Run Away(17)

“Thirty minutes.”

“So you get home around six thirty?”

“That’s right.”

“Was anyone home?”

“My wife and youngest daughter.”

“You have a son too, correct?”

“Yes. Sam. But he’s at college.”

“Where?”

“Amherst. It’s in Massachusetts.”

“Yeah, I know where Amherst is,” Fagbenle said. “So you get home. Your wife and daughter are there…”

“Yes.”

“Did you go back out?”

Simon thought about it, but only for a second. “Twice.”

“Where did you go?”

“The park.”

“What times?”

“Seven, and then again at ten p.m. I was walking our dog.”

“Oh, nice. What kind of dog do you have?”

“A Havanese. Her name is Laszlo.”

“Isn’t Laszlo a boy’s name?”

He nodded. It was. They got Laszlo on Sam’s sixth birthday. Sam had insisted on that name, no matter what the dog’s gender. It was an old story, but once they got the dog home, despite the promises of Sam and his two sisters, taking care of the dog had fallen on the only family member who’d been reluctant about the adoption.

Simon.

Also not surprising: He had fallen hard for Laszlo. He loved those walks, especially the one where he’d come through the door at the end of the day and Laszlo would greet him like a released POW on a tarmac—every day, without fail—and she’d drag him enthusiastically to the park as though she’d never been there before.

Laszlo was twelve now. Her step was slowing. Her hearing was gone, so that some days she didn’t know that Simon was home until he was already in the house, which saddened Simon more than it should.

“So other than the dog walks, did you go out?”

“No.”

“So the three of you were home all night?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Fagbenle sat back and opened his arms. “Do tell.”

“My wife went to work.”

“She’s a pediatrician up at New York–Presbyterian, correct? Doing an overnight shift, I assume. So that leaves you alone all night with your daughter Anya.”

That slowed Simon down. He knew where his wife worked. He knew his daughter’s name. “Detective?”

“Call me Isaac.”

Hard pass, as his kids would say. “Who was murdered?”

The door to his office flew open. Hester Crimstein may have been small of frame but she was large of step. She burst in and stormed over to Fagbenle.

“Are you effing kidding me?”

Fagbenle remained unruffled. He slowly stood, towering over Hester, and stuck out his hand. “Detective Isaac Fagbenle with Homicide. What a pleasure to meet you.”

Hester stared at his face. “Put your hand away before you lose it—like your job.” Then she turned her withering glare toward Simon. “I’m not happy with you either.”

Hester carried on a bit more. She then insisted that they move to a windowless conference room. Change of venue. It had to be a psychological play, but Simon wasn’t sure how. Once they entered the room though, Hester took full control. She had Fagbenle sit on one side of a long conference table. She and Simon took the other.

When they were all settled in, Hester nodded toward Fagbenle and said, “Okay, get to it.”

“Simon—”

“Call him Mr. Greene,” Hester snapped. “He’s not your pal.”

Fagbenle looked as though he were about to argue, but he smiled instead. “Mr. Greene.” He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph. “Do you know this man?”

Hester kept a hand on Simon’s forearm. He was not to answer or react until she said it was okay. The arm was there as a reminder.

Fagbenle slid the photograph across the table.

It was Aaron Corval. The scum was smiling that awful, smug smile, the one he’d had on his face not long before Simon punched it away. He was standing in a field somewhere, trees behind him, and he’d been standing next to someone in the photograph, someone he had his arm around, someone Fagbenle had cropped out—you could see the person’s shoulder on the left—and Simon couldn’t help but wonder whether the cropped-out person was Paige.

“I know him,” Simon said.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Aaron Corval.”

“He’s your daughter’s boyfriend, is that correct?”

Hester squeezed his arm. “It’s not his job to describe the relationship. Move on.”

Fagbenle pointed his finger at Aaron’s smug face. “How do you know Aaron Corval?”

“Seriously?” It was Hester again.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Crimstein?”

“Yes, there’s a problem. You’re wasting our time.”

“I’m asking—”

“Stop.” She held up her palm. “You’re embarrassing yourself. We all know how my client knows Aaron Corval. Let’s pretend you’ve already lulled Mr. Greene and myself into a state of relaxation with your insightful albeit obvious interrogation techniques. We are putty in your hand, Detective, so let’s cut to it, okay?”