want to implicate Zack Bowen in Chris’s murder.
“I read about Chris in the paper,” I said, truthfully. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
A pause. “No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know. Sorry, the police were just here. I’ve been answering their questions all morning and I’m not thinking very clearly.”
Hesitantly, I asked, “Do they have any suspects?”
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t much help to them. Henry, you talked to Chris sometimes. Do you have any idea of who…” her voice trailed off. “The last time you saw him, did he say anything to you?”
“No,” I said. “I had coffee with him a couple of weeks ago. He seemed fine.”
“He wasn’t worried about anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell,” I replied. “Was something wrong?”
“That’s what the police asked me,” she said. “I couldn’t think of anything.”
“Nothing at all?” I asked, thinking if, in fact, Chris had left her for Zack Bowen, and they’d quarreled, there would’ve been plenty of things wrong.
“Nothing,” she said, in a whisper. “I’m very tired, Henry. Will you excuse me? Can we talk later?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, is that all right?”
“Yes, please,” she said. “Good-bye.”
I put the phone down and compared the two conversations I’d had, with Zack and Bay. They didn’t mesh. One of them was lying.
7
W HEN I PULLED INTO my driveway a half hour later, I noticed a woman sitting in a car across the street. She got out of her car at the same time I did and approached me. She was an almond-eyed African-American, her skin the color of cinnamon. She wore a khaki skirt and a black blazer over a plain white blouse. She radiated cool authority. A cop.
“Mr. Rios?” she said, smiling at me. “I’m Detective McBeth from Homicide. I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment?”
“Do you have some identification?”
Her smile narrowed as she reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew a wallet, which she opened to a badge and an identification card. I pretended to study it. Her name was Yolanda McBeth.
“All right?” she asked me, closing the wallet.
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Judge Chandler.”
Captain Closet having his revenge, I thought bitterly. He must have revealed that I’d reported the murder. I decided, on principle, to be uncooperative.
“What about him?”
“He was found murdered this morning in his courtroom,” she said.
Warily, suspecting a trap, I nodded. “I know, I read about it in the Times,” I said. “It’s unbelievable.”
I waited for her to say something about my call to Captain Closet, but she merely nodded agreement. “Nowhere seems to be safe anymore.”
“I don’t know why you want to talk to me about it,” I said, truthfully, surprised she’d passed up a chance to catch me in a half-truth about my knowledge of Chris’s murder.
“You represented Judge Chandler in a lewd conduct case up in San Francisco about fifteen years ago,” she said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about it.”
I tried not to reveal my astonishment at the turn in the conversation, but said, as blandly as I could, “Why don’t you come inside, Detective?”
I left her in the living room while I went into the kitchen to make coffee, a pretext to give me a moment to think. It appeared she didn’t know I’d called Captain Closet to report Chris’s murder. On the other hand, she knew about Chris’s arrest, something I was certain he’d never revealed to anyone and as to which there was only the sketchiest of records buried deep in the bowels of the criminal justice system. I’d seen to that. Whoever this woman was, she was formidable.
When I went back into the living room with the coffee, she was standing at the fireplace, examining a black-and-white photograph of me and Josh, his arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist.
“Nice picture,” she said,
“I read about Chris in the paper,” I said, truthfully. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
A pause. “No,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know. Sorry, the police were just here. I’ve been answering their questions all morning and I’m not thinking very clearly.”
Hesitantly, I asked, “Do they have any suspects?”
“No,” she said. “I wasn’t much help to them. Henry, you talked to Chris sometimes. Do you have any idea of who…” her voice trailed off. “The last time you saw him, did he say anything to you?”
“No,” I said. “I had coffee with him a couple of weeks ago. He seemed fine.”
“He wasn’t worried about anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell,” I replied. “Was something wrong?”
“That’s what the police asked me,” she said. “I couldn’t think of anything.”
“Nothing at all?” I asked, thinking if, in fact, Chris had left her for Zack Bowen, and they’d quarreled, there would’ve been plenty of things wrong.
“Nothing,” she said, in a whisper. “I’m very tired, Henry. Will you excuse me? Can we talk later?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’ll call you tomorrow, is that all right?”
“Yes, please,” she said. “Good-bye.”
I put the phone down and compared the two conversations I’d had, with Zack and Bay. They didn’t mesh. One of them was lying.
7
W HEN I PULLED INTO my driveway a half hour later, I noticed a woman sitting in a car across the street. She got out of her car at the same time I did and approached me. She was an almond-eyed African-American, her skin the color of cinnamon. She wore a khaki skirt and a black blazer over a plain white blouse. She radiated cool authority. A cop.
“Mr. Rios?” she said, smiling at me. “I’m Detective McBeth from Homicide. I wonder if I could speak to you for a moment?”
“Do you have some identification?”
Her smile narrowed as she reached into her skirt pocket and withdrew a wallet, which she opened to a badge and an identification card. I pretended to study it. Her name was Yolanda McBeth.
“All right?” she asked me, closing the wallet.
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Judge Chandler.”
Captain Closet having his revenge, I thought bitterly. He must have revealed that I’d reported the murder. I decided, on principle, to be uncooperative.
“What about him?”
“He was found murdered this morning in his courtroom,” she said.
Warily, suspecting a trap, I nodded. “I know, I read about it in the Times,” I said. “It’s unbelievable.”
I waited for her to say something about my call to Captain Closet, but she merely nodded agreement. “Nowhere seems to be safe anymore.”
“I don’t know why you want to talk to me about it,” I said, truthfully, surprised she’d passed up a chance to catch me in a half-truth about my knowledge of Chris’s murder.
“You represented Judge Chandler in a lewd conduct case up in San Francisco about fifteen years ago,” she said. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about it.”
I tried not to reveal my astonishment at the turn in the conversation, but said, as blandly as I could, “Why don’t you come inside, Detective?”
I left her in the living room while I went into the kitchen to make coffee, a pretext to give me a moment to think. It appeared she didn’t know I’d called Captain Closet to report Chris’s murder. On the other hand, she knew about Chris’s arrest, something I was certain he’d never revealed to anyone and as to which there was only the sketchiest of records buried deep in the bowels of the criminal justice system. I’d seen to that. Whoever this woman was, she was formidable.
When I went back into the living room with the coffee, she was standing at the fireplace, examining a black-and-white photograph of me and Josh, his arm around my shoulders, mine around his waist.
“Nice picture,” she said,
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