I took her into the kitchen, where sunlight was streaming through the blinds and down through a skylight. Sarah slipped her arms around me and hugged me tight.
“I didn’t know what to think,” she said, starting to cry. “Trixie called, all mysterious, said you were in some trouble at her house, that she’d had to take your car, that she was very sorry, but that I should get out here as fast as possible.”
I put my arms around my wife, held her tight.
“I’m glad she called you. And I’m sorry you had to see what’s happened here.”
She pulled back, looked into my face, put a hand on each of my cheeks. “What’s going on, Zack? What’s happened?”
And then something caught her eye, something on my lip, and then she moved her left thumb over and rubbed at the corner of my mouth, then glanced at her thumb.
She stared at it for a moment, as though transfixed, then looked at me and said, “The police. You better call the police.” Then she turned and walked away.
I realized then what she’d found on her thumb was lipstick.
13
TWO BLUE AND WHITE CARS with uniformed officers arrived first. Sarah and I were waiting outside, leaning on her Camry. I had the keys to Trixie’s German sedan in my pocket, as well as the copy of the Suburban from the kitchen counter that had her picture in it. Sarah had her arms folded in front of her, and whenever I shifted my butt along the fender toward her, she moved away.
“I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong,” I said.
“Stay away from me,” Sarah said quietly.
The uniforms, as I suspected, kept their interrogations to a minimum and set about making sure the crime scene was secure, well aware that the more senior detectives would be along shortly to conduct the investigation.
An unmarked car parked at the end of the drive and a short, squat man in his late fifties, dressed in a dark suit and black fedora, got out. Who the hell wore fedoras anymore? And then I recalled that I knew at least one detective who did, and that was Detective Flint, from the Oakwood Police Department, whom I knew from my earlier troubles in this neighborhood.
Halfway up the drive he stopped, looked at Trixie’s house, then scanned two doors over to take in the house Sarah and I and the kids once lived in. Even with his eyes narrowing, it was possible to read them. I’ve been here before, he was thinking.
And then he looked at me and smiled to himself, as if everything was starting to make sense. “Well, well,” he said. “Mr. Walker. We meet again.”
“Detective Flint,” I said, trying to smile but not quite pulling it off.
“And you would be?” he said, turning to Sarah. I noticed that when I introduced her as my wife she hardly swelled with pride.
“Hello, Mrs. Walker. I’m going to want to talk to both of you, but individually.” He called over one of the uniforms. “Why don’t you show Mr. and Mrs. Walker to separate cars so that they can rest comfortably while I check things out in there.”
He disappeared into the house. Sarah and I were put into the back seat of different cruisers. I could see her from mine, but she wasn’t looking over in my direction. I couldn’t resist trying the door handle, to see whether it would open, and it did not. I sat there, feeling like a criminal, and feeling even greater shame that Sarah was being put through the same ordeal. It was about ten minutes before Flint reappeared. He got into the back of Sarah’s car first, questioned her for at least fifteen minutes before he got out and settled in next to me. Even though he appeared to be done with Sarah, she had not yet been allowed out of her cruiser.
Flint shifted in the seat, got comfortable, and asked to see my wrists.
“Ouch,” he said empathetically, inspecting the bruises from the handcuffs. “That part checks out.”
He got out his notebook, clicked his ballpoint a few times, made some scribbles. “Where’s Trixie Snelling gone?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”
“I honestly don’t know. She said something about trying to find her little girl. I’m guessing she means her daughter.”
“Where’s her daughter?”
“I didn’t even know, until she said that, that she might have a daughter. So I have no idea where she might be.”
“Hmm.” He made some notes. “I understand that you know the deceased.”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Martin Benson. A columnist for the Suburban.”
“Yeah, I’ve read him now and again. Saw his big exposé on suburban kink, a dominatrix in the neighborhood. Lordy lordy.”
“There was a picture,” I said.
“Yeah, I saw that. She was dressed in her civilian clothes, though,” Flint mused. “I guess, if they’d got a picture of her on the job, they couldn’t even have run it. Family newspaper and all that.”
“I guess,” I said. “Listen, should I have a lawyer?”
“I don’t know,” Flint said, scratching his prominent nose. “You think you should have a lawyer?”