“Maya Wilton gained access to Owen Mann’s house two days ago and searched it. Then she stole this box, took it home, and watched YouTube videos on how to pick a lock with a paper clip. She thought I came to her house to arrest her. She was stunned when I let her sit in the front seat.”
“What’s in the box?” Burns asked.
Goldman lifted the lid. A messy pile of photos sat inside. “We should be grateful that she didn’t find the murder weapon. No judge would have allowed it.”
“I’ll look through these,” Margot said. “Make sure Maya is alibied for Monday morning.”
Goldman returned to the interview room.
“Do I need a lawyer?” Maya asked when Goldman entered.
“For what?”
“I didn’t realize until after I took the box that it might be construed as theft.”
“Well, technically, it was theft,” Goldman said.
“I know. I don’t know what I was thinking,” Maya said. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life. What could happen to me?”
“For stealing the box?” Goldman asked. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Owen would have to press charges. To be clear, I’m only interested in finding Irene’s killer.”
“I did not kill Irene,” Maya said. “I adored her.”
“Good to know,” Goldman said. “You said you found the box in Irene’s closet.”
“Yes. In the back. Behind a stack of shoeboxes.”
“What were you looking for?” Goldman asked.
“Her diary. I thought it might be in the box.”
“Seems like an inconvenient location for a diary,” he said.
“Yes. But I couldn’t find it anywhere else.”
“Why were you so sure she kept a diary?”
“Because I gave her one for her birthday. I asked her if she was using it and she said she was.”
“Maybe she was just being polite,” Goldman said.
Maya felt like a fool. A deep sadness set in.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said.
“When you were looking for the diary, did you find anything else of interest?”
* * *
—
Goldman found his partner in the conference room. Burns had arranged a collection of photos in a grid on the long table. A middle-aged bride in a white beaded gown was the subject of the majority of the photos.
“I sent the neighbor home. I think she was overly interested in Irene but not a stalker or killer. What’s this?” Goldman asked.
Burns showed Goldman the contact sheet for the photo array. “This camera roll is from 2005,” Burns said.
“Who’s the bride?” Noah asked.
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Burns said, placing a photo in the middle of the table.
“Who is that?” Goldman said, leaning in for a closer inspection.
It was a photo of a woman in a lavender dress. The woman—barely a woman, rail thin, platinum blond—resembled an airbrushed ad in a magazine.
“Am I supposed to recognize her?” Goldman asked.
“Keep looking,” Burns said.
Goldman studied the photo. Finally gave up. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“That’s Irene,” Burns said.
Stunned, Goldman looked again. “No way.”
It was like one of those ambiguous-image pictures. Sometimes you can’t see the other figure until someone else shows you. Even after Goldman saw the resemblance, he didn’t see it that clearly.
“That’s really weird,” Goldman said. “But…I’m missing something. What does it mean?”
“Now look at the rest of the pictures,” Burns said. “They’re in order. I’m thinking Irene took the photos, because they’re from her mother’s wedding and Chantal Boucher is in most of them. That’s the only picture of Irene. Check out the first picture.”
Burns pointed at a three-by-five print of a young man sleeping.
“You know who that is, right?” Burns asked.
“That’s Owen.”
“Right,” Burns said. “I just reread the interview transcript. He said he met his wife five years ago. The date on the contact sheet says 2005. That’s fourteen years ago. Not five.”
“Why would he lie about that?” Goldman asked.
“That’s what I want to know.”
* * *
—
To bring Owen back in, Detective Goldman had to lure him with new evidence. “We just want you to look at an old photo and give us context,” Goldman said. “I promise it will take no more than ten minutes.”
Burns and Goldman took Owen into an interview room.
The trio sat down around the table. Burns placed the photo of Owen in front of him. In the photo, Owen was young and sleeping.
“Have you seen this before?” Burns asked.
Owen picked up the picture. His brain was tripping over itself. “Where did you find this?”
“I’m afraid we can’t say. Have you ever seen that before?”
“No,” Owen said.
“It’s you, right?” Burns asked.
“Looks like me. What’s going on?”
“We believe the photo was taken by Irene.”
“That’s impossible,” Owen said. “I met Irene five years ago. I couldn’t be more than twenty in this photo. Where did you get this?”
Burns showed Owen the contact sheet. “These pictures were taken on a 35mm roll. They were time-stamped when they were developed in 2005. You’re the first photo on the roll.”
Owen’s eyes had already jumped ahead to the wedding photos. “Can I see the rest?” Owen said.
Goldman arranged the photos on top of the table in their original order while Burns studied Owen’s reaction. His confusion was profound, palpable.
“This is from Chantal Boucher’s wedding to Leo?” Owen asked.
“Yes,” Burns said.
Then Goldman dropped the one picture that included Irene, wearing a miserable expression and a lavender bridesmaid’s dress. Owen picked it up and stared at it, baffled. With her hair blond rather than blue, Owen didn’t place her at first. The memory of a booze-filled night had clouded over, like so many memories from that year. Slowly, the woman became more familiar. Pieces clicked into place. The girl from the pub. The blue hair.
“What was her name?” Owen said. “I don’t understand. Why do you have a picture of her?”
“You know who that is?” Goldman asked, looking over at his partner.
Burns was studying Owen, trying to determine whether Mann’s response was genuine.
“I can’t remember her name. I met her in London. We hung out one night.”
Burns turned to her partner, raised an eyebrow.
“That’s Irene in the picture,” Margot said.