“Okay.” James nodded, took a sip of her Macallan.
“Now, years later, she becomes friends with Miranda’s husband. Maybe more than friends. And then he gets killed—”
“He was killed by Brad Daggett. We know this. Do you think Lily also knew him?”
“No, I don’t. I just know that she lied to me, and that it’s a pretty huge coincidence that she was somehow involved with both the death of this Eric Washburn and now with Miranda.”
“We can bring her in, question her some more. Did you ask her if she had an alibi for the night that Miranda got killed?”
“No, I didn’t ask her. I mean, we know that Brad did that as well. Is it possible that she knew Brad all along, that she got him to do these two murders, and now she knows where he is?”
“Sure, it’s possible, but why would she do it? People don’t go around murdering the girl who stole their boyfriend in college.”
“Yeah, well,” I said.
“That’s all you’ve got—‘yeah, well’?”
“Yeah, that’s all I’ve got.” James smiled. She didn’t do it often, but when she did, it changed her face from something a little severe to one that radiated beauty. We’d been partnered up in the department for just over a year. The scotch and pasta nights had started about three months ago. So far, our partnership had been the greatest nonsexual partnership in my life. From day one, we’d slipped into an easy back-and-forth conversational pattern that made me feel like we’d been friends for years. It was only recently that I realized how little I knew about Roberta James, besides where she’d grown up (coast of Maryland), where she’d gone to school (the University of Delaware), and where she lived (third floor of a triple-decker in Watertown). I assumed she was gay, but we’d never talked about it. When I had finally broached the subject, at the first of our pasta nights, she’d said, “I like men, but only in theory.”
“Meaning in reality you like women?”
“No. I mean I’m voluntarily celibate, but if I ever decided I didn’t want to be celibate, I would be with a man.”
“Got it, James,” I said, and didn’t ask for any more clarification. Her usually unwavering stare had wavered a little during the brief exchange.
Most of our scotch and pasta nights were at my place, probably since I always overdid the scotch, and when James hosted, she always made me sleep on her couch. On one of those nights, I’d gotten up from the couch to get a glass of water, and when I walked back down the hallway past James’s bedroom, I noticed her door was cracked open, yellow light slanting through. I pushed the door open a little farther, saying, “Knock, knock.” James was on the bed, reading a paperback. It was a warm night, and she had kicked one of her long legs out from under the single sheet that covered her. She wore reading glasses, and looked quizzically at me over the frames. “Can’t sleep,” I said. “I thought you might like some company.”
I’m not sure how I expected James to react to my proposition, but I hadn’t expected the explosion of deep laughter that I was greeted with. I held up both my hands and backed out of the doorway, saying, “Okay, okay.”
She tried to stop me from going, but I quickly retreated to the couch. In the morning, James was up at dawn and brought me a cup of coffee. “Sorry for the laughter last night,” she said as she handed it to me.
“No,” I said. “Sorry for the late-night bedroom visit. Totally inappropriate.” My voice was gravelly, and my head felt like it was gripped in a vise.
“I think you caught me totally by surprise. The last three times I’ve been hit on was by a woman. Anyway, I feel bad about it.”
“You shouldn’t. I was the one who was trying to cross the line. Besides, we make good partners at work. Why fuck that up?”
“Right. Why fuck that up?”
That had been the extent of our conversation on the subject. We’d been a little awkward for a while at work, but it went away. And now we were back to regular get-togethers, and discussions of my love life.
“So, are you planning on following her again tomorrow?” James said, pouring us each a little more scotch.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe I should take a day off.”
“Maybe you should. I’m sure you’re very good at it, but it’s only a matter of time before she spots you, and makes a complaint.”