her?”
“Clea’s name was Hansen.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cleared my dry throat and tried again. “Clea’s name was Hansen? I didn’t know that. I didn’t know her.”
Wiznewski started tapping a finger against the vinyl back of the seat. It would drive me crazy if he kept it up. I wanted to take his hand and still it, the way Barbara does with Jimmy’s leg whenever he starts jiggling it. I didn’t think touching Wiznewski would go over big. More likely to get me arrested.
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Kohler, because she knew you.”
I wished he wouldn’t call me Mr. Kohler.
“We have evidence, Mr. Kohler.”
“You think I had some kind of a relationship with her? I swear I didn’t.”
“I didn’t say you did. However, we have evidence that you had a brief encounter, shall we say a romantic encounter, with Ms. Hansen at some time in the past.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I blurted. Oh, God, I was in the soup for sure.
“It will interest you to know that we found Ms. Hansen’s notebooks in her room on the premises. She made an entry the night before she died. The whole group ate together that evening. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Sullenness on my part would make him even less sympathetic and more suspicious. I sat up straighter and spoke louder. “Yes, sir, we did. I didn’t even speak to her. I mean, pass the butter, that kind of thing. We didn’t have a conversation.”
“Maybe not. However, I would like very much to hear you explain why she wrote—” He whipped a smartphone out of his pocket, thumbed it a few times, and read from the screen, “‘Blast from the past— an old familiar face at dinner tonight. Bruce has changed. I wonder how much. It would be fun to find out. A woman scorned never forgets. I’ll have to think up a way to embarrass him’.”
I could feel my cheeks and the back of my neck heat up, hotter than when I’d been out in the broiling sun chipping away at that damn boat. My face had to be brick red.
“Jesus Christ!” I burst out. “I was only fifteen years old!”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” He had a great poker face. I couldn’t tell if he expected to believe me.
I stumbled through the story. If Clea had yearned to embarrass me, she’d succeeded from beyond the grave. Wiznewski listened in silence. At least he didn’t smile. I hoped the stupid, inexperienced kid I’d been wouldn’t become a joke that made the rounds to every cop in the Hamptons. I wouldn’t be able to look so much as a meter maid in the eye.
“This information would have come a lot better from you at the first interview,” Wiznewski said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t recognize her! She had short hair when she was a kid. I didn’t realize it was her until we were cleaning up after, uh, cleaning up her room and found a picture. Then I remembered her green eyes, and the whole thing came back to me.”
“She’d changed her hair.” Wiznewski repeated my words, hefting them in some mental balance. “She hadn’t changed her name, though.”
“I didn’t know her name.” I couldn’t afford to get angry. But I couldn’t help leaking exasperation. “It was part of the deal I turned down.”
“What a pity.” I suspected mockery, but the deadpan face was still in place. He must be thinking how he wouldn’t have said no to a blow job when he was fifteen. He must think he would have been in heaven. “Did you tell anyone about this incident at the time?”
“When I was fifteen? You’re going to track down someone I knew that long ago?” Maybe out here in the boonies— and the Hamptons were the boonies as far as the locals were concerned, all the chic was part-time or imported— you knew where all your teenage friends were thirty years later. But I was a Manhattan boy to the bone. I still had the apartment, but the neighborhood had changed beyond recognition. I had jumped up a class, too, by going to college. Mentioning
“Clea’s name was Hansen.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cleared my dry throat and tried again. “Clea’s name was Hansen? I didn’t know that. I didn’t know her.”
Wiznewski started tapping a finger against the vinyl back of the seat. It would drive me crazy if he kept it up. I wanted to take his hand and still it, the way Barbara does with Jimmy’s leg whenever he starts jiggling it. I didn’t think touching Wiznewski would go over big. More likely to get me arrested.
“That’s very interesting, Mr. Kohler, because she knew you.”
I wished he wouldn’t call me Mr. Kohler.
“We have evidence, Mr. Kohler.”
“You think I had some kind of a relationship with her? I swear I didn’t.”
“I didn’t say you did. However, we have evidence that you had a brief encounter, shall we say a romantic encounter, with Ms. Hansen at some time in the past.”
“How could you possibly know that?” I blurted. Oh, God, I was in the soup for sure.
“It will interest you to know that we found Ms. Hansen’s notebooks in her room on the premises. She made an entry the night before she died. The whole group ate together that evening. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Sullenness on my part would make him even less sympathetic and more suspicious. I sat up straighter and spoke louder. “Yes, sir, we did. I didn’t even speak to her. I mean, pass the butter, that kind of thing. We didn’t have a conversation.”
“Maybe not. However, I would like very much to hear you explain why she wrote—” He whipped a smartphone out of his pocket, thumbed it a few times, and read from the screen, “‘Blast from the past— an old familiar face at dinner tonight. Bruce has changed. I wonder how much. It would be fun to find out. A woman scorned never forgets. I’ll have to think up a way to embarrass him’.”
I could feel my cheeks and the back of my neck heat up, hotter than when I’d been out in the broiling sun chipping away at that damn boat. My face had to be brick red.
“Jesus Christ!” I burst out. “I was only fifteen years old!”
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” He had a great poker face. I couldn’t tell if he expected to believe me.
I stumbled through the story. If Clea had yearned to embarrass me, she’d succeeded from beyond the grave. Wiznewski listened in silence. At least he didn’t smile. I hoped the stupid, inexperienced kid I’d been wouldn’t become a joke that made the rounds to every cop in the Hamptons. I wouldn’t be able to look so much as a meter maid in the eye.
“This information would have come a lot better from you at the first interview,” Wiznewski said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t recognize her! She had short hair when she was a kid. I didn’t realize it was her until we were cleaning up after, uh, cleaning up her room and found a picture. Then I remembered her green eyes, and the whole thing came back to me.”
“She’d changed her hair.” Wiznewski repeated my words, hefting them in some mental balance. “She hadn’t changed her name, though.”
“I didn’t know her name.” I couldn’t afford to get angry. But I couldn’t help leaking exasperation. “It was part of the deal I turned down.”
“What a pity.” I suspected mockery, but the deadpan face was still in place. He must be thinking how he wouldn’t have said no to a blow job when he was fifteen. He must think he would have been in heaven. “Did you tell anyone about this incident at the time?”
“When I was fifteen? You’re going to track down someone I knew that long ago?” Maybe out here in the boonies— and the Hamptons were the boonies as far as the locals were concerned, all the chic was part-time or imported— you knew where all your teenage friends were thirty years later. But I was a Manhattan boy to the bone. I still had the apartment, but the neighborhood had changed beyond recognition. I had jumped up a class, too, by going to college. Mentioning
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