Lies She Told(49)

“It’s so awful.” I touch the corner of my eye, as though I feel a tear there. “Is my husband okay?”

The officer gives me a weak smile. I’ve seen this look on my gynecologist’s face, on my shrink’s face, on the face of everyone whom I’ve ever told that I’m trying to have a baby and “exploring different options.” It says things aren’t looking good.

“He’s in with someone at the moment. If you could follow me, we would appreciate asking you a few questions.”

Though his tone is casual, it triggers my alarms. I’ve written enough romantic thrillers to know that the police wanting to question anyone alone is never no biggie. They’re already talking to David. I’d assumed he was crying over the confirmed death of his friend. Maybe not.

“I’d like to see my husband first.”

The officer holds the door open a bit wider. “I understand. He’s helping out some of my colleagues at the moment. If you would follow me, we’re trying to piece together what might have happened to your friend.”

My back tenses. “You found his body, right?”

Officer Campos does his best impression of horrified sadness. Wide eyes. Shaking head. It’s all a bit overacted. Surely this guy must see murder victims all the time. “We found him in the river.”

“What happened?”

“Why don’t you come with me? I can better answer these questions sitting.”

We walk down a carpeted hallway. Seals of different police branches dot gray-painted walls. Another steel door is propped open at the end of the corridor. I pass through it into a bright room full of wooden desks and fluorescent lights. A few officers are hunched over computers. Most of the desks are empty at this hour, though. An American flag stands in one corner, several feet away from the New York State version. I flash back to grade school and the Pledge of Allegiance.

Officer Campos sits at what I presume is his desk and gestures to the visitor’s chair opposite. He withdraws a notepad and pen from a drawer.

“I really don’t wish to talk to anyone without seeing my husband. I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want to be helpful, but he was very upset.”

Again, the detective gestures for me to sit. Some part of me that wants, desperately, to be agreeable, as any innocent person would be, pulls back the chair and perches on the edge of it. Fine, I’ll sit. But I don’t have to get comfortable.

“Mr. Jacobson, your husband, knew Nick well?”

“They were law partners.”

“So it was mostly a work relationship?”

He looks at the paper, as though he’s posing routine questions, checking boxes off a list. Nonchalance in a detective is not a good sign. This question is more pointed than he wants it to appear.

“No. He and David have been close since law school.”

“What did you think of their friendship?” This time, he makes direct eye contact.

I fucking hated it. The words reverberate in my head in Beth’s voice. I don’t verbalize them. There’s no reason for me to have felt that strongly about their friendship. Most wives don’t love their husband’s “bros.” Most single guys don’t relish the presence of the woman who tied down their wingman. “They worked well together.”

“Did you see them together much?”

I shrug. “They saw each other at work.”

“But you felt they worked well together?”

Why is he pressing this point? “They built a successful firm. Isn’t that evidence?”

“Did they see each other socially?”

My left eye starts to twitch. Not another headache. Not now. “David, I’m sure, can tell you all about how often he saw his friend. I’d like to see him now.”

“Did they—”

The overhead bulbs seem to glow brighter. Harsh yellow beams pour from each pot light. I shut my eyes and press my thumb and forefinger against the lids, trying to block out the spotlights. “No more questions. If you want to formally interview me, I’d be happy to come back with David present as my attorney.”

Officer Campos leans forward in his chair. “I thought you wanted to help.”

“I want to see my husband.”

“He’s answering—”

My stomach seems to drop into my bowels. I need to get out of here. “I’ll wait outside then.”

The detective rolls his chair back from his desk. He stands with a sorry expression on his face, as though he feels terribly for me for some inexplicable reason. “Word of advice? You might want a different attorney.”





Chapter 12

I pay cash for a cab to the Forty-Second Street ferry terminal and then drop a twenty for round trip tickets to Weehawken. The boat skims across the gray water at a speed that car commuters could never hope to achieve in the Lincoln Tunnel. Eight minutes later, I am walking over a metal gangplank to the terminal. Another minute and I’m facing the bedrock cliff that supports the majority of the town above sea level.

I cross the street and climb up a rickety metal staircase bolted to the rock face like a fire escape from suburbia. My mom lives on top of the hill, several blocks back from a pricey apartment complex overlooking the city, on a postage stamp lot reminiscent of how the area used to look before developers realized they could build condos overlooking Manhattan and charge three thousand dollars a month for the privilege of waking up to the midtown skyline.