Part 7 (1/2)

I looked up at him. ”Your name is Bobby?”

He smiled. ”Yes.”

It occurred to me that I hadn't known that fact. ”What's going on with Ray? Is he in trouble?”

Sad face again. ”I'm not sure yet. We're taking him in for questioning.” He leaned his elbow on the roof of the car, and there was that d.a.m.n gun again. ”Are you going to be all right driving home?”

”I think I'll be fine.” I looked at the control panel. Getting an aeronautics degree from NASA would be easier than trying to turn on the air-conditioning. ”I've never driven a car that didn't have window cranks, but I should be able to figure it out.” I thought about Ray in a room being questioned, and I started to figure out what was going on. He was a suspect in the murder. I couldn't think of any other reason why he was going to end up at the police station. I was pretty sure that being a s.h.i.+tty husband wasn't against the law, even though I had given some thought to calling my local councilman on that one.

Crawford leaned down and I got a whiff of a light scent that reminded me of clean laundry. He held out the plastic key tag. ”Whatever you do, just don't hit this b.u.t.ton. That will set off the alarm. I don't think you need to set it. Everything else should be straightforward.” He paused for a minute. ”I don't get the sense that the car will be stolen in your neighborhood, but if so, I also don't get the sense that you'd be really broken up about it.” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

”You're absolutely right about both things.” I got in the car but left the door open, one leg out. ”He's an a.s.shole, but he's harmless.” I said the words but wasn't sure if I believed them at that moment. I hadn't believed that he would cheat on me, so what was to say that he wouldn't kill, too? I felt a sob rising in my throat. ”You know, secret vasectomies and all.” I closed the door and quickly backed out of the spot. I looked in the rearview mirror as I drove away, and Crawford was still in the parking lot looking at the car with his sad, handsome face.

Ten.

I left campus and merged onto the Saw Mill River Parkway, going north. I had never had a car so responsive and had to keep myself from going eighty miles an hour all the way home. I didn't know why, but I was crying so hard that I had to blow my nose into the sleeve of my blouse. I guess I still had a soft spot for Ray that would take a long time to harden. He had hurt me worse than anyone I could imagine, but we had been together for a long time. I wondered aloud if he would be so upset if he thought I was going to end up in jail.

Ray had one of those fancy voice-activated cell phone things attached to the console. Since I wasn't Ray and I was sure he didn't have Max's number stored in his phone, I punched in her number as I was driving and hoped that she would be able to hear me. She picked up after four rings.

”Max, it's me. Listen, Ray needs help. What was the name of that hotshot lawyer you used to date? The one who defended the guy who shot the kid on the subway?”

”Mitch Klein,” she said. ”What's going on? Are you crying?”

I sniffled loudly. ”Yes. I went to Ray's office, and those two cops were there. They're taking him in for questioning on the Miceli thing. I don't know why.” I noticed that I was going eighty again and slowed down. I came to the light at Executive Boulevard and stopped. ”Call me in a half hour or so and give me the number just in case he needs it. Can you do that?”

”Sure. I'll call you in a half hour.”

Ten minutes later, I'd managed to pull the car up my driveway, get out, and lock the doors without incident, priding myself on the fine execution. I let myself in through the back door, threw my briefcase on the kitchen table, and took out my remaining can of Foster's. I opened it and guzzled most of it down, some of it running down either side of my face. I found a crumpled-up paper towel on the counter and ran it over my face to sop up what hadn't ended up in my mouth. In moments, I had the golden glow that I had not been able to replicate with martinis or red wine.

I went into the powder room off my front hallway and turned on the light. My face was red and blotchy from crying, and my mascara had run down my cheeks. I filled the white porcelain basin with water and washed my face with the antibacterial hand soap that I kept on the sink. Now my face was red, blotchy, dry, and germ-free.

I went up to my bedroom to change my clothes. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a clean T-s.h.i.+rt out of my drawers and shook off the mules. I took everything I had on and threw the pile into the hamper. The phone rang just as I had taken a pair of flip-flops out of the closet and put them on. It was Max.

”Mitch Klein,” she said, and recited the number. ”I already spoke with him and told him to expect your call.”

I jotted the number down on a sc.r.a.p of paper next to the phone. ”Thanks, Max.”

”What's going on?” she asked. ”Do the police really think that Ray had something to do with this?”

”I don't know. It looked serious when I showed up at his office, and being taken in for questioning can't be good.”

”Let me know what happens. Make sure you tell the police that Ray is an a.s.shole, but relatively harmless.”

I had to laugh. ”I already did, Max.” I hung up and put the sc.r.a.p of paper in my pocket.

The crunch of gravel outside my window, followed by the warning beeps of a commercial truck in reverse, made me go to the window to investigate. As I pulled the shade aside, I saw a tow truck backing up my driveway. I dropped the shade and raced back down the stairs.

I ran out the back door and into the yard. The tow truck was hooking the rear end of Ray's car to a winch and pulling it up onto the flatbed. Detective Crawford stood to the side of the tow truck, watching impa.s.sively, one arm hanging down and the other lazily resting on his gun. An NYPD police car with two uniformed officers inside sat at the bottom of the driveway, flashers revolving; they had been accompanied by a Dobbs Ferry car with two officers in it. Crawford looked up when he heard the back door slam.

”We need the car, Alison,” he said. It was the first time I had heard him use my name.

”For what?” I yelled over the din of the winch.

”Ray is a suspect. We're impounding the car and its contents so that we can do a thorough investigation. We have reason to believe that Ray knew Kathy Miceli.”

”Of course he knew her. She was in his intro biology cla.s.s,” I yelled. He looked at me. ”Don't look at me with the sad face,” I said, putting my head in my hands. I knew what that meant. She was in his cla.s.s but ”knew” was the operative word.

He looked confused. ”Let's go inside.” He walked over to the tow-truck driver and motioned to the officers in the police car. After exchanging a few words, he turned back to me. ”Did you leave anything in the car?”

I thought for a moment and remembered my briefcase on the kitchen table. I shook my head.

”Can you get me the keys?”

He held open the back door and waited for me to enter. I handed him the keys, and he went back outside. After a few minutes, the noise died down as the police car, the tow truck, and Ray's car left my driveway. Crawford came back in and sat down across from me. We sat at the kitchen table, me with the can of Foster's in front of me. A happy beer commercial with swinging singles it was not.

I felt drained. ”Can I get you something?” I asked, trying not to forget my manners.

”Can I have some water?” he asked.

I pulled myself up from the chair and opened the refrigerator. There were several bottles of water on the top shelf and not much else. I handed him one and sat down. ”I hope you don't want a gla.s.s,” I said, and slumped back into the chair.

He opened the water and took a long drink. ”I need to ask you a few questions.”

”You have got to get a better opening line,” I said wearily.

”You're upset.”

”You think?” I rubbed my hands over my eyes.

”We have to investigate every single angle,” he said, trying to justify Ray's being questioned.

”I know. Why Ray?”

He didn't answer. ”Did Ray have a set of keys for the Volvo?”

I thought for a minute. ”Yes. He told me that he lost them a few weeks ago.”

”When did he move out?”

”Six months ago.”

He took out his notebook again and flipped to a clean page. ”And when was your divorce finalized?”

”The same week that my car was stolen.”