Lies She Told(62)

I am sure that this last act was to antagonize me for David’s benefit. My spouse stares at me, jaw open, dumbfounded that the police could think I had something to do with Nick’s death. “You’re really not going to find anything,” I say, directing my words at David. “No one here had any reason to hurt Nick.”

The detective smiles, a cat-got-the-canary grin. “You might be surprised.”

The streetlamps are coming on as I exit the building. It’s doubtful that many people will be in my publishing house at 7:00 PM on a Monday, but I decide to head there anyway. The police could be following me. If I’m pulled into an interrogation room in the next week, I want to be able to claim that I had mixed up a meeting time and was surprised to find my editor gone for the evening.

I take a cab downtown to the Park Avenue building. There are officers on nearly every street corner, but no one seems to take an interest in me. A good detective wouldn’t be obvious, though.

I pull back the building’s heavy front door and walk through a shiny lobby to a security guard manning three turnstiles. I hand over my driver’s license, providing a record of my appearance, and then head to the elevator bank. As I approach my publisher’s offices, I hear the distinct whirr of a vacuum cleaner. If the cleaning staff is already here, there’s no way people are still working. I debate whether or not to hang around for an hour until my tail—if one exists—tires of me. Then I see Trevor.

He notices me as soon as he exits the glass office doors. “Liza?” He tilts his head as though I may be an apparition. Maybe editors, like writers, also suffer from thin realities.

“Hey, Trev. I am sorry to show up like this. Um . . .” Tears suddenly fill my eyes. I look at the tiled ceiling and blink rapid fire, shooing them with my lashes. “The police found Nick’s body. They are searching our home. I think, maybe . . .” My throat closes up. I can’t say that the officers suspect me. How would I even begin to explain that?

I feel the weight of Trevor’s hand on my shoulder. He gives it a squeeze and shakes his head, as though disappointed. “They suspect David?”

The fact that he has zeroed in on David calms me. Maybe I am imagining Detective Campos’s attitude. Any suspicion of me is insane, after all. I didn’t want Nick dead. I expel the tears with a long exhale. “Thriller editors.” I sniff. “Always trying to guess the plot.”

He doesn’t smile. “Come with me to dinner.”

I’d like nothing more than to go out with a friend at the moment. But dinner might give anyone following me the wrong impression. “I’m not that hungry. The idea of strange men going through my drawers has kind of sapped my appetite at the moment.”

“Drinks?”

Heading to a bar with Trevor will look worse than going out to dinner. “Coffee?” I suggest. The hour is wrong for it, but editors and writers can always use more caffeine.

“I know a quiet local place.”

I follow him an avenue over to a ritzy espresso bar. It’s the kind of shop with decorative bookshelves stocked with European literature and unabridged Shakespeare collections, a place where people hang out to seem well-read and artsy whether or not they actually are. The inside is nearly vacant despite half a dozen leather booths and a long zinc bar set with stools on each side. I’m shocked more people aren’t hunched over laptops. Writers love to “work on their novels” in places like this. Makes us seem legit.

When I see the menu on the chalkboard above the bar, I understand the emptiness. A fifteen-dollar latte is too expensive for anyone without a slew of bestsellers. I gesture to the chalkboard with the artisanal bean selections and outlandish prices. “Let me guess: all organic beans picked by Buddhist monk–trained monkeys.” The joke isn’t great, but it’s all I have. Humor is the only lid against the well of tears in my chest. I don’t want to cry in front of my colleague any more than I already have.

Trevor cracks a smile. “My treat.”

I order a black coffee on the principle of not paying triple the Starbucks price for something with milk in it. Trevor orders an Earl Grey tea because he’s unafraid of being a walking British stereotype. We slide into a booth and comment on what Manhattan eateries charge while waiting for the waitress to bring us our bland beverages. I, for one, don’t want to be in the middle of saying “murder” when the barista shows up.

My drink arrives too hot. Though I’d like an excuse for silence, I can’t sip this without burning off my lips. Instead, I hold the bowl-sized mug at chin level and blow onto the steam. It smells bitter.

Trevor pushes his tea to the side and leans his elbows on the table. “Are you concerned about this investigation?”

“I’m sure it’s all routine.” I try to steady my voice as I say this. I am positive it is anything but routine.

“What are they looking for?”

“My gun.”

Trevor blanches.

“I’m not sure where I left it last,” I say, pretending that my absentmindedness, not David’s forgetfulness (or willful deceit), is the reason it is missing. “It wasn’t in the lockbox in the house. I might have left it at a gun range that has lockers . . .” I put down my mug and gesture to my head. “These fertility hormones I’ve been on—I might have mentioned that I’m taking new ones—they’ve made the past month a bit hazy.”