Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(48)

The cheap blonde was looking around the downstairs foyer as if she wasn't impressed. The investigator, on the other hand, was already taking notes.

“I think we'd be more comfortable having a seat.” The ADA invited them all to enter the parlor to the left-hand side of the foyer. Catherine finally let go of her purse, shrugged out of her coat. She was watching the ADA most carefully; he was the one in charge.

She wondered what he thought of grieving widows. Then she caught his glance again. His expression was hard, calculating, a predator sizing up prey. So that's the way it was then. For as long as she could remember, Catherine had brought out only the extreme in the male of the species. Men who lusted after women lusted after her more. And men who hated women . . .

She would do better, she decided, focusing her energies on the man dressed for the funeral.

“I'm glad you stopped by,” she said firmly, shoulders back, sailing into the room. “I contacted the medical examiner's office yesterday. I confess I was quite startled to learn that I still can't claim my husband's body.”

“In these kinds of situations, it takes time.”

“Do you have children, Mr. Copley?”

He simply stared at her.

She said quietly, “This is a very difficult time for my son. I would like to finish planning the funeral, so we can both get this behind us. The sooner my son gets closure, the sooner he can begin to heal.”

Copley and his crew said nothing. Catherine took a seat across from them all in an antique wooden chair. She crossed one leg over the other, clasping her hands around her knee. She'd chosen her clothes with care this morning: a tea-length black skirt with a heather-gray cashmere turtleneck, belted at the waist. Pearl studs in her ears, her wedding band on her finger, her long black hair knotted at her neck. She was every inch the dignified, grieving widow, and she knew it.

If these people were really going to gang up on the dead man's wife, it would be up to them to start.

“We have some questions about Thursday night,” the ADA said finally, clearing his throat and breaking the silence. “Could you review some things for us one more time?”

She merely regarded them expectantly.

“Uhhhh, all right.” Investigator Casella had his notebook out and was flipping through the pages. Catherine didn't watch him anymore; she studied the blonde. The DA's office investigated police shootings, not the BPD, so why was the blonde here?

“In regard to the videotapes from the security system . . . we seem to be missing the one from the master bedroom.”

“There's no tape.”

“There's no tape? It's our understanding from the security company that a camera is installed in your master bedroom.”

She regarded Investigator Casella evenly. “It wasn't on.”

“It wasn't on?”

“Convenient,” the blonde murmured.

Catherine ignored her. “That camera is meant for when we are out. Jimmy had set it up to shut off automatically from midnight to eight a.m.”

“That's interesting,” Investigator Casella said. “Because according to your earlier testimony, Jimmy came home at ten p.m., so the camera should've still been on.”

“True, but it turns out the control panel can't tell time.”

“Pardon?”

“Check it,” Catherine said. “You'll see that the control panel is currently running two hours ahead, so what it thinks is midnight is really ten p.m.” She shrugged. “Jimmy's not very good with electronics. All that ‘spring forward, fall back'; I guess he must have messed up the time.”

“The security company never mentioned this.”

“I don't think he ever told them.”

The two men and the blonde exchanged glances.

“You said you and your husband had gotten into an argument,” Investigator Casella said finally. “What was it regarding?”

Catherine eyed him coolly. They had covered this before, Friday morning when the blood in her bedroom had still been fresh. She resented the fact that they were making her say it again.

“Jimmy could be jealous, particularly when he'd been drinking. Thursday night, he started in on me about Nathan's doctor. I wanted to take Nathan in to see Dr. Rocco, as Nathan wasn't feeling well. Jimmy thought that was just a ruse so I could see my old lover.”

“You were seeing Dr. Tony Rocco?” The ADA again, striving to sound surprised by the news when they all knew he was faking it. The police had their theatrics, she had hers. Which made this whole conversation—what, a Greek tragedy, or a hopeless Shakespearean farce?

She was suddenly more tired than she had ever been in her life. She wanted to see Nathan. She needed to know that her son, at least, was safe.

She answered evenly, “Yes, Tony and I had a relationship. It ended months ago, however, and as I reassured Jimmy, it was solely in the past.”

“And where was the nanny, Prudence Walker, when this discussion was taking place?” Investigator Casella picked up the questioning.

“Thursday night is Prudence's night off. Thursday nights, Sunday days.”

Casella frowned at her. “But it was pretty late when your husband returned home. You're sure Prudence still wasn't back? Maybe upstairs, sleeping in her room?”