Lies She Told(60)
Cops usually don’t mock the innocent-until-proven-guilty. I expect David to put Campos in his place with some obscure legal argument. Instead, he motions with his head for me to step back.
I retreat into the living/dining area. The officers follow me inside, their strides wide from the weight of the gear on their hips. Before I can apologize for the mess, Detective Campos is commenting on it from the center of my living room. “What happened here? A bomb went off?”
I look to David, hoping he has an excuse ready. His head hangs like a chastised puppy. This is not the right time for him to fall apart. I can barely see at the moment. “Excuse the mess.” I pull my hand away from my temples and feign an embarrassed smile. “We are in the midst our annual preautumn purge. Time to put the summer suits in storage to make way for fall and winter gear. You know small New York apartments. It’s impossible to fit everything.”
Under the circumstances, I’m amazed by the ease with which the falsehoods roll off my tongue. Though I guess I shouldn’t be. Creating believable fiction is my craft. I’m dedicated to it.
“The gun lockbox is in the bedroom closet.” David points down the hallway. Either he is pretending that he didn’t take the Ruger to hide his involvement in Nick’s murder, or he’s forgotten bringing it to his office amid the stress of the past twenty-four hours.
One of the uniforms follows my husband back into our bedroom. I slump against the living room wall feeling as powerless as a chained dog. In moments, they will all realize the gun is missing. What will I say?
I buried it. Beth’s voice shouts over the pounding in my skull, like a rock singer screaming over drums. I press my fingers into my temples to silence her. My character hid her gun in a hole. My Ruger must be in David’s desk drawer (providing he didn’t toss it in the East River along with Nick’s body).
I cannot cast aspersions on my husband. When they ask, I’ll tell the officers that I must have misplaced it. Sergeant Perez thinks he saw me at the police academy range recently. I can say that I took it there to practice and may have left it in a locker.
Detective Campos circles the living room, taking mental inventory of our furnishings and the items scattered on the hardwood floor. He walks into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open. The thought of this stranger rifling through my belongings makes me panicky. Quickly, I return to the foyer, where I have a direct view into our galley kitchen. What could he possibly be looking for?
He wants to see if you have champagne tastes on a beer budget. Beth answers in the matter-of-fact way that I imagine her using when talking to other reporters. Financial problems could give David a reason to, say, get rid of a law partner who’d discovered that he was spending clients’ investigation budgets on his housewares. I push her suggested motive from my head. David was not a spendthrift.
Show the detective he isn’t bothering you, Beth counsels. You have nothing to hide, right? I’ve created a character that would be far more adept in this situation than I am. I need to think like her.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“No. Thank you.” Detective Campos peers around the half wall separating the kitchen from the living/dining area. He looks toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. Not seeing anyone coming, he crouches and opens the double doors beneath the kitchen sink. His lackadaisical search must be meant to make me squirm. Surely he doesn’t think I store jewelry behind the dishwashing detergent.
The detective opens the cupboard to the right of the sink. It contains a fancy dining set gifted at our wedding. The pressure in my head builds.
Beth suggests that I make him laugh. An innocent person would want the police to rule out her and her husband as soon as possible so that they could get to the real investigation. She wouldn’t be on the defensive.
“We should have never put those fancy plates in there on the wedding registry.” I force a chuckle. “I guess everyone does that when they get married right out of college. They ask for all these things they think grown-ups should have: champagne flutes, pretty cheese boards, serving bowls. Then they realize that stuff only comes out at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it’s taking up half the kitchen.”
Detective Campos snorts. It’s not a guffaw, but it’s better than nothing. He closes the open cabinets and goes for one above the range. “You give any more thought to my recommendation of getting your own lawyer?”
My back stiffens. The detective would like nothing better than for me to get an attorney and relinquish spousal privilege, to spill my marital secrets. But I won’t. David is my husband. He proposed by a driftwood fire in the freezing cold because my best friend told him that I’d always wanted to see the Montauk lighthouse at night. He told my mother over and over how beautiful she was when the chemo had made her bald and bloated and she couldn’t stomach her own reflection. He held me when she’d died. He supported my failing writing career, paying all the bills while I penned novel after novel that barely moved the financial needle. Someday, I pray, he’ll be the father of my child. Whatever David did to Nick, I will not turn on him.
“David would never hurt Nick.” I say it with as much conviction as I’ve ever said anything in my life. “He loved him like a brother. So while I appreciate you trying to figure out who did this, being here is a waste of time.”
“You write crime novels?” Campos’s head is behind a cabinet door. His voice rises at the end, though, so I can tell he’s asking a question.