The Accomplice(56)

Sam heard someone fumbling with the lock. He assumed it was Luna. He guzzled his liquid courage, searching for the right words. She was really having some trouble with that key. He assumed she was drunk. He checked the time. It was just past two. It was early for Luna to be stumblingly drunk. The dog jumped off the couch and ran down the hall.

Then Sam heard a man’s voice call his name.

“Owen?” Sam said, because what other man would be calling his name?

Sam peered into the hallway and spotted a strange man kneeling in his foyer patting the strange dog.

“Who the fuck are you?” Sam said.

Griff startled and rolled onto his backside. Sam the dog wagged his tail, thinking that Griff wanted to play. He jumped on top of his owner and licked Griff’s face.

“Shit. Sorry. I thought the house was empty,” Griff said.

“Doesn’t answer my question,” Sam said.

Griff was surprised that Luna had married a man like that. Granted, their first introduction wasn’t under the best of circumstances, but Griff’s first read was that he was a hard motherfucker.

Recovering from his surprise and quickly getting to his feet, Griff said, “So sorry. I drove Luna to the police station, and she told me to leave the keys in the house.”

“Again. Who are you?”

“Right. I’m Griff, Owen’s brother. Here for the…wake?”

Griff read Sam’s expression. He sensed something, an internal calculation.

“You’re Griff,” Sam said.

“Yep,” Griff said. “Would you like to see some ID?”

“No,” said Sam, who wasn’t just looking at Griff, he was studying him.

Griff dropped the car keys on the kitchen island and started to back away, like you would with a wild animal. “Sam, right?” said Griff.

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you,” Griff said. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

“Huh,” said Sam. “It’s good to finally put a face to the name.”

It seemed odd in light of Griff and Owen’s relationship and Griff and Luna’s non-relationship that Luna’s husband would have heard much, or anything, about him. But Griff wanted to leave, so he didn’t ask for clarification.

“Well, thanks,” Griff said.

“For what?” Sam said.

Griff shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head, exhausted. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding defeated.

“I’m being weird, aren’t I?” Sam said.

Luna had told him on one of their first dates that he had an extremely cold conversational style. She’d likened him to HAL from 2001. Sam had been amused by the comparison, or by Luna’s bluntness. He would be less amused now if he knew how often Luna and Owen mocked his affectless tone.

“A little,” Griff answered. “No judgment. A strange man just broke into your home.”

Sam nodded, agreeing. “She told me about you once,” said Sam.

“Good things?” Griff said.

Sam’s eyes squinted in confusion, then amusement. “You broke her fucking heart, man. No. Not that good.”

Griff had backed all the way to the front door. His phone rang in his pocket, visibly startling him. “I gotta go,” Griff said.

“Don’t forget the dog,” Sam said.



* * *



—

Sam was fairly drunk when Luna returned from her third police interview. He showed no obvious signs of inebriation. A layman would never know. But Luna recognized the way his face relaxed, the jaw muscle resting, the molars taking a break from their constant grind.

“Hey. You’re back,” Luna said to her husband.

Luna was unsettled to find Sam home. Even though logic told her that he didn’t kill Irene, his freshly won person-of-interest status, and her participation in it, made their reunion profoundly uncomfortable. Luna had made the bland statement because she had to fill the air, but she knew it was the kind of thing that got under his skin. Sam didn’t believe in using words to state the obvious, or fill up silence, or attempt to ease discomfort.

“Your powers of observation are impeccable,” Sam said.

Luna decided to give Sam the efficient conversation he craved. “Mason found your phone. Your secret phone, I mean.”

Sam remained silent as he considered every possible response.

“Detective Goldman was trying to figure out whose number it was. He called. I answered.”

“You gave him the phone, I take it,” Sam said.

“Yes. I also gave him your toothbrush so they could test your DNA.”

“They could have gotten that from the phone,” Sam said.

“Good to know,” said Luna. “So, you and Irene?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Luna.”

Grief over Irene’s death undercut emotions that would otherwise have been in the conversation. Luna and Sam both felt as if they were going through the motions of talking about infidelity. Still, they went through them.

Luna opened the refrigerator and retrieved another beer. “For how long?” Luna asked, uncapping the pilsner.

“About a year.”

Sam paced around the couch, noting a few dog hairs trapped on a throw rug. Neither Sam nor Luna made eye contact during their entire conversation. As usual, they spoke concisely, using as few words as possible.