The Accomplice(28)

“Uh, I already talked to your partner.”

“We have a few more questions. Do you mind?” Goldman asked.

Owen wasn’t sure how to proceed. His phone was buzzing in his pocket, but he could hardly tell the detective that he was heading out to see his mistress.

“Also,” Detective Goldman said, “I have a warrant for any phones or computers in your residence.”



* * *



—

Owen’s head throbbed under the heavy fluorescent lights, and his mouth still carried the cloying taste of metabolized whiskey. He was sweating from his hangover, but the sweat made him appear edgy, and he worried that Goldman would interpret his discomfort as guilt.

He was afraid he was going to vomit, and he worried about how that might look. And then he was angry that he cared. His wife was dead. If she’d died of natural causes, he could behave in any manner whatsoever.

“When can I have her back?” Owen said.

“Pardon?”

“My wife’s body. I have to have a funeral. Wait, can you have a funeral without a body?”

“You can, but the body helps,” Goldman said, regretting the phrasing. “Did you know what she wanted? Burial or cremation?”

“Definitely not cremation,” Owen said.

Then he realized it was Luna who couldn’t get past the part where your body is put in a fifteen-hundred-degree oven. Logically, she understood that she would no longer be a sentient being, but the idea just got to her.

“Actually, I don’t know,” Owen said. “Maybe it’s in her will somewhere. When can I—when will she…”

“The coroner isn’t done with the autopsy. Give it a few days. By the weekend maybe.”

Owen nodded, already overwhelmed by the prospect of making arrangements. This was the sort of thing Irene would have done. The longer they were married, the less capable he became with administrative tasks.

“If you don’t mind, I need to go over your timeline once again,” said Goldman.

“It’s the same as what I told your partner. And it was recorded, right?” Owen said.

Owen didn’t want to tell the cops two different stories, but he wasn’t sure that his current memory would jibe with his first interview.

“Yes,” Goldman said. “But we have a confirmed time of death now, so I need to go over it again.”

“Oh,” Owen said. “When did she die?”

“Monday morning. She stopped by Luna’s before she went for a run.”

“Right,” Owen said.

“Luna was the last person to see her alive and the first person to see her dead,” Goldman said.

“Aside from the killer,” Owen said.

Goldman was hoping to get a reaction out of Owen, but he couldn’t read the guy. All Owen could think about was the drinks he and Luna had shared while his wife’s body was growing cold.

“Something come to mind?” the detective asked.

“Nothing important. I was thinking that the whole time I was texting her, she was already dead.”

Owen heard a familiar buzz and tapped his pocket, thinking it was his phone. Then he remembered that he’d given it to someone in a uniform. Goldman checked his own mobile device and thumbed a quick text. Owen was late to meet Amy. She’d be texting the phone that was in police custody. She’d be angry. Fuck, he thought.

“I told your partner I was seeing someone,” Owen said.

“Yes,” Noah said.

“Um…I was going to meet her this morning…now. And I didn’t text her that I wasn’t coming so, um, she’s going to be calling my phone, which you guys have. She’s waiting for me, and she doesn’t like to be ignored.”

“Does anyone?” Goldman said.

“Guess not,” Owen said.

“I’ll ask my partner to get in touch.”



* * *



—

An hour later, Owen and Goldman had reviewed Owen’s whereabouts for the forty-eight hours bookending Irene’s murder, and Owen couldn’t ignore the fact that he was clearly a suspect. Perhaps their only suspect. He could have stopped the interview anytime. He could have, and probably should have, asked for a lawyer, but he felt an oppressive inertia that inhibited any sensible proactive decisions.

“Okay,” said the detective. “So then you went to your studio at St. Michael’s College. You taught a class, answered emails, painted, did whatever. Then, at five p.m., you met Ms. Grey at the Halfway House and you stayed for a few hours. You were home by eight p.m. In bed by eleven, and your wife was not home. You assumed she was at a motel freezing you out, since she hadn’t replied to any of your calls or texts. You slept through the night, and Ms. Grey came by your place Tuesday morning at approximately eight-thirty with the tragic news.”

Owen felt the heavy-saliva warning a brief few seconds before he doubled over and emptied his guts into the trash bin. Goldman had experienced a sympathetic vomiting reflex once decades ago, and that was enough. He got the hell out of the room. A few minutes later, after Owen’s stomach had quit turning inside out, Goldman returned with a can of Coke in hand.

Owen put the trash bin by the door and sat back down. “Sorry,” he said.

“No problem. Sure you want to go on?” said Goldman, sliding the soda across the table.