Who is Maud Dixon?(68)

“No.”

“No?” He raised his eyebrows. His face was hard and bony, the pale, freckled skin stretched taut across it. There was hardly enough skin on his forehead to fold into wrinkles. It was not a face that would express mercy easily, she thought.

“No.”

Massey nodded his head. “According to Leslie Blackford of Jackson, Mississippi, the two of you had a conversation about Jeanette Byrd earlier this year.” He flipped through some papers on his lap. “On March first, to be precise. Does that ring a bell?”

Florence shook her head. She had no idea who Leslie Blackford was.

“You are also listed as the emergency contact on Jeanette Byrd’s release paperwork. Pretty odd to list someone you don’t know, isn’t it?”

“Release from what?”

“Ms. Byrd was granted parole from the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility on February twenty-fourth of this year.”

Amina chose that moment to carry in a tray with three cups of steaming tea on it. As if by agreement, nobody said anything while she placed them carefully down on the table one by one. The last one clattered lightly and she left the room with small, quick steps.

Massey continued: “Leslie Blackford is Ms. Byrd’s parole officer. Ms. Byrd apparently missed her first meeting with her. A few days later, Ms. Blackford received a phone message from Ms. Byrd from the landline in your house.”

Florence had been trying to hold an unperturbed smile on her face since Massey’s arrival, but here it began to falter.

Massey went on. “Ms. Blackford called you the next day. Yet you claimed you hadn’t seen or heard from Ms. Byrd.

“Mississippi issued an arrest warrant for Jeanette Byrd on March twenty-seventh, on the grounds that she had violated her parole agreement. She’d missed three meetings with Ms. Blackford by that point. It says here that Detective Michael Ledowski of the Cairo Police Department then met with you at your home to inquire about Ms. Byrd’s whereabouts. You claimed you hadn’t seen her.” He looked directly at Florence. “But you’re telling me you don’t remember your conversation with Leslie Blackford. And you don’t know Jeanette Byrd. The woman whose body was found decomposing on your property.”

Florence shook her head slowly. “I don’t know what to tell you,” she said. That, at least, was true.

Idrissi leaned forward onto his knees and spoke for the first time since they’d sat down. “It’s strange, this. So much bad luck in such a short period of time.”

Florence said nothing.

“I apologize for my English; is that the right word, Madame Weel-cock? The car accident. This…dead woman at your house. It’s called bad luck?”

Florence paled. “Bad luck, yes,” she whispered.

Idrissi continued staring at her. He obviously suspected her of something, but she could tell that he couldn’t quite put it all together. After all, how does one connect a car accident in Morocco with a dead body thousands of miles away? She certainly couldn’t.

She stared back at Idrissi, trying her best to appear unfazed.

Massey cut the tension. “Alright, listen,” he said, relaxing his posture. “I’m not here to interrogate you. I’m not a police officer. But obviously the police in both Mississippi and New York are very eager to speak with you. I’ve come to urge you to return home as soon as you can. Today, if possible. I can help you make arrangements.”

“Can’t I talk to them over the phone?”

“No, Ms. Wilcox. You need to go back.”

“I need to go back? Am I under arrest?”

“I don’t have the authority to arrest you, Ms. Wilcox. I am simply offering a very strong suggestion.”

“There is no extradition treaty between the United States and this country,” Idrissi interjected. “We are not required to send you back.”

“He’s right,” Massey said. “That said, it is not a good idea to stay. Ms. Wilcox, you are an official suspect in a homicide investigation. If you refuse to return home and cooperate, the United States can and will invalidate your passport. You will not be able to travel outside of Morocco for the rest of your life. If you break any laws here, and from what I hear from my friend”—he gestured at Idrissi—“it sounds like you already have, then the Moroccan police can prosecute you at any time, and the US embassy won’t be able to intervene. And let me assure you, Ms. Wilcox, American prisons are much more comfortable than Moroccan prisons.”

Idrissi smiled. “I’d say Moroccan prisons are more comfortable than the electric chair your country is so fond of,” he said.

Massey rolled his eyes.

“Okay, wait, this is crazy,” said Florence. “I didn’t kill anyone.” As soon as she said it, she realized that wasn’t true. But they weren’t talking about the car crash. “I wasn’t even living in Cairo in February, or whenever you say this happened.”

Massey said, “According to your tax returns, you purchased the property at 174 Crestbill Road two years ago, and you’ve listed it as your primary residence ever since.”

Florence stood up and walked to the window. It had started drizzling again.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was all slipping away from her. Of course this was how it would happen. Everything had been handed to her, everything she’d ever wanted, and now it was getting yanked away. A joke. The universe’s proffered handshake pulled back at the last minute.