“Hi, this is Detective Sean Walsh with Homicide,” I said. “I’m calling to see if you’ve processed the files for the Danza case, reference number 00527 dash 57. I was looking for them this morning, but couldn’t find them in the system.”
I told the clerk I’d be happy to hold. I was nothing if not polite. I even hummed along to the tinny Muzak while I sifted through the drawers of my desk, sliding papers I didn’t want discovered into an old issue of Men’s Health magazine. Later that night I’d burn the magazine on a barbecue grill.
“Can I get the last three digits again?” the clerk asked.
Once an admin logged on through his own computer, he’d be the only registered user until he logged off again. It didn’t matter if every detective in Florida was searching the database: the network would only recognize the admin. It was a handy flaw in our archaic, underfunded municipal system—one that would allow me to revise the files on Sarah without leaving any record of having done so. Of course, if I somehow got caught …
“Last three digits are 7 dash 57,” I said.
Heidi had enlisted a rookie from Vice to gather a phone book’s worth of background info on my wife: Wikipedia-style bios of everyone she’d ever dated, her parents’ criminal histories (a half dozen parking tickets between them), her transcripts from grade school through culinary school, a facsimile of her medical ID bracelet, copies of her emails, records of every call she placed or received reaching back five years. You name it, it was there.
Before Sarah resurfaced, I’d begun collating data of my own. It was meant to protect her, to bolster the notion that sweet little diabetic Sarah would never hurt a fly. But I saw pretty early on that the puzzle pieces were forming the wrong picture. Not only did Sarah have a motive to kill Anthony but she had twenty-four-hour access to his home.
But then so did Anthony’s wife, Anna.
And so did Anthony’s maid, Serena.
I looked over my shoulder, pretending to scratch my elbow. My coworkers showed no interest in my computer screen.
“Okay, Detective Walsh,” the clerk said. “I’m in the system now, and I see that your request is being processed as we speak. Should be there by the end of the day.”
I logged on, found Sarah’s case file, saw that I was too late: the content had already been reviewed by the new investigation team. By Heidi. This morning. Just out of curiosity, I clicked on the icon beside Sarah’s name. Nothing happened. I clicked on it again. And again. And again.
I’d been blocked.
“Christ,” I whispered.
There’s nothing I enjoy less than feeling sidelined. I opened a game of solitaire to calm myself down, made it halfway through the deck before my phone started vibrating. I pulled it out of my pocket, checked the caller ID: OLD SCHOOL. My nickname for Vincent Costello.
Great, I thought. Exactly what I need.
I didn’t answer, and he didn’t leave a message. Or rather the call itself was his message: I had five minutes to find a secure line and a private place to talk. I stood, headed for the elevator, did my best to look casual. When the doors opened, my legs nearly buckled: Heidi was standing there, scowling as though I was blocking her way on purpose. Or at least the woman standing there looked like Heidi. Same height, same physique, and a pantsuit right out of Heidi’s wardrobe. But this woman was older by a decade, and she was wearing tennis shoes instead of pumps. And Heidi was still in the interrogation room, trying to break my wife.
I smiled to myself as the doors closed. Jumpy much? I thought. I was doing exactly what our marriage counselor had accused me of during our one and only session: looking for danger where there was none.
I speed-walked across the parking lot, got behind the wheel of my Jeep, and pulled a burner phone from the glove compartment. Costello picked up on the second ring.
“I shouldn’t have to chase you down like this,” he said.
He had a painfully deliberate way of speaking—like Jimmy Stewart at half speed.
“I told you I’d call when I had an update,” I said. “So far there’s nothing.”
“Your wife hasn’t confessed?”
“My wife didn’t kill Anthony.”
“For your sake, I hope you’re right. Still, you don’t seem to be bending over backward to prove her innocence.”
“I’m doing what I can,” I told him. “Have you found Anna?”
“My men are on the scent. She knows damn well how I feel about her, so I imagine she’s being extra cautious. What about the maid?”
“Serena?”
“Is there another?”
“She’s in the wind,” I said. “But she couldn’t afford a bus ticket on what Anthony paid her. I’ll find her. Soon.”
“Make sure that you do, Detective. I’m running out of reasons to keep you around.”
CHAPTER 5
ANNA COSTELLO
October 14
Noon
Interview Room A
“GAWK AT me all you want,” I told her, “but I’m not spinning some story just to make your life easier. And if you keep lying to me, telling me there’s proof when there is none, then I promise this’ll end very badly.”
Haagen flashed another blank stare. That seemed to be her specialty.
“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Costello?” she said.
“Oh, Detective, if I was threatening you,” I told her, leaning forward so she could see my baby browns, “you wouldn’t have to ask.”
I leaned back. She sat up straighter. The upright citizen, glaring down her nose. Detective Heidi Haagen, the kind of married-to-her-work sad sack who could suck the fun out of a children’s birthday party. I almost felt sorry for her: two days in the box with me and not a thing to show for it. The higher-ups must’ve been giving her hell.
“Mrs. Costello,” she said, “the minimum penalty for threatening an officer is 365 days in jail.”
“Yeah, but you won’t press charges.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m guessing you’re already a source of laughs around the watercooler. You really want to arrest a grieving widow because she hurt your feelings?”
“No,” she said. “I want to arrest you because you murdered your husband.”
I laughed in her face.
“Dirty Harriet,” I said. “God, I could use a cigarette.”
Haagen looked away as if she was afraid that too much eye contact with me might turn her to stone. She was itching to clock me, but there was a two-way mirror and cameras in every corner. I grinned. With biceps like that, it was a good bet she hit harder than Anthony.
She made a show of sifting through my folder, then started rehashing bits of yesterday’s session.
“I asked you about your husband’s business affairs,” she said. “You refused to answer. That alone is obstruction.”
“You asked what part I played in his business. I didn’t play any part.”
She looked suddenly very glum. I decided to throw her a bone.
“But I never said I wouldn’t talk about Tony’s affairs.”
I waited for the nod.
“Anthony was creative with numbers,” I said. “He round-tripped for window dressing while diverting phantom tax obligations offshore.”