Still Life by Joy Fielding Page B

she’d ever earn.
    “By the way, will you marry me?” he asked in the next breath.
    “What?”
    “Sorry. That’s the man in a hurry talking. We can start with dinner, if you’d prefer.”
    “What?” Casey said again.
    “I don’t believe it,” Janine had wailed when she returned to the office half an hour later. “I get a broken tooth; you get a date.”
    She got more than that, Casey was thinking now. She got her knight in shining armor, her Prince Charming, the man of her dreams. Ten months later, she and Warren were married.
    The door to her hospital room suddenly swung open.
    “I found him,” Patsy announced, an irritating chirp to her voice.
    “Mr. Marshall,” a male voice said. “I’m Detective Spinetti, with the Philadelphia police department.”
    “Have you found the person responsible for my wife’s accident?” Warren asked immediately.
    “No,” the detective answered quickly. “But there is something we need to discuss.”
    “Thank you, Patsy,” Warren said, dismissing the nurse’s aide.
    “Just ring if you need anything.”
    The door closed behind her.
    Casey didn’t know why, but she was certain that had she not been connected to a respirator, she would be holding her breath.

FIVE
    “H ow is your wife doing?” the detective asked.
    “About the same,” Warren answered. “You have some news regarding her accident?”
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    “What sort of questions?”
    “Do you know what your wife was doing in South Philly the day of the accident, Mr. Marshall?” Detective Spinetti asked immediately.
    “What was she doing in South Philly?” Warren repeated, as if trying to make sense of the question. “She was meeting friends for lunch. Why?”
    “Do you recall the name of the restaurant?”
    Why do you want to know that?
    “I think it was Southwark, over on South Street. How is this relevant?”
    “If you’d just bear with me for a few minutes.”
    There was a slight pause. Casey pictured Warren giving the officer his silent assent.
    “You said she was meeting friends for lunch,” the detective continued. “Do you know who those friends were?”
    “Of course I do.”
    “Can I have their names?”
    “Janine Pegabo and Gail MacDonald.”
    “That’s P-e-g …”
    “… a-b-o,” Warren finished quickly, as Casey listened to the scribbling of a pen. “MacDonald, spelled M-a-c,” he added, without further prompting. “They’re her best friends. Again, I have to ask, how is this relevant to my wife’s accident?”
    A longer pause. Then, “Actually, we’re no longer convinced it was an accident.”
    What?
    “What?”
    What do you mean?
    “What are you saying?”
    “We have reason to believe that your wife might have been deliberately targeted.”
    I don’t understand.
    “What reason?”
    “In reviewing the garage’s surveillance tapes again—”
    Surveillance tapes? There were surveillance tapes?
    “Were you able to get a better look at the driver’s face?” Warren interrupted. “Was it someone you recognize?”
    “No, I’m afraid not. The driver wore a hoodie and dark glasses, and kept his head down. Combined with the poor quality of the tape, there was no way to make any kind of positive identification.”
    “Then I don’t understand. What makes you think someone would have deliberately targeted my wife?” Warren’s voice cracked, and he coughed to mask the sound.
    Someone deliberately ran me down?
    “Maybe you should sit down, Mr. Marshall,” Detective Spinetti said. “You’re looking a little pale.”
    “I don’t want to sit down. I want to know why you no longer think this was an accident.”
    “Please, Mr. Marshall. I understand this is upsetting …”
    “You’re telling me somebody tried to murder my wife, for God’s sake. Of course I’m upset.”
    Hold on a minute. You’re saying someone tried to murder me? Is that what you’re saying?
    “If you’ll let me explain,” the