A Good Marriage(50)

“I’m asking what you saw.”

She snorted lightly, looked away. Lawyers, the look seemed to say. “Aside from our two-second exchange, I only saw Zach circling like some kind of shark,” she said. “Then I went home. I have no idea what he did after that.”

She stood then, heading to the open door. “And now I really do have to get back to work.”

I rose and followed her. “If you think of anything else, you have my cell number,” I said. “It’s the one I called you from.”

“Yeah, I have it,” Sarah said, then paused. She squinted at me, focused anew. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” I certainly hoped not.

“Do you have kids in the neighborhood?” she asked. “I’m really good with faces.”

“I live all the way in Sunset Park.”

“Where do your kids go to school, though?” she asked. “I feel like we all cross paths eventually in Brooklyn.”

“I don’t have kids.”

“Smart,” she said, and now she looked intrigued. She glanced at my wedding band.

“Is your better half also a lawyer?”

“No,” I said, with a too hard, bitter laugh.

Sarah leaned in. “What does he or she do?”

“He’s a writer.”

“Oh, that sounds exciting,” she said. “My husband is a lawyer. No offense, but you are all boring as hell. Or maybe that’s just my husband. He’s not a criminal lawyer.”

“No, all lawyers are boring. Boring, but reliable,” I said. “Writers, not so much.”

“Ah, yes, reliable.” She let out a knowing sigh. “It’s not sexy, but it is useful.”

“Can I ask you one last question?”

“I guess.”

“Can you think of anyone other than Zach who might have sent Amanda flowers?” I asked. “Amanda saved an unsigned card.”

“A secret admirer?” Sarah offered. “Like I said, Amanda inspired adoration. That’s what Sebe said once.”

“Sebe?”

“Maude’s husband. But don’t get any ideas. Sebe and Maude have an unorthodox arrangement with the whole ‘upstairs’ thing, but they don’t sleep with each other’s friends. Sebe is devoted to Maude. It’s sickening really. The note didn’t have a name?”

“No. ‘Thinking of you,’ that was all it said.”

“Oh, men. They are so original,” she said coldly. “Well, definitely not Sebe. He’s so French. He’s awkward with American colloquialisms. You think this person who sent the flowers had something to do with what happened to Amanda?”

“I’d like to know who sent them.”

“Right, an alternative theory of the case.” Her tone had hardened again. “Sorry, can’t help you there. Because the only theory that makes sense to me is that your client is an arrogant fuck who killed my beautiful friend.”





Amanda





FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE PARTY


As Amanda sat in the Seventy-Eighth Precinct waiting for her turn to speak with a detective, she was overwhelmed by second, third, and fourth thoughts about going there in the first place. It didn’t help that the precinct was even rougher than she’d anticipated—louder and dirtier and far angrier. A place you’d be only if bad things had already happened to you. A place that reminded Amanda too much of St. Colomb Falls.

If it hadn’t been for her promise to Carolyn, she would have gotten up to leave. Not to mention that she’d started thinking about how Zach would react to a restraining order. Were these things a matter of public record? Zach didn’t like anything that violated their privacy, and now she’d be making a public spectacle? She hadn’t even told him about the calls.

“Amanda Grayson?” The officer was on the short side, with dark hair and warm olive skin. His height made him seem boyish and unthreatening, like Zach when Amanda had first met him. He looked around when Amanda didn’t answer, consulted his clipboard again. “Grayson, Amanda!” He was quite annoyed now. That was like Zach, too, abruptly turning on a dime.

“Yes, that’s me,” Amanda said, rising to her feet.

“I’m Officer Carbone.” He motioned her back. “Right this way.”

They headed down a short hall from the waiting area to an open room with a dozen desks occupied by other detectives interviewing witnesses, victims, maybe even suspects. It was impossible to tell the difference. Everybody seemed upset. Amanda sat in a chair alongside Officer Carbone’s desk as he took his place behind an old computer monitor.

Already Amanda felt like a victim. Wasn’t that the opposite of how this was supposed to make her feel?

“So, again, I’m Officer Carbone,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. His grip was moist and his manner was stiff, as though he was following a script.

“Hi,” Amanda said, resisting the urge to yank her hand back.

“What is it I can do for you?”

Amanda smiled awkwardly. “Someone is, um, harassing me. They’ve been calling and hanging up.” This was a weak start. Carolyn would not be impressed.