Her laugh is hollow, without mirth. “Revenge for his cheating and life insurance. I didn’t even know there was a policy! They don’t have the weapon but they say they don’t need it, that I must have thrown it into the river. They keep trying to get me to confess.”
Trying to be encouraging. “It sounds pretty circumstantial.”
“You’re the one who told me the police don’t arrest innocent people. But I should have known better.” She laughs again, with a sound so bitter it makes me recoil.
I wish I could tell her that’s not true. But I can’t.
“So who do you think killed Daniel?” I ask again.
“Aside from a jealous husband? I don’t know.”
“A specific jealous husband? Do you know for sure who he was having an affair with?”
“I can’t talk about this, I really can’t.”
“Claire, please. I’m trying to help you.”
She sighs, rubs her eyes. “Victoria. Maybe. But really, there could be others.” Her smile is twisted. “There were always others.”
I recall my own earlier suspicions. “The pastor? Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugs, looks away. “I actually don’t know for sure. It’s not the sort of thing you want to broadcast. It’s too hurtful. Plus, it just gives me more motive.”
My head is spinning. What if Daniel had killed Victoria? Or if someone thought he had? I remembered a sullen voice, Jason Morganstern, saying: “I’d kill anyone who’d hurt her.” What if he thought Daniel had? Or — if he’d known Daniel and Victoria had a sexual relationship, would his devotion to her turn into jealousy? Enough to kill his perceived rival?
Enough to kill the woman he adores?
But no, Eric killed Victoria. I’m sure of that.
Evidence. I need evidence.
“Knock knock, Audrey. What’s going on in there?” Claire taps the side of her own head.
“Just trying to figure things out.”
“Taking you a long time to do it.” Claire’s hands are restless, clenching, unclenching, and finally ending up in her lap. “I need help. Please. I can’t pay you from in here, but —”
“It’s not the money. That’s the least of it. This case is just — slippery. I can’t seem to get a foothold. But,” I say, standing up, “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe you killed anyone.”
“Why don’t you tell Detective Olafson that? Or the D.A.?”
“I will. I’ve already told Detective Candide.”
“Why were you two at the church?”
I’m thrown for a second by her change of subject. “We were looking for evidence. We tried to get the computer, but the fire had already started and we didn’t get it out. At least, not whole. I think the detective got the hard drive. But only after she dropped the whole thing on the floor.”
“There’s backups at the house.”
“Whose house? Yours?”
“Daniel always brought the backups home with him. Said it was good practice to keep them in a different place than the main computer.”
I feel a surge of hope. “Would you grant access to the cops?”
“Would it help my case?”
“It might. Create goodwill. Show you have nothing to hide. You should tell your attorney. You do have one, right?”
“Tips at the Portway don’t begin to cover the cost of a lawyer. They’ve assigned me a public defender. In theory. I haven’t actually seen him.”
“Use the computer backup as a bargaining chip. Tell your lawyer you’ll grant access in exchange for bail.”
“I see you know all about twisting the system.”
“Court cases are all about negotiation.”
“So much for justice, then.” Her voice is sad and bitter.
I suck in a breath. “Look, Claire, I know I haven’t been spectacularly productive so far. But I will do my best to nail the killer, and I won’t give up until I do. I’m close, I know it.”
She shrugs and raises a skeptical eyebrow, but I mean every word.
I drive back home, get out, and lean against the car. It’s all out of control. I’m shaking with repressed emotion.
I’ve never seen a friend get jailed before. Never been so sure of a miscarriage of justice.
Hey, that’s just how it is. Hook ‘em. Book ‘em. Let the lawyers sort it out.
“No, that’s not how it is!” I kick the side of the garage in frustration. I want to howl at the heavens. “Help me save my friend, for God’s sake.”
“Something wrong?” The voice is Lincoln Rutherford’s gravelly baritone. “Shall I get Phoebe?” He’s dressed in overalls and gardening gloves with deep grass and earth stains, a trowel in one hand.
“Everything’s just peachy,” I growl, extremely irritated that he thinks I need a therapist. Even if I do. “Where’s the public defender’s office?”
He blinks, but reels it off from memory. Afterwards, he says, “Don’t tell me anything more. I really, really don’t want to know why you were with the police yesterday, or why you want the P.D. It’s a small town, and too easy for me to hear something that I shouldn’t.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“Am. But active judges still have vacation, sick leave, or have to recuse themselves. I’m back on the bench every six weeks or so.”
My phone rings. It’s Seth Takahashi. With an apologetic wave to Link, I go a few yards down the sidewalk. The preacher says he’s at the homeless shelter, and that one of the residents has something important to tell me. He wants me to come and talk to this man, right now.
So, of course I go. Because at this point, I’m looking for a miracle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I FIND TAKAHASHI and his companion in a small room at the shelter, in a space set aside for counseling or meditation. There’s a table and four chairs. I take one, try to keep my eagerness and anxiety and hope in check, but I can feel sweat between my shoulder blades.
The Reverend as usual is dressed in black jeans and a white shirt, buttoned up to the neck. His companion is the
