daughter. Nice to know. When a fourteen-year-old Loren Muse had found her father’s body in the garage-he’d gone in there and blown his brains out-there had indeed been a nice shine to his shoes.
Good advice, Dad. Thanks for the suicide protocol.
“I know how it is,” Cordova went on. “The husband is always a suspect, right?”
Muse did not reply.
“And you think Reba had an affair because her car was parked at that motel-but I swear to you, it’s not like that. You have to believe me.”
Muse made her face stone. “We aren’t ruling anything in or out.”
“I’ll take a polygraph, no lawyer, whatever you need. I just don’t want you to waste time looking down the wrong avenue. Reba didn’t run away, I know that. And I had nothing to do with what happened to her.”
You never believe anybody, Muse thought. That was the rule. She had questioned suspects whose acting skills could put De Niro on unemployment. But the evidence so far backed him, and everything inside her told her that Neil Cordova was telling the truth. Besides, for right now, it didn’t matter.
Muse had brought Cordova down to identify the body of her Jane Doe. Foe or ally, that was what she needed desperately. His cooperation. So she said, “Mr. Cordova, I don’t think you harmed your wife.”
The relief came in immediately but vanished just as fast. This wasn’t about him, she saw. He was just worried about the beautiful woman in those beautiful photographs.
“Has anything been bothering your wife lately?”
“Not really, no. Sarah-that’s our eight-year-old”-he caught himself, put his knuckle in his mouth, closed his eyes and bit down- “Sarah is having some trouble reading. I told the Livingston police when they asked the same thing. Reba has been worried about that.”
That wasn’t going to help, but at least he was talking.
“Let me ask you something that may sound a little strange,” Muse said.
He nodded, leaned forward, waiting desperately to assist.
“Has Reba talked to you about any of her friends having trouble?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by having trouble.”
“Let me start with this. I assume no one you know is missing.”
“You mean, like my wife?”
“I mean like anything. Take it a step further. Are any of your friends away, even on vacation?”
“The Friedmans are in Buenos Aires for the week. She and Reba are very close.”
“Good, good.” She knew that Clarence was writing this down. He would check and make sure Mrs. Friedman was where she belonged. “Anyone else?”
Neil worked the question, chewing the inside of his mouth.
“I’m trying to think,” he said.
“Relax, it’s okay. Anything weird with friends, any sort of trouble, anything.”
“Reba told me that the Colders were having marital issues.”
“That’s good. Anything else?”
“Tonya Eastman recently got a bad result on a mammogram, but she hasn’t told her husband yet. She’s worried he’ll leave her. That’s what Reba said. Is this what you want?”
“Yes. Keep going.”
He rattled off a few more. Clarence took notes. When Neil Cordova seemed out of steam, Muse got to the heart of the matter.
“Mr. Cordova?”
She met his eye and held it.
“I need you to do me a favor. I really don’t want to go into long explanations on why or what it might mean-”
He interrupted her. “Inspector Muse?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t waste time holding my hand. What do you want?”
“We have a body here. It is definitely
“And you think I might?”
“I want you to take a look and see.”
His hands lay folded in his lap, and he sat up a little too straight. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Muse had considered using photographs for this part and sparing him the horror of viewing the actual corpse. Pictures don’t work though. If she had a clear one of the face, sure, maybe, but in this case, it was as if the face had spent too much time under a lawn mower. There was nothing but bone fragments and frayed sinew. Muse could have shown him photos of the torso with the height and weight listed, but experience showed that it was hard to get a real feel that way.
Neil Cordova hadn’t wondered about the venue for this interrogation, but that was understandable. They were on Norfolk Street in Newark -the county morgue. Muse had already set it up so they wouldn’t have to waste time driving over. She opened the door. Cordova tried to keep his head high. His gait was steady, but the shoulders told more; Muse could see the bunching through the blazer.
The body was ready. Tara O’Neill, the medical examiner, had wrapped gauze around the face. That was the first thing Neil Cordova noticed-the bandages like something out of a mummy movie. He asked why they were there.
“Her face suffered extensive damage,” Muse said.
“How am I supposed to recognize her?”
“We were hoping by body type, maybe height, anything.”
“I think it would help if I could see the face.”
“It won’t help, Mr. Cordova.”
He took a deep swallow, took another look.
“What happened to her?”
“She was beaten badly.”
He turned to Muse. “Do you think something like this happened to my wife?”
“I don’t know.”
Cordova closed his eyes for a moment, gathered himself, opened them, nodded. “Okay.” He nodded some more. “Okay, I understand.”
“I know this isn’t easy.”
“I’m fine.” She could see the wet in his eyes. He took one swipe with his sleeve. He looked so much like a little boy when he did that Muse nearly hugged him. She watched him turn back to the body.
“Do you know her?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Take your time.”
“The thing is, she’s naked.” His eyes were still on the bandaged face, as if trying to maintain modesty. “I mean, if she’s someone I know, I would have never seen her that way, you know what I mean?”
“I do. Would it help if we clothed her somehow?”
“No, that’s okay. It’s just…” He frowned.
“What?”
Neil Cordova’s eyes had been on the victim’s neck area. Now they traveled south to her legs. “Can you turn her over?”
“Onto her stomach?”
“Yes. I need to see the back of the leg mostly. But yes.”
Muse glanced at Tara O’Neill, who immediately brought an orderly over. They carefully turned Jane Doe facedown. Cordova took a step forward. Muse did not move, not wanting to disturb his concentration. Tara O’Neill and the orderly stepped away. Neil Cordova’s eyes continued down the legs. They stopped at the back of her right ankle.
There was a birthmark.
Seconds passed. Muse finally said, “Mr. Cordova?”
“I know who this is.”
Muse waited. He started shaking. His hand fluttered to his mouth. His eyes closed.
“Mr. Cordova?”
“It’s Marianne,” he said. “Dear God, it’s Marianne.”
27
D R. Ilene Goldfarb slid into the diner booth across from Susan Loriman.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Susan said.
They had discussed going out of town, but in the end Ilene had nixed that idea. Anyone who saw them would simply assume that they were two ladies at lunch, an activity Ilene had never had the time nor desire to indulge in because she worked too many hours at the hospital and feared becoming, well, one of the ladies who
