Oh boy, Jessica thought. We've got a real charmer here.
Byrne took out his ID, badged the woman. She stared at it far too long. Jessica figured this was an attempt on the woman's part to establish some sort of power dynamic. What the woman didn't know was that Kevin Byrne could outlast a glacier. She looked at Jessica, raising a painted-on eyebrow. Jessica reached into her pocket, showed the woman her ID. The woman sniffed, turned back to Byrne.
'Well, that answers one of my questions,' she said.
'May we come in?' Byrne asked.
The woman blinked a few times, as if Byrne was speaking another language. 'Can you hear me?' she asked.
'Ma'am?'
'Can you hear my voice?'
'Yes,' Byrne said. 'I can hear your voice.'
'Good. I hear you too. We can talk right here.'
Jessica sensed Byrne's gloves coming off. He pulled out his notebook, flipped a few pages. 'What's your first name, ma'am?'
Pause. 'Sharon.'
'Is your husband Kenneth Arnold Beckman?'
The woman snorted. 'Husband? That's one way of putting it.'
'Are you married to him, ma'am?'
The woman took a long drag on her cigarette. Jessica noted that the nicotine stains on her fingers reached down to her knuckles. She blew out the smoke, and with it her answer. 'Barely.'
'When was the last time you saw him?'
'Why?'
'Right now I just need you to answer the question, ma'am. I'll explain why in a moment.'
Another drag. Jessica estimated that, if they were going to get through the basic questions at this pace, Sharon Beckman would go through a pack and a half. 'Yesterday afternoon.'
'About what time?'
Another sigh. 'About three o'clock.'
'And where was this?'
'It was at the MGM Grand in Vegas. I'm a dancer there.'
Byrne stared, the woman stared. She rolled her eyes.
'It was right about where you're standing,' she said. 'I think he said something like 'Clean the kitchen, you lazy fucking bitch.' Real Hallmark moment.'
The wind picked up again, blowing a thin cold rain across the porch. Byrne moved a few feet to his right, making sure that Sharon Beckman caught the rain directly in her face.
'Was he alone at the time?'
'Yeah,' Sharon Beckman said, stepping back a foot. 'For once.'
'And he did not come home last night?'
The woman snorted. 'Why break with tradition?'
Byrne pressed on. 'Does anyone else live here?'
'Just my son.'
My son, Jessica thought. Not our son.
'How old is he?'
The woman smiled. Her teeth were the same color as her tobacco- stained knuckles. 'Why, officer. That would be giving away my age.' When Byrne didn't respond, didn't budge, didn't seem to be weakkneed by the woman's coquettish charms, she repositioned her scowl, hit her cigarette again, and said, 'He's nineteen. I had him when I was six.'
Byrne made the note. He then asked her what the kid's name was. She told him. Jason Crandall.
'Where does your husband work?'
'Hey. You writing a fucking book here? My autobiography, maybe?'
'Ma'am, we're just trying to-'
'No. What you need to do is tell me what this is about or we're done here. I know my rights.'
Jessica knew the notification was coming, so she watched the woman's face as she took in the news. You could tell a lot from the initial reaction to the news that a loved one has been killed. Or even one not so loved.
'Mrs. Beckman, your husband was murdered yesterday.'
The woman drew a sharp intake of breath, but other than that betrayed nothing. Except, perhaps, for a slight shake in her hands, which deposited a long cigarette ash on the floor. She stared out at the street for a moment, turned back. 'How did he get it?'
Get it, Jessica thought. Most people said 'What?' or 'Oh my God' or 'No!' or something like that. How did he get it? No, not too many people ask how the deceased became deceased. That usually came a bit later in the conversation.
'May we come in, ma'am?' Byrne said. 'It's getting a little nasty out here.'
The news had undone the woman's resolve, as well as her animosity. Without saying a word, she opened the door and stepped to the side.
They entered the house, a standard porchfront-style row house, large by Philly standards, probably measuring around 1500 square feet on three floors. It was quickly degenerating, already long past its sell- by date.
The living room was directly to the left, with a hallway leading to a kitchen and a stairway at the back of the house. The walls were painted a cheerless, faded baby blue. The furniture was worn, mismatched, spring-shocked. A half-eaten Weight Watchers dinner sat on a coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray. Cat hair covered nearly every surface. The place smelled like microwave popcorn.
Sharon Beckman did not offer them a seat. Jessica would have passed on that offer anyway.
'Ma'am,' Byrne said. 'We're here because your husband was a victim of homicide. We're trying to find out who did this, and bring that person to justice.'
'Yeah? Well, look in the fucking mirror,' the woman spat.
'I understand your anger,' Byrne continued. 'But if there's anything you can think of that might help us, we would really appreciate it.'
The woman lit another Salem off the first cigarette, held them both for a few moments, one in each hand.
'Can you think of anyone who might have had a problem with your husband?' Byrne asked. 'Someone he owed money to? Someone with whom he had a business problem?'
The woman took a full five seconds to answer. Maybe she did have something to hide.
'Do I need a lawyer?' Sharon Beckman asked. She butted out the short cigarette.
'Have you done anything wrong, Mrs. Beckman?' Byrne asked. It was Cop Speak 101. Standard across the world when police arrive at the lawyer moment.
'Plenty,' she said.
Wrong answer, Jessica thought. The woman was trying to be cute, but she didn't realize that a picture was being painted, and every stroke mattered.
'Well, then, I can't answer your question,' Byrne said. 'If you feel the need for counsel at this time, by all means call your attorney. I can tell you that you are not suspected of anything. You are a witness, and a very important witness. All we need to do is ask you a few questions. The more you tell us, the likelier it will be that we can find the person who did this to your husband.'
Jessica made another quick perusal of the room. There were no photographs of the Beckmans on the mantel over the bricked-in fireplace, no soft-focus wedding day portraits in tacky gold-painted frames.
'If you'll just bear with us a little longer,' Byrne continued, 'we'll get the information we need, and we'll leave you to your thoughts and your arrangements.'
Sharon Beckman just stared. Byrne led her through the rest of the standard questions, giving her the standard assurances. He concluded by asking her if she had a photograph of her husband.
While Sharon Beckman was in the hallway, going through a legal- sized cardboard box, looking for the photograph, the front door opened.
