David shrugs. “They were friends. Just friends. Coming out was hard for him. He didn’t want to be labeled.”
“It’s not taboo to gay.” The rubber band snaps. A jackhammer starts trying to break open my skull from the inside. I stride to the couch, my eyes in slits, and slump down on top of one of David’s suit jackets.
“The world isn’t New York City, Liza.” I can’t see David’s expression, but I imagine that he looks annoyed from his tone. “You think everyone is accepting because you’re a progressive elitist who grew up in the Hamptons, went to an Ivy League university, and then settled in Manhattan. For you, sexual orientation is like hair color, right? Change it every week if you want. No one gives a shit.” David releases some of his normally well-covered Texas accent. He’s spent so long trying to sound like an Upper Midwest news anchor that I know he must be upset. “Nick was from fucking Mississippi, a pray-the-gay-away state. His parents raised him to think something was fundamentally wrong with homosexuals.”
I peek between my fingers to see David scowling at me. “He was thirty-eight and he lived here, though. A stone’s throw away from Stonewall. I mean, gay marriage is legal now.”
I cradle my aching forehead in my palm and force my head back to look at my husband. He is staring at me like the bartender from earlier. The expression says, Are you really this stupid? “The ink on the marriage law is still wet, and there are plenty of people out there who want to erase it. They think being gay is like a psychological dise—”
A knock interrupts. David’s head snaps toward the foyer. He is not expecting anyone.
The sound comes again, three short raps and a word that I can’t hear over the heartbeat in my head. David walks toward the exit, arms hanging stiff by his thighs. I brace myself for whoever is on the other side of the door.
“Mr. Jacobson, Detective Campos.”
I force my knees to straighten and hoist myself from the couch. The detective from yesterday stands in the doorway with a piece of paper in his hands, which he passes to my husband. I squint to see it through my headache haze. There’s a government seal on the top.
“I don’t consent to this search,” I shout.
David shoots a scowling glance over his shoulder. Wasn’t that what he wanted me to say? I’m disoriented from the events of the past thirty-six hours and my pounding brain. I’m not sure that I can trust the images in front of me.
Behind Detective Campos are two uniformed cops. They stand in the hallway, thumbs in the pockets of their suit pants, leaning back on their heels as though they have all the time in the world for David to scrutinize the document—as though, no matter what my husband does, they will be coming into our home.
I hover behind David in the doorway, reading the warrant over his shoulder. It doesn’t say much. It includes our names and address. A superior court judge whose signature I’d never be able to transcribe has signed the lower half of the document. The officers have permission to search the premises for evidence as well as seize any firearms and locked gun boxes.
The hairs stand up on my limbs like a sudden burst of static. They want my Ruger! But it’s not here. I don’t know where David put it.
“Everything checks out,” Detective Campos says.
David hands back the warrant. He rubs beneath his nose like the men in the hallway have activated an allergy. “May I see the affidavit?”
Campos pats his pockets for show. “It’s with the court clerk.”
Cops usually don’t mock the innocent-until-proven-guilty. I expect David to put Campos in his place with some obscure legal argument. Instead, he motions with his head for me to step back.
I retreat into the living/dining area. The officers follow me inside, their strides wide from the weight of the gear on their hips. Before I can apologize for the mess, Detective Campos is commenting on it from the center of my living room. “What happened here? A bomb went off?”
I look to David, hoping he has an excuse ready. His head hangs like a chastised puppy. This is not the right time for him to fall apart. I can barely see at the moment. “Excuse the mess.” I pull my hand away from my temples and feign an embarrassed smile. “We are in the midst our annual preautumn purge. Time to put the summer suits in storage to make way for fall and winter gear. You know small New York apartments. It’s impossible to fit everything.”
Under the circumstances, I’m amazed by the ease with which the falsehoods roll off my tongue. Though I guess I shouldn’t be. Creating believable fiction is my craft. I’m dedicated to it.
“The gun lockbox is in the bedroom closet.” David points down the hallway. Either he is pretending that he didn’t take the Ruger to hide his involvement in Nick’s murder, or he’s forgotten bringing it to his office amid the stress of the past twenty-four hours.
One of the uniforms follows my husband back into our bedroom. I slump against the living room wall feeling as powerless as a chained dog. In moments, they will all realize the gun is missing. What will I say?
I buried it. Beth’s voice shouts over the pounding in my skull, like a rock singer screaming over drums. I press my fingers into my temples to silence her. My character hid her gun in a hole. My Ruger must be in David’s desk drawer (providing he didn’t toss it in the East River along with Nick’s body).
I cannot cast aspersions on my husband. When they ask, I’ll tell the officers that I must have misplaced it. Sergeant Perez thinks he saw me at the police academy range recently. I can say that I took it there to practice and may have left it in a locker.
Detective Campos circles the living room, taking mental inventory of our furnishings and the items scattered on the hardwood floor. He walks into the kitchen. I hear a cabinet open. The thought of this stranger rifling through my belongings makes me panicky. Quickly, I return to the foyer, where I have a direct view into our galley kitchen. What could he possibly be looking for?
He wants to see if you have champagne tastes on a beer budget. Beth answers in the matter-of-fact way that I imagine her using when talking to other reporters. Financial problems could give David a reason to, say, get rid of a law partner who’d discovered that he was spending clients’ investigation budgets on his housewares. I push her suggested motive from my head. David was not a spendthrift.
Show the detective he isn’t bothering you, Beth counsels. You have nothing to hide, right? I’ve created a character that would be far more adept in this situation than I am. I need to think like her.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“No. Thank you.” Detective Campos peers around the half wall separating the kitchen from the living/dining area. He looks toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. Not seeing anyone coming, he crouches and opens the double doors beneath the kitchen sink. His lackadaisical search must be meant to make me squirm. Surely he doesn’t think I store jewelry behind the dishwashing detergent.
The detective opens the cupboard to the right of the sink. It contains a fancy dining set gifted at our wedding. The pressure in my head builds.
Beth suggests that I make him laugh. An innocent person would want the police to rule out her and her husband as soon as possible so that they could get to the real investigation. She wouldn’t be on the defensive.
“We should have never put those fancy plates in there on the wedding registry.” I force a chuckle. “I guess everyone does that when they get married right out of college. They ask for all these things they think grown-ups should have: champagne flutes, pretty cheese boards, serving bowls. Then they realize that stuff only comes out at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it’s taking up half the kitchen.”