filed away for future use. This happens in a millisecond and I’m only barely conscious of it. In the case of Detective Crowe: I observed the clean, close shave, the tidy crease in his pants, the studied way his blue shirtsleeves peeked out of his black suede jacket. I noticed the careful cropping of his dark hair, the high arch of his brows, the polite smile that didn’t manage to offset a hard glint in his eyes.

The fiction writer then uses these details to weave a narrative. I immediately assessed the man before me as a textbook overachiever, a person who paid close attention to fine points and appearances. Possibly in paying attention to these things, he occasionally lost sight of the big picture. Something about the straight line of his mouth made me imagine that he was relentless when it came to getting what he wanted, sometimes foolhardy, thoughtless, in his pursuit of it.

Often-usually-this narrative I create is very close to the truth but sometimes-only sometimes-it replaces the reality of a situation and keeps me from seeing things as they actually are. This is not a good thing.

Detective Crowe moved into the space without invitation from me and extended his hand. I sat up with difficulty and took it reluctantly. His grip was strong and warm, his nails perfectly manicured. He smelled like coffee. He lifted one of those carefully maintained fingers to his temple, raised his chin toward me.

“Someone got you pretty good.” I thought I saw a smile play at the corners of his mouth and it infuriated me.

“Do you find what happened to me funny, Detective?” I asked, trying for a withering tone, but really just sounding sad.

Any trace of the smile, real or imagined, vanished.

“Uh, no. Of course not.” His face took on an earnest expression as he removed a neat leather notebook and a stylish Mont Blanc from the lapel of his jacket. “I’m here to talk to you about your husband, Marcus Raine. About what happened at his office this morning.” He flipped open a wallet and I saw his gold shield and identification card.

In my relief to talk to someone official about what had happened, I unspooled the string of events that had occurred. I noticed that he tried to interrupt me a couple of times by lifting his hand. I ignored him, kept going. I almost couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop until he knew every horrible detail, as though getting it out, getting it on paper, would be the first step toward understanding, solving, fixing everything that had broken since Marcus didn’t come home last night. He dutifully scribbled in his notebook as I ran through everything. I heard his phone vibrating in his pocket a couple of times but, to his credit, he didn’t answer it. Occasionally, there were two of him, the real man and his doppelganger, the shadowy double my brutalized brain was creating.

He asked a lot of questions: What led me to believe the people who stormed the office were there in an official capacity initially? The vests with FBI emblazoned in their centers. No, I didn’t ask for identification. Could I describe any of them? Yes, and I did so to the best of my memory. Would I be able to identify any of them from photographs? I think so, yes. Did my husband have enemies? Any illegal dealings that I knew of? Anyone who would want to cause harm to him, me, or the business? No, no, no, no, and no.

“What do you think she meant by that?” the detective asked finally, when we reached a lull. He’d stopped writing at some point, stood now with his legs spread a bit, his arms crossed in front of him, like a beat cop on a corner.

“How should I know?” I said, annoyed. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

“But she knew your husband?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer; it was a loaded question. “Her statement seemed to imply that, yes,” I said finally.

The detective appeared to want to pace, kept turning a bit at the shoulder, but there wasn’t much room. He could only walk a step or two in each direction. I could hear his phone buzzing again.

“How was your marriage in general?” he said gently. “Sorry. I know it’s personal.”

“I don’t understand.” But I did.

“Were there problems?”

I saw a ring on his finger, a thick gold band. “Are there problems in your marriage?” I asked nastily.

“Yes, there are,” he said, perching on the stool that my sister had been using. “Mainly, I’m the problem. Or so I’m told. Separated more than a year, legally divorced three months ago, can’t bring myself to take off the ring. Stupid, right? She’s already engaged to someone else. Getting married in a week.”

I heard the hard edge of Brooklyn in his accent, Brooklyn in a prep-school cage. The gentleman cop with his nice clothes and fancy pen, but underneath he was a kid from the neighborhood, no doubt about it.

“Point is, I never saw it coming. I thought we were going to the Bahamas for our anniversary,” he said. “She’s going to the Bahamas on her honeymoon with another cop she met at the precinct Christmas party. How about that?”

I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve so much unwanted candor. Maybe it was just his shtick.

“Our marriage was fine. Not perfect,” I said with a shrug. “He had a brief affair a couple of years ago. It was long over. This is not about that.”

He gave a careful nod, rubbed at his chin but didn’t hold my gaze, seemed to look at some point above me. His eyes were so black that I couldn’t discern the pupil from the iris. I wanted to lie back down, I was feeling so light- headed-but I couldn’t stand the vulnerability of it. I stayed upright.

“And all that stolen computer equipment. Brand-new, right?” he said.

“Yes, that’s right. Over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.”

“There was another break-in, right? Last month?”

“Yes,” I said slowly.

“Was there an insurance payout?”

I saw how things were adding up for Detective Crowe. “Where are you going with this?”

“Was there?”

“Yes,” I said. “A check for about a hundred and fifty thousand arrived-” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

“This week sometime?”

“It came Monday.”

“And where’s that money now?”

“Probably in the business bank account. I don’t have much to do with Marcus’s company. I don’t know.”

“Software, right? Razor Technologies.”

“That’s right.” An angry headache was starting, radiating out from the gash on my temple. The pain traveled down my neck and into my shoulders. The drugs they’d given me must have been wearing off.

“What kind of software?”

“Gaming software. They’re freelance designers, creating games for a variety of systems, as well as for cell phones and personal computers.”

“They do well?”

“It has been very lucrative. They sold a PC game to Sony last year called The Spear of Destiny and it was wildly popular, in fact. They have other clients, too. Smaller.”

“Like who?”

I searched my memory for names of other companies Marcus might have mentioned but I couldn’t remember. “I don’t know,” I said finally.

“You don’t know?” He looked at me with a skeptical frown and a quick cock of the head.

“You know, I honestly don’t have that much to do with Razor Tech. And Marcus is really the brains of the company, conceptualizing games, writing the code, and running the business. Rick Marino, his partner, does most of the client interface.” Distantly, I remembered Rick Marino in handcuffs. But I hadn’t asked myself what happened to him if the people who stormed the office were not FBI agents. The possibilities lurked in the periphery of my awareness, nagging but not acknowledged.

The detective scribbled something in his book.

“Look,” I said, starting to feel a terrible constricting in my chest. “Something awful has happened to my husband. Are you going to help us?”

“Mrs. Raine,” he said softly. “I am here to help you. But I need to know everything