The Accomplice(15)

“Can you show me where your house is on this map?”

Luna pointed to a spot across the greenbelt, a quick shot from the cemetery.

“Here?” Goldman said, pointing with his pen.

“Yes,” said Luna.

Goldman inked another circle. “So,” he said. “You find the body here, but instead of running home, which is less than a quarter of a mile, you run past your home to Mr. Mann’s house. Mind if I ask why?”

“His wife was dead. I thought he should be the first to know.”

Luna clocked the flickering fluorescent lights with a scowl. She tried to remember if she’d taken her meds that morning. Detective Goldman, good cop, left the room to warm up Luna’s coffee.

When he returned, Noah noticed that Luna had slipped something—a piece of cardboard or a pack of gum—under the chair. He couldn’t hear the wobble as she crossed her legs. Most people, guilty or innocent, don’t fix the wobble. It stuck in his head.

Noah cleared his throat and consulted his notes. “When was the last time you saw Irene?”

“Yesterday morning. She dropped by for a cup of coffee. I assumed she was on her way to Dover,” Luna said.

“How long did she stay?”

“About five minutes.”

“What did you talk about during those five minutes?” Goldman asked.

“There were rambling topics. I think I mentioned Leo Whitman because I was helping him hire a new assistant.”

Luna made a quick decision to leave out the part where Irene told her about Owen’s affair.

“You’re talking about Leo Whitman, the artist?”

“Yes. He’s Irene’s stepfather, or was. Her mother passed about eight years ago.”

“Were Irene and Mr. Whitman close?”

“No. But they were in each other’s lives. He’s had some health problems and doesn’t have any family of his own. Irene helps him as much as she can. It would be good to tell Leo before it’s on the news.”

“Her name hasn’t been released. How did Irene and Owen meet?”

“They met at a party for Leo. Irene asked Owen to teach a few classes in her arts program.”

“When was that?”

“They met five years ago. Married a year later.”

“Was this their first marriage?”

“It was Owen’s first, Irene’s second,” Luna said.

“Irene had an ex-husband?” Goldman said.

“Yes,” Luna said. “He lives in Boston. I think he’s a financial adviser. Or something with money.”

“Do you know his name?”

“I think his name is Carl. I’m not sure. She always referred to him as her ex.”

“Was their divorce contentious?”

“I don’t think so. He remarried quickly, if I recall. That troubled her some. Made her wonder how invested he was in the first place,” Luna said.

“Let’s get back to yesterday morning,” said Goldman. “Do you recall what Irene was wearing?”

“The same clothes that—”

The image of Irene in her redundantly red windbreaker locked in Luna’s mind. She felt a rush of heat and the pressure of tears fighting to escape. She couldn’t explain why she didn’t want to cry in front of the detective. It certainly would have made her appear less guilty. She then felt ashamed for thinking about how she might look to the detective. But when you’re being questioned by authorities, your primary goal is to stop being questioned.

Goldman saw that she was fighting tears. He bought that her emotions were legitimate. He just wasn’t sure of the root cause.

“You okay?”

“I was the last person to see her alive, wasn’t I?” Luna asked.

“That seems likely,” Goldman said. “Besides her murderer, anyway.”



* * *



—

Owen began to shiver in his hideous sweats. He wrapped his hands around the cold coffee. He took a sip that he knew he’d regret. But he had to do something.

“Did your wife have any enemies?” Burns asked.

“No,” Owen said.

“How about friends?”

“She didn’t need a lot of people. She found them draining.”

“I see,” said Burns.

“There’s something you should know,” Owen said.

“What’s that?”

“I was having an affair. You were going to find out eventually. Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

Burns clicked her pen and poised it over a pad of paper. Owen wondered why the detective bothered to take notes when they were being recorded.

“Now, this woman,” Burns said, “that you’d been sleeping with. Was that Luna Grey, the jogger who came upon the body?”

“What? No. That—no. It’s not like that. Luna and I are old friends. Just friends.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Can you give me the name of the woman you were seeing?”

“She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“I understand. But I’ll still need her name.”