Tips for Living(29)

Detective Roche came around to the back of the car, opened the door, and guarded my skull again. “Careful there, Ms. Glasser.”

Flanked by Roche and our golem-size chauffeur, whose nametag read “Sgt. Klish,” I climbed the marble stairs of the massive precinct as if I already dragged a ball and chain. You are small and helpless and dwarfed by our power, the building said. The lump in my throat felt as big as a walnut. I entered the immense lobby with its floor made of black polished stone and a vaulted ceiling overhead, three stories tall.

Metal detectors and conveyor belts blocked access to a glassed-in front desk. Likely bulletproof. The setup resembled a security gate at an airport, except there were no lines. I was the only passenger on this trip. For a second, I wondered if Massamat’s criminals took Sundays off. But the constant squawk of Klish’s hand radio told me the town’s gangsters were still busy on the Day of Rest.

“I’ll take the phone,” Klish said gruffly. “Outer garments, purse, and shoes go on the belt. Empty your pockets of keys, lipstick. Anything metal. Deposit them in the plastic cup.”

I removed my coat. “The scarf, too?”

He flashed me an icy smile. “I said outer garments.”

Give a former C student some authority and Klish is what you get. I did as he instructed and passed through the metal detector. An Asian officer with a big gray plastic wand met me on the other side of the arch. Pretending he was about to cast a protective spell made me feel less anxious for about a second. He waved the wand over my jeans and black cardigan, and it dawned on me that for weeks I’d been wearing nothing but black: black jeans, black Pilates pants, black T-shirts and black sweaters. Yet another symptom of my dark emotional state.

When the officer finished, he directed me to Sgt. Klish again, who lorded over my belongings at the end of the conveyor belt. I refilled my purse, gathered up my coat and scarf and bent over to put on my black boots, vaguely aware of something fluttering to the floor as Detective Roche’s voice warned from behind.

“Don’t forget this.”

Straightening up, I turned around. Roche held out the cream-colored envelope I’d taken from my kitchen. I nearly snatched Hugh’s letter from his hand, but caught myself.

“Thanks,” I said, casually taking the letter and returning it to my coat pocket.

“The other shoe, Ms. Glasser.”

“Huh?”

“If you’ll put on your other shoe, we’ll get going. We’ve got room six. Best in the house,” he said. As if we were checking in to a five-star hotel.

I slipped the boot on and followed Roche through a reception area—a less intimidating space decorated with local travel posters (“Moon over Massamat Harvest Festival”), potted plants and orange plastic chairs. The chairs were empty except for a Hispanic woman with a cooing infant on her lap. We walked down a long corridor next. No softness or warmth anywhere. Fluorescent lights, beige linoleum floors and bare white walls. Room six was also white. No windows. Just a gray metal table, three gray metal chairs and a gray metal door. A black electronic device sat on the table, likely a tape recorder. The mirrored wall behind the two chairs had a dark tint. One-way glass. My mouth was dry as sandpaper.

“Have a seat here.” Roche indicated the single chair with its back to the door. “Are you thirsty? Can I get you any coffee? Soda? Water?”

My new best friend.

“Coffee would be great, thanks. Black is fine.”

Roche picked up an intercom handset on the wall and asked someone to bring coffee to room six. Then he sat down opposite me. It was so quiet I could hear the nervous gurgling in my stomach. I noticed my hands were tightened into fists and opened them.

“All right then. Let’s get started.”

He flipped the switch on the electronic device and a little red light came on. He leaned forward and then instantly back, probably catching a whiff of my stress breath. After clearing his throat, he said, “Interview with Nora Glasser by Detective Lawrence Roche. November sixteenth. Massamat station. 1:47 p.m.”

Then Roche paused and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a folded copy of the Courier and laid it down on the desk with my recent Tips column faceup. I thought of my caustic remarks about Summer People, and gulped. My complaints about how they clogged exercise classes. Did he know Helene was in my Pilates class?

Roche focused his dark, sly eyes on me.

“Are you Nora Glasser of number three Crooked Farm Lane, Pequod?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve been employed as a writer at the Pequod Courier for the last two and a half years, approximately?”

“Yes.”

“Hugh Walker is your ex-husband, Ms. Glasser. Is that correct?”

I nodded.

“I need a verbal, please.”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you had any contact with him?”

Was Hugh’s letter technically contact? It wouldn’t make me look good.

Can’t you please try and let go of your rage at me? Hasn’t enough time passed?

Unless the mailman read and memorized return addresses, there was no way the police could know the letter existed. I’d take that chance.

“Just about three years ago.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“Well, I saw him. A number of times.”