I pause, my hand on the gearshift. “They haven’t said that yet, but probably. You know, husbands are always suspects in the beginning.” Especially husbands with $6 million life insurance policies. “Which is another reason why you should go. Just in case they’re watching.”
They aren’t watching, but I need to hurry, and he’s slow in opening the door, one expensive shoe testing the pavement before the other, and he gives me a final, plaintive look before he ducks out into the sunlight.
“Call me if you think of anything,” I remind him.
He gives me a mock salute and he’s irritated, but I don’t care. God, he’s worse than Lillian with the drama. That’s one thing I won’t miss, his competition with her. One romantic dinner with her had to be topped with a more expensive one with him. One weekend away countered by two. Sam had started to get bolder and bolder, and we were unbelievably lucky that she had never caught on.
I reverse out of the parking spot and am pulling onto Santa Monica Boulevard before he is back in his SUV. I head straight for the station, but can’t get past the last things that Sam said.
I know that I didn’t kill Lillian, but I also expected an investigation, so I’ve both accepted and dismissed the police’s questioning as routine.Lillian was a fragile person, one who had suffered from depression and overindulgence for most of our marriage, so the idea that she had overdosed is plausible, and one that I briefly grieved—in my own way—and then accepted. But if she was murdered, there is a chance that the killer has the liquor bottle, and the key to Colorado.
I check my reflection at a stoplight and fix the collar of my shirt, then smooth down my hair. Lillian used to always lick her fingers and then twist my hair into place, a disgusting habit that I suddenly miss. I try to do it myself, on a wild hair that is curling across my forehead, but it doesn’t behave.
Gersh did ask, in the moment just before we ended our call, whether Jacob could come with me. He has yet to be questioned, and while I don’t like the idea of it, there doesn’t seem to be any way to avoid it. I assured Gersh that I would bring him in tomorrow, which gives me some time to address the more pressing issues with Colorado. Legally, Jacob can’t be questioned without me there, though I’m not worried about what my son will or won’t say. An innocent man has no secrets—and while I’m laughably far from innocent, in the area of my wife’s suicide or potential murder, I’m a saint.
I stop at the light at Crescent and try to tick through the next item on my to-do list—the funeral. Sam mentioned picking out an outfit for her to wear, and while he thinks that he knows Lillian’s style best, I already know what I want her to wear. It’s a powder-blue dress, with straps that tie on the tops of her shoulders and with a knee-length skirt that flares out when she turns. I bought it for her two years ago, when we were in San Francisco for the weekend, and she had spilled spaghetti sauce on her blouse an hour before an Andrea Bocelli concert that we had third-row tickets for. She’d gotten the tickets through work, and was supposed to write a review of the show. The dress was expensive and unnecessary—we could have spot cleaned the spaghetti stain—but it had been a long time since I’d bought a gift for her, and the look on her face was almost heartbreaking. She was so excited and preened overthe white bag and tissue-paper-wrapped dress as if they were something huge, and not a last-minute purchase from the women’s shop in the hotel lobby.
I glance in the rearview mirror and catch myself smiling at the memory. I quickly school my mouth back into a flat line that is more appropriate for a man in mourning, and put on my turn signal for the police station. The last thing I need is for Gersh to see video footage of a Cheshire cat grin as I pull into the parking lot, even if it is from a loving memory of my wife.
I take a spot along the street and call Jacob before I go inside. His cell is off, and my irritation builds. I leave him a terse voice mail and then put my cell on vibrate and step out of the car, making sure that every element of Grieving Husband is properly in place before I shuffle toward the front door of the building.
CHAPTER 61
MIKE
“I don’t understand.” I look at Detective Gersh’s computer screen, which displays a map of Los Angeles, covered by colored dots. “What is this?”
“It’s everywhere Lillian’s phone has pinged in the last forty-eight hours.” The detective taps a few dots. “Each dot is a satellite-tower connection. These aren’t her exact locations, but general areas. Underneath each is the day and time of the ping.”
I look over the dots and try to understand what I’m seeing. Half of the dots are green, some are yellow, and some are red. A legend at the bottom tells me that green is for alive, yellow is for possible time of death, and red is postdeath. “Some of these movements are after she died.”
“Yep.” He nods like I have won a prize. “We’re thinking that it was in a taxi or some other vehicle. Whoever has it, they took it all around the city, and it stopped connecting with towers this morning. We’re assuming the battery has died.”
“So you don’t know where she went on the day she died?” I fumble with the top button of my shirt and undo it, needing some air. Don’t they normally offer you a drink? Water?
“Well, this gives us a starting point, and we’re working on putting together more precise movements now.” He smiles at me as if he will figure out my evil plan—just give him a little more time.
“Okay. So she was in our house that morning, made the phone calls that afternoon, and died sometime that evening?” I tried to remember if the coroner had given a time of death. “And you guys havenoidea where she went during that block of time, or where she died? Was it definitely on the beach?” I wipe my palms on the thighs of my pants, annoyed that he is feeding me information in crumb-size bites.
He stops smiling, and maybe I was a bit harsh with my tone. “As I said, we’re putting together more precise movements.”
“But you can’t share them with me? Don’t I have the right to know where my wife was?” I press. “I don’t understand. Is this some big secret?”
“We’ll share information when we can. For now, we need to clear your own movements on that day.”
“Fine, sure. Of course.” My right foot begins to nervously tap, and I dig the heel of it into the tile.
“You had asked me about the contents of her purse.” Gersh pulls a fresh piece of paper out. “I have the listed inventory of the bag, if you want to review it and see if anything seems to be missing.”
“Any luck finding the liquor?” I sound too eager. I frown and pinch my forehead together. There. Concerned Husband in place.
“No. I double-checked it to be sure.” He slides the list of purse contents toward me. “What’s the importance of the liquor?”
“It was a unique bottle that is missing. I don’t care about the cost, but it seemed worth noting.” I scan the list a few times. All useless shit.
He flips over a page and stares down at some writing. I’m dying to look at it. “Okay ...,” he says slowly. “As you can see, there was a bottle of pills in her purse. Do you know what your wife was prescribed, Mr.Smith?”
Five years ago, I would have rattled off brand names and dosages with perfect accuracy. I made sure she ate a good breakfast every day and had her medications by eight thirty, and I was in bed with her each night, a cup of water and evening pill caddy in hand. She acted like she didn’t like it, but Lillian always craved the attention, even if it was forthe wrong things. At what point had I stopped monitoring her medication? It hadn’t been an overnight thing. It had been one missed day, then two, then a bigger account that had taken me away for a week, and then Lillian had moved down a rung, then another, on my list.