how this happened?”
Her eyes were wide open, the same startling blue as always, even though there were jagged red streaks all converging on the irises. She was struggling to understand, as though Halsey were speaking an unknown language. “What do you mean?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her own voice so unlike the confident, clear resonance it usually had.
“What do I mean? Your husband is dead, Mrs. Richardson. Do you know anything about how that happened?”
Now she understood. She quickly shook her head, the universal signal for no, no, no .
“Has anyone threatened him?”
“No, never.”
“Who has access to this house? Who can get in?”
“Many people. Brad makes friends with everyone. This is like an open house.”
“Can you think of anything that’s valuable that anyone might have wanted to take from the house?”
She waved her right arm, a gesture that meant Everything, everything is valuable .
“Think about money,” Halsey said. “Money was taken from his pockets. They’re ripped open, some change was spilled over the floor, with one or two dollar bills. All the drawers in his desk were ransacked. All the furniture in the room is broken because whoever did this thought there was cash.”
Suddenly she became alert and tense. “Brad always kept cash in one of the closets upstairs.”
“How much?”
She said, “A great deal.”
Brad was heedless with cash. Even though he was neat about everything else, he dropped crumpled cash on tables, countertops, shelves, just as many men have places where at the end of every day they drop change, keys, cufflinks, dollar bills—the dumping ground of objects they carry in their pockets.
“How much?”
She said, “He might have had two or three hundred thousand dollars in cash upstairs.”
Even Bo Halsey, with more than twenty years of experience as a homicide detective, was taken aback. He was uncertain that he’d heard correctly.
“Two or three hundred dollars?”
“No, no,” Joan Richardson answered. “Hundred thousand. Two or three hundred thousand dollars.”
Halsey glanced over Joan’s right shoulder into Brad’s office, where at least eight people were videotaping, taking pictures, or placing objects into transparent bags with tags tied to them. “Cerullo,” Halsey called out, loudly.
Joan watched as Dick Cerullo, a tall, awkward man in an inexpensive sport jacket and a red-and-blue striped tie, approached Halsey. Whispering to each other, they walked away from her.During these seconds while she was utterly isolated, she felt terror, wildly imagining that the killer might still be in her house, waiting for her. From a distance, she watched Halsey, appearing almost bored, point at another man standing in Brad’s office. Shorter than Cerullo by a head, the other man joined Halsey and Cerullo. He wore the same style of ill-fitting sport jacket as Cerullo, but at least two sizes smaller. As if in a huddle, the three men whispered, even giving hand signals.
Halsey finally turned to her. “Mrs. Richardson,” he said, “these are Detectives Dick Cerullo and Dave Cohen. They’re veteran homicide detectives. They worked with me for years on the NYPD before coming out here. They’re going to help me find the man who did this.”
Joan’s moment of isolation and terror lifted. She stared at Halsey and the other men, thinking that together they looked like the Three Stooges and had as much chance of finding the man who had killed her husband as Moe, Larry, and Curly. They were not confidence-inspiring. “I hope so,” she said quietly.
“Where is that cash?”
“He kept it in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.” She gestured to the staircase on which she had walked thousands of times over the last eight years and on which, she now thought, Brad would never walk again. “Just to the right.”
Cerullo and Cohen had never seen such an opulent bedroom. They were both basketball fans. “My fucking word,” Cerullo
Her eyes were wide open, the same startling blue as always, even though there were jagged red streaks all converging on the irises. She was struggling to understand, as though Halsey were speaking an unknown language. “What do you mean?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her own voice so unlike the confident, clear resonance it usually had.
“What do I mean? Your husband is dead, Mrs. Richardson. Do you know anything about how that happened?”
Now she understood. She quickly shook her head, the universal signal for no, no, no .
“Has anyone threatened him?”
“No, never.”
“Who has access to this house? Who can get in?”
“Many people. Brad makes friends with everyone. This is like an open house.”
“Can you think of anything that’s valuable that anyone might have wanted to take from the house?”
She waved her right arm, a gesture that meant Everything, everything is valuable .
“Think about money,” Halsey said. “Money was taken from his pockets. They’re ripped open, some change was spilled over the floor, with one or two dollar bills. All the drawers in his desk were ransacked. All the furniture in the room is broken because whoever did this thought there was cash.”
Suddenly she became alert and tense. “Brad always kept cash in one of the closets upstairs.”
“How much?”
She said, “A great deal.”
Brad was heedless with cash. Even though he was neat about everything else, he dropped crumpled cash on tables, countertops, shelves, just as many men have places where at the end of every day they drop change, keys, cufflinks, dollar bills—the dumping ground of objects they carry in their pockets.
“How much?”
She said, “He might have had two or three hundred thousand dollars in cash upstairs.”
Even Bo Halsey, with more than twenty years of experience as a homicide detective, was taken aback. He was uncertain that he’d heard correctly.
“Two or three hundred dollars?”
“No, no,” Joan Richardson answered. “Hundred thousand. Two or three hundred thousand dollars.”
Halsey glanced over Joan’s right shoulder into Brad’s office, where at least eight people were videotaping, taking pictures, or placing objects into transparent bags with tags tied to them. “Cerullo,” Halsey called out, loudly.
Joan watched as Dick Cerullo, a tall, awkward man in an inexpensive sport jacket and a red-and-blue striped tie, approached Halsey. Whispering to each other, they walked away from her.During these seconds while she was utterly isolated, she felt terror, wildly imagining that the killer might still be in her house, waiting for her. From a distance, she watched Halsey, appearing almost bored, point at another man standing in Brad’s office. Shorter than Cerullo by a head, the other man joined Halsey and Cerullo. He wore the same style of ill-fitting sport jacket as Cerullo, but at least two sizes smaller. As if in a huddle, the three men whispered, even giving hand signals.
Halsey finally turned to her. “Mrs. Richardson,” he said, “these are Detectives Dick Cerullo and Dave Cohen. They’re veteran homicide detectives. They worked with me for years on the NYPD before coming out here. They’re going to help me find the man who did this.”
Joan’s moment of isolation and terror lifted. She stared at Halsey and the other men, thinking that together they looked like the Three Stooges and had as much chance of finding the man who had killed her husband as Moe, Larry, and Curly. They were not confidence-inspiring. “I hope so,” she said quietly.
“Where is that cash?”
“He kept it in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.” She gestured to the staircase on which she had walked thousands of times over the last eight years and on which, she now thought, Brad would never walk again. “Just to the right.”
Cerullo and Cohen had never seen such an opulent bedroom. They were both basketball fans. “My fucking word,” Cerullo
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