The Accomplice(29)

“Yeah. Thanks,” said Owen, cracking the lid.

The purging, followed by the sweet carbonation, made Owen feel almost human again. Goldman put the trash can in the hallway.

“When was the last time you and your wife had sex?”

Owen, briefly, considered the question. Then he became distracted by the idea of his vomit sitting in a police-station hallway.

“A week? No. I don’t—maybe two, I think,” Owen said.

“Two weeks? Are you sure it wasn’t more recent?”

“No. It was definitely more than a week. Why are you asking?” Owen said.

Owen was getting annoyed. The question felt invasive, like it had been asked just to fuck with him.

“Standard question,” Goldman said.



* * *



—

When Goldman was finished with Mann, he found his partner at her desk, cross-checking calls from the past three months on Irene’s cellphone.

“Got anything?” Goldman asked.

“Ms. Boucher was overpaying for her phone plan, that’s for sure. There are about four numbers in regular circulation. But compared to your average middle-aged woman—no, compared to any phone I’ve ever looked at—the call history is remarkably light. There is something, though,” Margot said, drawing a page from the stack of phone bills and pointing to a highlighted number.

“Irene called this 215 number thirty times in the last three months. It’s to a prepaid phone. And she’s had more communication with that number than her husband’s. And no texts. Weird, right?”

“I take it you tried the number?” Goldman said.

“Straight to an automated voicemail,” Burns said.

Goldman examined the call list before and after Irene’s murder. The number in question phoned Irene twelve hours after she passed. But there was no call in the twenty-four hours preceding her death.

Reading his mind, Burns said, “There’s no unusual call pattern with the mystery number around the murder. You get anything new from Mann?”

“Yes,” said Goldman. “Didn’t the ME tell you he found seminal fluid?”

Margot nodded. “He did.”

“Wasn’t the husband’s,” Goldman said.





December 2003


The next morning, Luna smelled coffee brewing and heard what sounded like idle chatter in the kitchen, but she wasn’t sure who was making the chatter. She opened the French doors and stepped outside, feeling a blast of cold air off the shimmering lake. The rusty rowboat was tied to the dock. She would have done just about anything for a cup of coffee—other than venture into the kitchen to be caught alone with Vera and Tom.

Luna heard leaves rustling in the woods and spotted Griff running back to the house. He waved and slowed down, approaching. She thought about running back inside to spare them the discomfort of talking about last night. But that would look weird. She made a split-second decision to pretend nothing had happened.

“Hey,” Griff said, catching his breath.

“Hey,” Luna said. That single syllable sounded less casual than she’d planned.

“You okay?” Griff said.

“Yeah. You okay?” she said.

Griff stood in front of her and tilted his head to the side, like a confused child. “So, that’s how you want to play it?”

“I don’t know,” Luna said. “What would you prefer?”

“I don’t like pretending,” he said. “It’s a version of lying.”

“Right,” said Luna.

“Do you have any questions?” Griff said.

“Does that kind of thing happen often?” said Luna.

“It does.”

“Owen never mentioned it before.”

“He grew up with it. Thinks it’s part of a normal or passionate relationship. Or something like that.”

“Huh. You don’t think that.”

“No, but I didn’t have an older brother around to distract me. What are you doing outside? It’s cold.”

“I didn’t know where to go,” Luna said.

“You were afraid to go into the kitchen alone?”

Luna nodded.

“It’s safe now. I’ll meet you in there.”



* * *



—

By the time Luna entered the kitchen, the whole family had gathered. Vera was making waffles while Tom whipped up a batch of scrambled eggs. Owen sat at the table, sipping a latte and reading the paper. Griff, finding only dregs in the coffee maker, admonished his brother and then cleaned out the carafe to start a fresh pot.

“I hope you like waffles,” Vera said.

“Or eggs,” said Tom.

“I like both,” said Luna.

“Did you sleep all right?” Vera asked.

“Yes,” Luna lied. “Very well, thank you.”

“You slept late,” Owen said.

“The room was comfortable and quiet,” Luna said, without mentioning the hour she’d spent hiding out, fully awake.

“What are we doing today?” Vera asked Owen and Luna.

“I don’t know,” Owen said.

“Scarlet’s coming today, right?” Vera asked.