strong female character. Acharacter with warts, bumps, flaws, just like any other person. Yet, Aprilwasn’t threatening to men, I don’t think. They liked her, too. She was funny. Shewas feminine. She didn’t mind having a door opened for her.”
“I liked her. I loved that book.” Larry smiles. “By the way,what’s your favorite book?” he asks. “Best thing you ever read?”
Allison shrugs, as if there were so many from which tochoose. In fact, she has an answer at the ready, but it’s not a book. Sheremembers the character, because Allison herself played the role in a collegetheater. Nora Helmer, wife of Torvald, identified principally in her life assuch-the flighty wife, the mother, when in fact it was her strength that heldeverything together, her courage that saved Torvald’s life, his lack of couragethat finally propelled her to leave him. I have been performing tricks for you,Torvald. That’s how I’ve survived. You wanted it like that.
The way I am now, I’m no wife for you.
Larry seems to be observing her, probably notes the changein her expression. He makes a point of glancing at his watch. “I don’t mean tomonopolize your time here with background.”
“No, that’s fine.” Allison waves a hand. “These subjects arefar more enjoyable than what most people want to talk about these days.”
Larry puts down his pen. “I’ll tell you something, Allison,if I may.” Larry bites his lip. He has a way about him, a low-key approach. Sheimagines his rugged looks and easy demeanor play well with the femalepopulation.
“You may,” she says.
“I think you’re innocent.”
“Oh.” Allison laughs an outburst closer to dismay than joy.
“No, I mean-I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it. I justdon’t see it in you.”
Allison smiles. “Larry, we met about-what-six weeks ago?We’ve spent all of maybe twenty hours together. You don’t know me.”
“I’m a good judge of people. Plus, I’m no lawyer, but-well.”He shrugs his shoulders.
“But what?”
Larry shakes his head. “I was going to say, the evidencelooks pretty thin to me. Like it just doesn’t say very much. They have evidencethat you were there. Your hair, the earring, the broken nail. Sure. And yes,Sam’s blood was found on your sweatshirt. But if you and Sam were seeing eachother-”
Larry looks at Allison, as if he were a ten-year-old whojust cussed in front of his mother.
“I’m not saying you were or you weren’t,” he quicklyqualifies.
Allison, of course, has denied having a romanticrelationship with Sam to the police, and she has made no public statement onthis subject. The police got it out of Jessica when they questioned her, whichputs Allison in a bit of a pinch. Larry Evans, ever the diplomat, has tried tokeep away from the sensitive topics in their discussions. He doesn’t want topoke the bear.
“This is all I’m saying, Allison. That stuff-the hair andfingernail and earring and blood-just means you were there at some time. Itdoesn’t mean you were there on the night he was murdered.”
“His blood just happened to be on my sweatshirt?”
“Oh, it wasn’t like a significant blood spatter oranything,” Larry says. “So yes. People bleed sometimes. I had a girlfriendonce, cut her lip and I ended up with her blood all over my shirt.” He shrugs.“I’m just saying. All of these things could happen in a different setting. Notwhen he was murdered.”
“They say I went back to the house at one in the morning thenight he was murdered,” Allison replies.
“They say a car that looks like yours-a Lexus SUV-drove tohis house then.”
“Who else would be driving my car?”
“Assuming it was your car.”
“Yes, assuming it was my car.”
“Who else would be driving-” Larry grunts a laugh. “Do Ihave to spell it out?”
Allison shakes her head in frustration. “I’m the only onewith keys to my car, first of all. And they have me barging into Sam’s officethe day before, shouting at him. And the office aide overheard Sam dumping me.And”-she raises a finger-“they have me returning home at two in the morning,with dirt on my face and hands.”
“You mean Jessica has you returning home at two in themorning with dirt on your face and hands.”
Allison draws back. “I’m not enjoying this conversation.”
Larry Evans leans forward, his eyes narrow. “You know what Ithink about this conversation, Allison, if I may say so?”
She waves a hand, still fuming.
“I think you’re trying very hard to convince me that you’reguilty.”
Allison looks away, not ready with a response, but somethinghot and creepy invades her chest. “Why all this talk about Jessica?” she asks.
Larry equivocates, raising his hands, cocking his head.
“Is this coming from your source in the department?” shedemands. This has been Larry Evans’s primary chit in their deal, the source inthe police department, from whom he would feed Allison nuggets of information.
“They’re wondering about the chronology of events thatnight,” Larry admits. “It’s standard procedure, from what I’m told. They do atimeline. And they fit their witnesses on that timeline. What can they say aboutJessica? She says she was at your house at-what was it-eight?”
“Eight-thirty,” Allison whispers.
“Okay, but what about before that? She says she was studyingback at Mansbury College, but there’s no corroboration for that.”
Allison takes Larry’s hand. “Tell me everything, everysingle thing, they’re saying about Jessica.”
“That’s it, Allison. I’m not saying she’s a suspect. They’rejust trying to tie everything up, and Jessica is a big piece. She’s the one whosays you were away from the house on the evening Sam Dillon was murdered, she’sthe one who says you had dirt on your hands and your face, she’s the one whosays you were wearing that sweatshirt with Sam’s blood on it, and she’s the onewho says you admitted having an affair with Dillon when you denied that fact tothe police. So she matters to them a great deal. It’s a circumstantial case, weall know that, and she’s the biggest link. So my guy there, he was just saying,when your best witness against a suspect is her daughter, there’s going to be someconcern.”
Allison cringes. “But they’re not saying she was a suspect.”
“No, they’re not.”
Allison glares at Larry.
“Hey.” He raises his hands. “I’m just a reporter. But my jobis to look at facts. So I’m supposed to believe that you went to his house, bludgeonedhim, an earring fell out, a nail broke, a hair fell out, and you got a littleblood on your sweatshirt.”
Allison doesn’t answer.
“A sweatshirt that says ‘Mansbury College,’ by the way.”
“She gave me the sweatshirt,” Allison insists. “It was mine.Just because she’s a student at Mansbury, that means no one else could wear asweatshirt with the school name?”
Larry Evans smiles. His eyes drift from hers. “No,” heconcedes. “Of course, it could have been your sweatshirt. That doesn’t mean thestory washes.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is ridiculous,” Larry agrees. “What is ridiculous iswhatever it is you’re doing. She’s close with her father, you’ve told me. Herfather was in trouble. He was being investigated by the feds. Maybe Sam Dillonknew something. He was a threat to your ex-husband. Which made him a threat tosomeone who loved your ex-husband.” Larry takes a breath. “Look, I don’t knowyour daughter, Allison. But it makes sense. She worked at Sam Dillon’s office,right? She was close to all of this.”
“Jessica didn’t murder Sam,” Allison says.
“Oh, okay.” Larry falls back in his seat, waves a hand ather. “Youdid, right? You beat him over the head, accidentally left someevidence behind, and some evidence on you.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Why is that-” Larry Evans messes with his hair, shakes hishead absently. “Allison,” he says, leaning close now, his hand trembling, “whowears expensive platinum earrings with a sweatshirt?”
