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Shit. Fuck. Iwasdriving the Range Rover that night.
She pauses to wait for my reaction. I make sure not to give her one. “You see how this looks, don’t you, Mr. Winter? You were in the vicinity the night your wife died. Your wife implicated you as a domestic abuser in her interview. She also produced old pictures looking like a battered wife. This isn’t painting a very flattering picture of you as a husband.”
I feel my lips twist, but I’m suddenly so angry that I can’t control my expression as I plant my hands on the table and lean in. Nor can I contain the righteous fury toward Ravenna that makes my voice shake. How many more times will she stick it to me from the other side of the grave? Ten? Fifty? A million? “I never laid a hand on Ravenna. I never harmed her. Not once. I don’t care what she said on TV the other night. Those pictures were from a tennis injury. She was playing doubles and her partner accidentally whacked her in the face with her racket.”
“Oh?” Detective Smith whips out her pen and pad. “What’s the friend’s name? We’d like to speak to her. Clear up that discrepancy.”
I slump back in my chair because Ravenna has won this round and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. “I don’t know.”
Detective Smith’s eyebrows do a slow climb toward her hairline. “You. Don’t. Know.”
What can I say? That Ravenna had a collection of mean girlfriends, none of whom I liked? That I avoided them whenever possible? That by the time of the tennis injury, I was far beyond caring what happened in her life and with whom? “Someone from her tennis club. That’s all I know.”
“Fine. When did it happen?”
I wince because Detective Smith has me on the ropes and we both know it. “Don’t know that either.”
Detective Smith makes a derisive noise, but Gray swoops in to rescue my ass. “I assume we’re done here? Unless my client is under arrest…?” he says.
Pleasant smile from Detective Smith. “Not at all. I’m simply gathering information and sharing information.”
“Great.” Gray stands. “We appreciate the courtesy of you coming here for the interview. But it’s over.”
“Thank you for your time,” Detective Smith says, ever the crisp professional. “We’ll stay in touch. Remember what I said about leaving town, Mr. Winter. Lobbing a final pointed glance in my direction, she walks off with her minions, taking her recorder and shutting the door behind her.
“Fuck,” I say, also standing.
“Relax,” Gray says. “They’re trying to build a case against you, but it’s all circumstantial. Assuming your semen doesn’t turn up in Ravenna’s body…?”
“What?No. I told you.”
“Good.”
“Matter of fact, the security footage from the hotel shows that Ravenna and Winwood, my security guard who disappeared, were having a sexual relationship.”
His ears perk up. “What? Why didn’t you mention that just now?”
“Because my investigator got the tapes by means that may have been dubious. Plus, the tapes also givemea motive for killing Ravenna. So I wanted to run the issue by you before I mentioned it.”
“Good thinking.”
“But my investigator says the police will get the tapes tomorrow.”
“Well, the point is, they don’t have enough to arrest you yet. So that’s the good news.”
“Yet,” I echo dully.
Gray blows out a breath and stares at me long and hard. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Lucien. None of this is good.” A heavy pause. “We can’t afford one more piece of evidence against you, circumstantial or not. So you need to finish getting your legal affairs in order. Plus, the DA is running for reelection this year. Your head would make a good trophy on her wall for her law-and-order campaign. Detective Smith is by the book, but the rest of them aren’t. I’m going to do everything I can to prevent it, but…my best guess is that they’re going to do everything they possibly can to pin this on you and make it stick.”
18
Tamsyn
Lucien doesn’t hearme when I come into his study two nights later, which is no surprise. He’s been distracted since the police were here the other day. Distracted with meetings morning to night. Distracted by the rumors of an imminent arrest and a grand jury.
The walls are closing in. Time is running out.
His mood reflects it. He sits in his leather chair by the fireplace in his shirtsleeves, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin resting on his fisted hands as he folds and unfolds his fingers. He stares at something remote that only he can see, his face downturned, his jaw tight and his expression shadowed. He’s every bit the forbidding man I met that day in the departures lane at LaGuardia. He’s a study in concentration. Or plotting. A man like this is not the kind of person you want to approach. I hesitate on the threshold, wondering if I should come back again in a few minutes.