Page 24 of Sharp Force

Her voice trails off. She stares down at her hands clasped in her lap.

“Likely, his heart disease was a factor.” I’m careful what I share. “But again, there’s a lot of information we don’t have. I won’t make a final ruling for a while.”

“It’s obvious there are suspicions about what really happened. A lady who works for the state called here today asking all kinds of questions,” she says.

“What lady?”

“Maggie something,” Reba replies to my dismay, and it was wrong of Maggie Cutbush to do such a thing.

Damn her!

She must have pounced on Reba not long after her husband’s body was recovered from the Potomac River. How insensitive. Not to mention stupid. Should Reba have any involvement in her husband’s death, Maggie just tipped her off.

“Maggie Cutbush?” I make sure, and Reba nods her head.

“She was asking questions about Rowdy’s mental health.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue. “And if he had an alcohol problem that might have caused him to fall off the pier.”

“I can tell you that she shouldn’t have been asking you anything at all,” I reply, and right about now I’d like to take off Maggie’s head. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Coughing several times, Reba continues glancing in the directionof her sons’ bedroom. The murmur of them talking with Marino is barely audible.

“She also wanted to know about Rowdy’s job. Did he work anymore,” she goes on. “Truth is, I don’t know.”

“I understand he was a software designer.”

“That’s right. He’s been working from home for the past six years. Ever since the accident.”

“Did he have many clients?” I ask.

“I’m not sure about anything he was doing. Or maybenotdoing would be closer to the truth.” She continues staring off toward her sons’ bedroom. “Obviously, I don’t know what’s on his computers. Or who all he was in contact with. I didn’t talk about my work much, and he almost never mentioned his.”

“What type of software did he design?” I ask.

“He’s truly gifted with computers.” She looks at me. “But he wasn’t productive like he used to be. Doesn’t feel the same about the work. Doesn’t love it anymore. Before he was hit by the car, he had a passion for what he did. He was earning good money. He used to joke that we were on our way to being rich enough to buy a big house on the river like Monticello.”

“At the time of the hit-and-run, did he have much in savings?” I turn to a new page in my notebook.

“Whatever he’d put away? He went through it quickly.” A glint of despair mixed with resentment. “I don’t know what all he spent it on, to be honest.”

“But he worked here in the house.”

“Supposedly,” she rues.

“Where is his office?” I ask.

“On the other side of the house. I can show you if you want.”

“Yes, I’d like to see it if that’s all right,” I reply. “Was he able to make a living anymore?”

“I don’t know. For sure nothing like he did. And whatever he made, he spent. And then some,” she says as we get up from the sofa.

CHAPTER 9

Ifollow Reba O’Leary through the foyer. On the other side is a brief hallway that leads to a door she opens, turning on the lights.

We step inside a brown-carpeted room paneled in wormy chestnut, a wooden ceiling fan overhead, framed photographs covering the walls. The air is chilled, the thermostat registering sixty degrees, the metal-slatted blinds closed.

“As you’re probably noticing right away, there are no computers,” she tells me. “That’s because the police took them. The workstations, and his laptops.”