Friends Like These(86)

Of course it’s impossible to know the truth of someone else’s heart. The best I can do is keep on being the best Maeve I can be. And trust that Bates will keep on seeing a future with me. I’ll do whatever I have to, to protect that.





DETECTIVE JULIA SCUTT


SUNDAY, 10:59 P.M.

“You can let Hendrix go,” I say to Cartright when we’re finally back at the station. He’s behind the front desk, stuffing his face.

“Thank fucking God.” He tosses his sandwich into a wrapper. “That guy is a serious pain in the neck. You can hear his whining all the way down the hall.”

As I turn toward the other interview room, I double-check that I have everything I need— the journal, the complete fingerprint report, the photos, which I’ve studied much more closely. It’s taken a couple hours, but I’ve finally put all the pieces together. Took me a bit longer to process the full picture once everything had been snapped into place.

“You ready for this?” Dan asks, then quickly adds, “I mean, I know you’re ready. I just meant— ”

“I know what you meant,” I say. And I do. He meant well. That’s all that matters.

I peer into the interview room through the little window, reaching inside my shirt for Jane’s ring. Let it lie outside finally, in plain sight. Maeve is walking the perimeter of the room, her back to me, one balled-up hand pressed against her mouth, the other clasped around her waist. I don’t see it at all. That’s the weird thing— even now, knowing what I do. I still don’t see it.

Finally I reach for the door. “Let’s do this.”

As I step inside, Maeve turns, eyes welling up instantly, lower lip trembling. I have to bite back a flash of rage.

“You know something by now. You must,” she pleads. “I understand you’re just doing your job, protecting the investigation. But can’t you tell me something?”

“Actually, I can. I have some good news,” I say to Maeve. “He’s alive.”

“Alive?” Maeve asks. “Who’s alive?”

Excited, but wary. Even her shock walks the right line.

“Keith,” I say. “We found him downtown, but he’s been— ”

“Wait, if you found Keith, then that must mean . . .”

“Yes, it was Derrick in the car. I’m afraid it does mean that,” I say. “Would you like to know about Keith?”

“God, yes, please.” She blinks her big blue saucer eyes, still shiny with tears. “What happened to him?”

“He was shot in the head,” I say. “But he’s alive somehow. Sheer luck. From the differences in location and method, we’re assuming that what we have here is actually two unrelated crimes.”

“Oh, thank God . . . But does that mean Derrick . . .”

“Yes,” I say. “Derrick Chism is definitely dead. He was murdered.” Her shoulders sink as she slowly lowers herself into her chair. “But, come on, Maeve, you already knew that.”

When she looks up at me, it is only with mild confusion— no defensiveness, no concern. No alarm. Perfectly executed. Enraging, too. I clench my teeth. I have to keep it together. I want to do this myself. I need to. I owe that much to Jane.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” she says.

Of course, this is her only real option: complete denial. At a minimum, she needs me to put my cards on the table first. So she can figure out how to use them against me. That’s okay. She can try. I have a lot of cards.

“You’ve known this whole time Derrick was dead. That Keith was never even in that car.”

Her expertly tweezed eyebrows pinch. It’s only then I see it for a second. Maybe. Like a quick flash and then gone.

“And how would I know that?”

“Because you killed Derrick.”

Her eyes brim with tears again. “That’s sick,” she says in a wounded but slightly defiant voice that pokes at me again. “I know it’s your job to get information by saying these terrible things. But there is a line, and that crosses it.” She leans back in her chair and juts out her chin. “I’m not answering any more questions.”

Luckily, she hasn’t actually said the magic word lawyer. I did read Stephanie, Maeve, and Jonathan their rights when they first arrived at the station— informing them that it was procedure prior to any questioning, even of witnesses. That’s not exactly true, but true enough. It’s always useful to have a signed waiver on hand before you question anybody. And both innocent people and overconfident guilty people will often sign away their rights without hesitating. But in New York State, when a suspect mentions a lawyer, all questioning must cease, signed waiver or not. Still, Maeve hasn’t said lawyer, not yet.

I lay the journal pages down, spin the stack so that it faces Maeve. This is what will help me not kill her with my bare hands— getting on with it.

“Derrick’s research?” she asks, and I wonder whether she actually has no idea. If she knew it was Alice’s journal, she’d probably have found a way to destroy it.

I shake my head. “It’s a journal,” I say. “Alice’s journal.”

“Alice?” she asks sharply. “What are you talking about?”