She didn’t respond, and Bandoni picked up the patter. “So you just sat in your chair and read. All by your lonesome.”
She shrugged. “Lonesome isn’t the word I would use.”
“Sounds lonely to me. Just you and—who’d you say—Bach and some magazines. You ever get bored?”
“No.”
“Ever try to alleviate the boredom by spending time with someone else’s husband?”
A muscle jumped in her cheek. “That sounds more up your alley, Detective.”
“Or maybe someone’s wife? How do you swing, Ms. Stern?”
Cohen gently took the conversation back. “Give us a timeline of yesterday evening and last night, Ms. Stern. After dinner and reading.”
“I read until nine o’clock. After that, I went to bed and read another thirty minutes, then slept until my alarm. At six thirty this morning, I went for a run around my neighborhood. I showered and arrived at work by eight. Half an hour later, I was called up on the Davenport case.”
“You drove your car to the tracks?”
“Yes. And parked it alongside two police cruisers. Maybe you should check with them.”
“What about after?”
“I went home to shower with the intent of returning to work immediately after. But your officer showed up on my doorstep.”
“What is your relationship with the Davenports?”
A shadow passed over her face, a quick flick like a blind snapping closed. “I know them casually. Or rather, I knew Samantha Davenport casually. She and I sat together on the Board of Directors for MoMA.”
“Must have been hard, seeing her under that train.”
“It wasn’t pleasant, no.”
Bandoni snorted. Cohen and Stern both ignored him.
“MoMA,” Cohen went on. “That’s the Museum of Modern Art, is that right?”
For the first time, Stern looked guarded. “Could this have something to do with the museum?”
“You know anyone who has something against MoMA?”
“It’s an art museum. Everyone has been behind it. The art community, the sponsors, the local government. Everyone.”
“Anything questionable about it? The museum, the people working for it? Maybe the land it’s on?”
Stern shook her head. “There is nothing improper or untoward. It’s a good group of people and a good cause.”
“Untoward,” Bandoni said. “I’m gonna have to look that up.”
She made the slightest inclination of her head in his direction. “I have no doubt of that, Detective. You’ll find it next to uncouth.”
“You sound pretty committed to the museum,” Cohen said.
“I believe in the arts.”
Cohen stood, stretched, his motions deliberately casual as he crossed to the window and looked out. Even through the video camera I could hear the rain hit the glass. There would be flooding—sewers and drains were already overwhelmed.
“Tell me more about your relationship with Samantha Davenport,” he said.
“We met at an art show where her work was on display. The museum was her brainchild. Her father-in-law, Hiram Davenport, is quite wealthy, as of course you know. Sam got him to donate the land and provide some of the funding. Believing my legal background would be useful, she asked me to be on the board of directors. Naturally, I accepted.”
“Did you donate any of your own money?”
“A few thousand.”
“How much is a few?”
“Five. I donated five thousand of my own money.”
“Was this before or after you took a job with DPC?”
She frowned. “Before. But if you’re looking for a connection between my employment with DPC and the museum, you won’t find anything.”
“What kind of connection would I be looking for?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective.”
Cohen returned to the table and made a note. “How is it that Hiram Davenport was willing to give such a valuable piece of land to a museum? Riverfront property in a growing part of metro Denver. About as good as it gets.”
“I’m sure it’s because of Sam. And maybe he wanted the tax deduction. I can’t claim to know what he was thinking or to know anything about DPC’s finances—”
“Not even as DPC’s chief litigator?”
“Not even then. I’m sure he also appreciated the press.”
“Especially given his battle with the Tates for the bullet train.”
“Perhaps. You would have to ask him.”
“Who else is on the board? Aside from you and—I assume—Samantha.”
“Wealthy art lovers and artists. It’s a matter of public record.”
“And what about Ben Davenport? Is he on the board?”
A tinge of pink rose in her neck. “No.”
“But you know him.”
Something glimmered on her face—a look like that of a child standing at the candy counter with empty pockets.
Beside me, Mac said, “Ah.”
Stern looked down. “Not really.”
Cohen gave the table a quick rap. “Ms. Stern? Can you look at me?”
She lifted her head. Her face was blank. “I met Ben exactly once. At a fund-raiser that his father insisted he attend. Or maybe it was Sam who wanted him to come. Either way, it was obvious that Ben was ill at ease.”
“He told you that?”
She nodded. “He’d had a drink or two by then, I guess. He said he hated small talk because there wasn’t anything he wanted to discuss except his family and the war. He said it wasn’t fair to inflict either on a stranger.”
“And yet he talked to you.”
“Only that much. I knew more about him from Sam.”
“What did she say?”
“That marriage could be tough. I thought maybe she meant his anger.”
“He had a temper?”
Even Stern’s shrug was graceful. “She said that Ben struggled after the war. Like a lot of veterans. Sometimes he’d get angry.”
“She ever mention him getting violent?”
“Never. When Ben got angry, he retreated. What bothered her more was that sometimes he seemed sorry to be back home. She thought he missed the war.”
“How’s that?”
Stern began turning a ring on her finger, a simple silver band. “The excitement, I suppose.”
“That your supposition, or Sam’s?”
“Mine.”
Cohen wrote a few more lines in his notebook.
In the observation room, I felt the sidelong glances from a couple of detectives who knew my past. I kept my eyes on the screen.
“You ever know Samantha or Ben to be involved with someone else?”
“You mean an affair? I never heard anything.”
“What about Jack Hurley?”
“Who?”
“Samantha’s assistant. You must have met him.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Maybe at an art exhibit?”
“Not that I recall.”
“And she never talked about him?”
“Not to me.”
Cohen took the photo of the woman from Ben’s office out of the file and placed it in front of Stern.
“Do you know this woman?”
She abandoned her ring and bent over the picture. “No.”
“Never saw her with Ben?”
“No.” She looked up. “Who is she?”
Cohen slid the picture back into the folder.
Bandoni scrubbed at his nose. “You don’t seem exactly torn up over your friend’s death.”
“I am not public with my feelings.”
Cohen went back to the window, leaving it to Bandoni to gauge Stern’s reaction. “And what of Hiram Davenport? How well do you know him?”