Shattered (Michael Bennett #14)(36)

The daily menu was a card about six inches long by five inches wide. Today’s specials were an organic turkey and kale salad or a meat-free meatball over whole-grain pasta. How could they call this place a diner? Let alone a “down-home” diner?

I didn’t want to miss Rhea Wellmy-Steinberg, so I had come in at 11:30 for an early lunch. The waitress definitely didn’t fit the decor. She reeked of cigarettes when she came to the table and plopped down a glass of water. Her lank hair popped out of a black hairnet.

“Know what you want yet?” She didn’t have a “down-home” accent. She sounded like she was from Jersey City. She was starting to act like it too.

“Not quite yet,” I said.

Just then, Rhea Wellmy-Steinberg walked through the front door, carrying a copy of the Washington Post under her arm. The waitress at least smiled for Rhea. She was a regular, just like Officer Barrett had said.

My first look at Justice Steinberg’s wife got me thinking that Ellen Minshew’s description of her as a pretty face with big, fake boobies wasn’t particularly fair. Rhea was pretty, but there was no way to tell what was or was not real.

A slight streak of dark green on her cheek gave her a rough-and-tumble look, and below the goggles that hung loose on a strap around her neck, her smock was smeared with different colors like she was part of a kids’ finger-painting class.

I sat for a minute, sipping my water.

Rhea took a corner booth and ordered lentil soup and a sparkling water.

As the waitress turned to fill Rhea’s order, I knew I had to move quickly. If I could get to Rhea before she started reading the paper, our encounter would seem like a complete surprise. I stood and held my credentials in my right hand as I took the five steps to the corner booth.

Rhea looked up at me and said without emotion, “Lucy took my order already.”

“Ms. Wellmy-Steinberg, I’m not a waiter.”

“Then I’ll ask you to step away from me. I don’t talk to reporters.”

This was the second time someone had mistaken me for a reporter. I wondered if I needed to upgrade my wardrobe. I said, “I’m not a reporter. I’m a New York homicide detective looking into the murder of Emily Parker.”

She didn’t flinch or give anything away. She was confused but not skittish.

Rhea surprised me by saying, “What have you found out? I’ve been sick thinking about what happened to her.”

I took the opportunity to sit across from her in the booth. I might have been in a little shock. This was too easy. I was already in an interview and almost at a loss for words. Almost.

I looked at her with my best sincere face and said, “I wish I had information to give you. I’m still gathering facts. When was the last time you saw Emily?”

She paused and looked at me. I noticed for the first time that her eyes were a little bloodshot. Finally, Rhea said, “You think I don’t realize who you are. I do talk to my husband once in a while. I even talk with my sister-in-law, Beth. You’ve met Beth. You’re lucky she thought you were a joke. Otherwise you might not be sitting upright.”

I tried to push forward with the interview. “So when was the last time you saw Emily?”

Rhea just stared at me. Then she said, “Am I a suspect, Detective?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Is my husband?”

“I don’t think either of us has the time to sit here all day while I exclude suspects one at a time. If you’re telling the truth and you really want to know who killed Emily, I don’t see why you won’t speak with me.” Sometimes logic wins out in a situation like this.

Rhea said, “Because I already spoke to the FBI and the DC homicide detectives.”

“And what did you tell them?”

She smiled. She had the kind of perfect, straight white teeth that a combination of nature and good orthodontia can produce. “You’re a funny guy, Detective. You see, I’m not only married to a Supreme Court justice. I also graduated from Columbia Law.”

“Impressive.”

“And I don’t waste time on people like you.”

“Like me? What am I?”

“An irritant. Not much more. Now you can go about your business and tell whoever sent you here to back off.”

“I hope—”

“I said, move on, Detective.”

Her tone and inflection were as good as any beat cop’s in the Bronx. I still had no idea who had killed Emily, and I was definitely not impressed with her friends.





Chapter 46



About forty minutes later, I found myself on a park bench, looking at my friend Roberta Herring. I liked the sun on my face.

We both ate gyros bought from a street vendor. Roberta said, “This guy has the best gyro I’ve eaten in DC. Still not as good as the guy near Claremont Park in the Bronx.”

I agreed the food was good, though it had taken a stack of napkins to stem the flow of tzatziki sauce.

Roberta looked at me and said, “So your whole interview with the justice’s wife was a bust?”

“Not a complete bust. I didn’t have to eat that shitty food. But she shut me down pretty quick.”

Somehow Roberta had kept her blue business suit spot-free while munching on her gyro. All I could do was look at her and think how far she’d come from working a foot patrol in the Bronx.