He rubs his forehead. “Don’t play games with me, Lake. You may think you’ve got the edge here, but you don’t. You may think you have a right to ignore the rules and regulations of police investigation, but you don’t. You may think your status as some sort of ‘criminal consultant’” — he raises his fingers and makes air quotes — “gives you some kind of immunity. Well, you can think again.” He leans back in the folding chair until the screws at the joints creak. “Now. Stop wasting time and tell me what you were doing at the Church of the Spirit.”
“I was investigating.”
“I don’t recall inviting you onto the team.”
“Listen, Detective.” I rest my forearms on the table and prepare to stretch the truth. “My client, Claire Chandler, asked me to look into it. It’s her husband, for chrissake. I wanted to see the place for myself, before your ‘team’ starts to move things around. I know how to keep it clean.” I indicate my gloves and the shoe covers that are still on my feet, now torn and muddy from being herded across the church parking lot by Olafson.
“Why?” he barks, leaning forward now, until we’re almost nose to nose. “Why did you feel the need to ‘see it for yourself?’” Annoying air quotes again.
I resist the urge to pull away. “Because I was just there. I talked to him yesterday. I wanted to see if anything had been disturbed, if anything was missing, that I could remember.”
Olafson remains in his bent forward position, like a crouching wolverine. A vein is pulsing in his temple. I can smell whatever it is he uses for shampoo. Something faintly medicinal.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you.”
“I haven’t committed a crime.” That you know about, anyway. “Okay, I trespassed on a crime scene. You got me on that. But since I was just in Daniel’s office, you’re going to find my traces anyway. I didn’t touch anything.” Almost. “And I had the victim’s wife’s permission to be there.”
“What you should have done is come straight to me.”
“I was going to, after I had a look at the scene.” I run a hand through my hair in exasperated bewilderment. “Look, Detective, you and I haven’t exactly clicked like Legos. I honestly didn’t think you’d listen to me. If you knew I was one of the last people to see him, you’d still be grilling me and I’d have missed my chance at the scene.”
I hear voices, unintelligible, beyond the door. Laughter.
At last he speaks. “How did you find out about the murder?”
“I told you. Daniel’s wife. Claire Chandler.”
He taps his pen on the table, first the nib, then the clicker. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“When?”
“She called me this morning.”
“So. Why. Didn’t. You. Call us. And tell us about your involvement?”
“There’s no involvement. I just talked to the guy yesterday evening.”
“Don’t pretend ignorance, Lake. You know the procedure, better than anybody.”
He’s right. I shrug. My position is delicate. But he’s not going to throw me in jail for this. There’s nothing to gain, and a whole lot of paperwork to file. Since the scene was left unattended, he’s got some culpability, too.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Lake.
Tap. Tap. Tap. “Describe your visit with the deceased.”
I really don’t want to end up in a cell, and figure a bit of cooperation is in order. So I tell him. About selling the art, the church finances, the things Daniel had said about Victoria. He asks questions, I answer. He repeats the questions, I answer again, adding new details. I ask for a soda and get a tepid can of cola. At last he runs down and we look at each other for a few silent minutes.
“Anything else?” Tap. Tap. Tap.
I hesitate. I’m reluctant to break Claire’s confidence.
He picks up on my hesitation and leans forward again. “Anything else?” he repeats, with more emphasis.
I relent. “Only copper’s suspicion.” I tell Olafson about my sense that Daniel had been expecting someone else. I don’t mention my own quivering antenna when I asked him about his past work experience. Or what Claire in her emotional distress had told me about her husband’s affairs. Client confidentiality. Plus, dignity. However, I do mention that the possibility of infidelity was raised during the course of my investigation. And that Victoria’s mother has threatened to sue the church.
“Her kind always does.” He grimaces, and we share a moment of camaraderie. Then he says, casually, “Did you kill him, Ms. Lake?”
Eye roll. Splutter. “Of course not. He’s my client, not my enemy. Now I’ll probably never get paid.”
The silence stretches out between us. If I had been a real suspect, I’d be squirming to fill it with denials and justifications. But I’m an experienced interrogator. So I sit quietly, waiting for the next question.
The overhead fixtures emit a barely detectable hum. I feel a trickle of sweat run between my shoulders.
Finally, he says, “What did you think of the scene on your second visit?”
Relief relaxes the tightness in my chest. He’s going to let it go. “It didn’t look like anyone had tossed the place. It was a little haphazard before, papers and things lying around. I couldn’t swear to the contents of every stack, but it didn’t look any different from the previous day. It didn’t have a vibe. That’s what I was doing. Standing and trying to see if anything clicked as out of place. And then you scared the life out of me. Kudos on your ninja skills.” A little butter never hurts. But actually, I feel grateful for that intrusive hand. In trying to bring forth the memory of the office, I’d somehow precipitated something else. Another vision. And I want — need — to think about the implications.
Olafson smirks. “You were pretty zoned out.”
Subject change. “Have you released Takahashi?”
“Huh?” He blinks, and stops playing with his pen.
“I heard you arrested him.”
Eyes narrow. “Don’t believe everything you hear.
