“Actually, sir,” said Fournier, “it’s kind of like that. We cultivate leads-”
“Wonderful,” said Boehlinger. “You know what a metaphor is. Now eliminate the chatter and tell us what you’ve cultivated about Ramsey.”
Mrs. Boehlinger stared, turned, showed him her back once more. He didn’t notice. “Well?”
A detective named Bernstein stepped into the hall, coffee cup in hand, started forward, returned to the squad room.
“Let’s talk somewhere private,” said Petra.
All three interrogation rooms were horrible-smaller than jail cells, no windows, the obvious wall of one-way mirror that most of the idiots brought in for questioning took early note of, then promptly forgot.
Bad smell in all three: sweat, pomade, cheap perfume, tobacco, hormones.
She chose Interrogation One because it had three chairs instead of two. Fournier fetched a fourth and they crowded around a tiny metal table. Forced intimacy. Mrs. Boehlinger kept looking at her nails, her knees, her shoes, anywhere but at another human being. The surgeon looked ready to slice flesh.
Petra shut the door and let in some claustrophobia. Mrs. B. was picking at her knit skirt. Boehlinger was trying to stare down Fournier.
Trying to dominate. To what end? Force of habit?
She remembered what Ramsey had told her about both parents trying to run Lisa’s life. “Let me start by saying how sorry we are for your loss. We’re doing everything in our power to find Lisa’s killer-”
Mention of her daughter made Mrs. B. weep. The doctor made no effort to comfort her. “We know who the killer is.”
“If there’s anything you can tell us to substantiate that, sir-”
“He beat her up, she left him. What more do you need?”
“Unfortunately-”
“This boy, the potential witness,” said Boehlinger. “I’m sure there’ve been responses to our reward.”
“A few calls have come in,” said Petra.
“And?”
“We haven’t gotten to them yet, sir. Been following up other leads.”
“For Christ’s sake!” Boehlinger’s hand slammed the table. His wife jumped, but she didn’t look at him. “I dip into my own damn pocket, do your job for you, and you don’t have the decency to follow up-”
“We will, sir,” said Petra. “Soon as we’re free to do so.”
“Why aren’t you free?”
“We’re here, sir,” said Fournier.
Boehlinger’s hand rose again, and for a second Petra thought he’d try to strike Wil. But the fist froze in midair. Slight tremor. Surgeon past his prime, or the stress?
“ We’re delaying you? We’re the problem-”
“No, sir,” said Fournier. “We appreciate all your-”
The hand slammed again. “You,” he said very softly, “are a very rude man. You’re both rude.”
“John!”
“Typical,” said Boehlinger, glaring at Petra and Fournier in turn. “Civil servants. So you know nothing about this boy. Priceless, just priceless. Affirmative action at its finest-I believe we’re going to have to take this one step further, Vivian. Hire our own-”
“Stop it, John. Please. ”
Boehlinger laughed derisively. “We will most definitely hire our own investigator, because these two obviously aren’t-”
“Shut up, John!”
The shriek filled the room. Boehlinger turned white and clawed the tabletop. His fingers failed to find purchase and his hands flattened. Without facing his wife, he said, “Vivian, I’d appreciate it if you-”
“Just shut up, John! Shutup shutup shut up! ”
Now it was her turn to raise a hand. It sailed through the air like a flesh airplane, landed on her bosom, over her heart. She ran out of the room, swinging the door open, not bothering to close it.
Fournier’s eyes begged for Petra to follow. Even Dr. Bile was preferable to a grieving mother.
Petra caught up with her at the end of the hall, in the stairwell, sitting on the top step, forehead to the wall, the champagne puff bobbing with each sob.
“Ma’am-”
“I’m sorry!”
“No need to apologize, ma’am.”
“I’m very sorry, very very very sorry!”
Petra sat down next to the woman and chanced putting her arm around the heaving shoulders. Beneath the knit fabric were small bones. Petra smelled makeup, breath mints, Chanel No. 5. “Let’s find somewhere to go.”
Vivian Boehlinger straightened and pointed at the interrogation rooms. “Not with him!”
“No,” said Petra. “By ourselves.”
No one was in the vending machine room, so she guided the woman in and closed the door. No lock. She placed a chair against it, sat down, motioning for Vivian Boehlinger to choose one near the folding table that served as the D’s snack center.
“Coffee?”
“No thank you.” Subdued voice now, that post-tantrum shame/fatigue. Small hands folded in a black-knit lap. Under the fluorescence, Petra could see hints of deep facial lines, muted expertly by makeup. The eyes were tormented, devoid of hope. So disturbing in contrast-everything else about the woman was so well put together.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“It’s really okay, ma’am. Situations like this-”
“When all this is over, I’m going to leave him.”
Petra didn’t speak.
Vivian Boehlinger said, “I was going to do it this year. Now I’ll have to wait. Thirty-six years of marriage, what a joke.” She shook her head, made a terrible sound, more parrot squawk than laugh.
“He has affairs with sluts,” she went on. “Thinks I’m stupid and don’t know.” Another bird sound. It made Petra’s flesh crawl. “Cheap, slutty affairs. And now Lisa’s gone.”
Odd juxtaposition, but maybe not. Tabulating her miseries. Petra waited for her to take it further, but all she said was “My Lisa, my pretty Lisa.”
Several more minutes of silence, then: “Ma’am, do you think Cart Ramsey did it?”
“I don’t know.” Quick answer. She’d thought about it. She gave a pitiful shrug and sniffed. Petra fetched a paper napkin. Dab, dab.
“Thank you. You’re very sweet. I don’t know what to think.” She sat up straighter, higher. “John thinks he can buy everything. He offered Lisa money not to marry Carter and, when that didn’t work, even more money to divorce him. So idiotic-Lisa was going to divorce Carter anyway. She told me. If John had ever communicated with her, he could have saved himself the offer. Which is all it was. Lisa divorced Carter, but did John keep his end of the bargain?”
A scary smile spread across the thin lips. Lipstick and liner had been used to extend the coral borders and radically change the mouth’s contours. Without her morning routine, this woman would be unrecognizable.
“He didn’t pay up?” said Petra.
“Of course not. He didn’t give Lisa one dime. Said he hadn’t been serious, it was for Lisa’s own good anyway, she had nothing to complain about. Lisa didn’t care, she knew who she was dealing with. But still. Don’t you think that’s terrible?”
“How much did he offer Lisa?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. So now he comes up with half?” She shook her head. “Don’t expect him to pay any reward, Detective. I feel sorry for anyone who thinks they’re going to get paid by John-do I think Carter did it? I don’t know. To me, he always seemed civil. Then Lisa told me he hit her, so I don’t know.”
“How many times did she say he hit her, ma’am?”
“Just the once. They had a tiff, Carter lost control and hit her. More than a slap-her eye was blackened and
