She made a show of sifting through my folder, then started rehashing bits of yesterday’s session.
“I asked you about your husband’s business affairs,” she said. “You refused to answer. That alone is obstruction.”
“You asked what part I played in his business. I didn’t play any part.”
She looked suddenly very glum. I decided to throw her a bone.
“But I never said I wouldn’t talk about Tony’s affairs.”
I waited for the nod.
“Anthony was creative with numbers,” I said. “He round-tripped for window dressing while diverting phantom tax obligations offshore.”
“English.”
“He was an accountant for the mob. He moved money around. More money than his employers knew about.”
She wiped a trickle of sweat from her forehead. They must have kept the heat in that room at triple digits.
“If that’s true, it would have made him some powerful enemies,” she said.
I shrugged.
“My husband thought he was invincible.”
“Just to be clear: you’re saying he stole from Vincent Costello?”
“I’m saying he got clever in ways the family might not have liked. I never said anything about Vince. Vince isn’t someone we talk about.”
“I’m sure you’ll make an exception,” Haagen said. “Let me remind you that you’re facing a murder charge.”
I hit the table so hard her papers jumped.
“Good,” I said. “Go ahead and put me in jail. I’d be safer there. And so would you, if you’re hunting Vincent Costello. You think he’d care about your shield? His motto is Buy Them or Bury Them.”
“Them being cops?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Which cops?” she asked. “Who’s he bought?”
“Are you Internal Affairs or Homicide?”
She saw I had a point.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ll come back to that. Who do you think killed Anthony?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. But if I were you, I’d be looking really hard at his little black book.”
“Little black book?”
The question wasn’t rhetorical—I could tell she’d never heard the expression.
“You’ve gotta get out more,” I said. “The women he was screwing behind my back. Except it wasn’t really behind my back. If anything, he flaunted it. And he wasn’t a stickler about age or marital status or even consent.”
“I see,” she said, seeming full-on flustered for the first time since we’d started talking. “Do you have any particular women in mind?”
I looked at her as if I didn’t know people could be so dumb and still dress themselves.
“Are you interrogating me, or getting me to do your job for you? Think about it. The place wasn’t broken into, right? So whoever killed him had access to the house. I’m telling you it wasn’t me. Who does that leave?”
A lightbulb switched on.
“Sarah,” she said. “He was sleeping with Sarah.”
“And?” I asked. “Who else had a key and the alarm code?”
“Serena. The maid.”
I gave her a quiet round of applause.
“Then that’s where I’d start,” I said.
Chapter 6
“LET’S GET back to you for a moment,” Haagen said. “Tell me again where you were that morning.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Asleep,” I said. “Medicated. Drugged. I take a nice little cocktail every night. You would, too, if you lived with a monster.”
“The screaming didn’t wake you?”
“Nothing wakes me. That’s the point of the drugs. I tumble out of bed when I’m good and ready.”
“Like a rock star,” she said, drumming her fingers on the table. “Walk me through it again. From the time you woke up to the time you fled.”
I looked around as though I was searching for someone to rescue me.
“Are you serious? We’ve been over this and over this and over this.” I pointed to one of the cameras. “Why not just watch the footage?”
“Humor me,” she said. “A little cooperation goes a long way.”
So I humored her.
I got up at around ten that morning, and then only because I had to pee. I did my business, thought about hopping back in bed, but my stomach was growling. As soon as I stepped into the hall, I sensed something was off. The house wasn’t just quiet, it was empty. Our house was never empty. Especially not in the morning.
I went to the top of the stairs and called Anthony’s name. Then Sarah’s. Then Serena’s. Crickets. I started down the steps.
“Is this a goddamn surprise party?” I yelled. “The surprise better be a vat of coffee.”
I crossed through the dining room, noticed the sliding glass door was open, went back to close it. Anthony was always lecturing us about reptiles getting in the house—cottonmouths and gators. He had a real paranoid streak, but maybe this time he had something to be paranoid about, because there was blood all over the door handle, bloody footprints running the length of the deck outside.
I’d have been screaming my head off if it weren’t for the benzo haze. Instead, I turned around very slowly and whispered, “Tony?” I started searching for him as if we were kids playing hide-and-seek, calling his name softly and looking in places he couldn’t possibly be: the hall closet, under the stairs, behind the piano. When I think about it now, it’s almost comical: me tiptoeing around and whispering while he lay dead in the kitchen, maybe thirty feet away.
Which is where I found him. This time I did scream. I ran over to him and nearly threw myself on his body. I’m not going to lie: I’d dreamed of doing something like this to Tony more times than I can count, but to actually see it? To see the person you’ve lived with for fifteen years lying facedown in his own blood, his back and legs oozing from more wounds than you can count? That sobered me up in a heartbeat. I sat there with him for a long while, stroking his hair, replaying our last argument, our first argument, regretting every unkind word in between.
And then the phone rang.
His phone, lying
