Blackstone’s welcoming look held steady. “Why don’t we have a seat?”
When they were all seated, Adler looked to Quinn. “Detective?”
“Mr. Crowley, we found your wife,” Quinn said. “She’s dead.”
“What?” Crowley sat back in his chair. His face paled, and he began to tap an index finger on the arm of the chair. After a moment of silence, Crowley said, “How did she die?”
“We can’t say right now,” Quinn said. She was waiting, or in her case, hoping for him to slip up and reveal more than he should.
“Why can’t you say? She’s my wife.” Crowley looked to his attorney. “Blackstone, I want to know.”
“It’s not an unreasonable question,” Blackstone said to Quinn. The attorney’s mannerisms and tone were smooth and controlled, but his eyes burned with keen interest.
Quinn shook her head. She wasn’t answering any questions until hers had been satisfied. “When is the last time you saw your wife?”
Crowley looked to his lawyer. The widower might be an ass, but he was smart, and he knew when the sharks were circling. “We already had this conversation at the station when I came to you looking for my wife.”
“My memory is sometimes faulty. Refresh it.” Quinn’s memory was a steel trap. A fact went in, and it never escaped.
“I told you, about five days ago,” Crowley said.
“Can you be more specific?” she asked. “What time of day was it?”
“Morning.”
“And where did you see her?” she pressed.
“At our house.” He shook his head. “I know how this goes. The cops are always looking to blame the spouse. I didn’t kill my wife.”
“Where have you been the last couple of days?” Adler asked.
“In my hotel room.” His grief appeared to dissolve.
“Can you prove it?”
Now he looked outraged, concerned about himself, and slightly annoyed. “I shouldn’t have to, but yes, I can.”
“What kind of relationship did you have with your wife?” Adler said.
“What do you mean?” Crowley demanded.
“What kind of marriage? Happy, contentious, ambivalent, or what?”
Worry deepened the lines framing his mouth. “We loved each other. We’ve known each other since high school.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Quinn said.
“What does convincing sound like?” Blackstone asked.
She smiled. “Not like that.”
“Does this have anything to do with Kaitlin’s stabbing?” Crowley asked. “If it does, ask her what’s going on, because clearly she knows more than my wife or I.”
“I did my research on Kaitlin,” Blackstone said. “With her past, she must be a suspect.”
Adler ignored the comment, keeping his gaze trained on Crowley. “I’ve listened to Ms. Roe’s interview with your wife.” He let the statement hang.
Crowley fidgeted with his wedding band. “Whatever Erika thought she remembered from that night is corrupted. She was drunk.”
“She recalled the details pretty well,” Adler said.
Blackstone injected, “What does Ms. Roe’s interview have to do with Mrs. Crowley’s death?”
Adler ignored the comment. “Mr. Crowley, was your wife involved in any kind of lifestyle that might be considered risky?”
“Like an affair?” Crowley asked.
“Boyfriend, swinger, drug use? I don’t know. You tell me. People who live in perfect houses don’t always lead perfect lives. Her yoga teacher said she often parked in the back of the studio, but skipped the class. Did she meet a friend or go somewhere more intimate?”
Crowley’s confusion was enough of an answer. “Erika was a good woman. She was not into any secret kinky shit, and if you spread anything like that about her, I will have Mr. Blackstone sue you and your department.”
“We’re simply asking questions here. No one is passing judgment.”
“I don’t like your tone,” Crowley said.
Adler had touched on a nerve. “Are you engaged in any kind of extracurricular activities that we need to know about?”
“I am not.”
“If I trace your credit card receipts and phone records, I won’t find anything?” Adler asked.
Crowley shifted and looked to his attorney.
Blackstone held up his hand. “Officers, stop with the cat and mouse. You have just shared some very upsetting news with my client. There’s no way he can be completely rational right now. We’re going to have to suspend this interview for another day.” He rose and bade his client to do the same. “You can show yourselves out.”
Adler wasn’t surprised by Blackstone’s request, but he was still frustrated. He’d dealt with too many men like Blackstone who shadowed the truth in words and legal maneuvers. He and Quinn rose but made no move toward the door.
“How well did you know Gina Mason?” Adler asked.
Crowley’s frown deepened with anger, and then as if he couldn’t resist, he broke from his attorney and stepped toward them. “She was a friend of my wife’s. I didn’t know her.”
Blackstone raised his hand. “This ends now.”
“I did not kill my wife.” Crowley punctuated each word with the poke of a finger.
“Good. Whoever killed her was a monster.” Adler wanted to get a rise out of Crowley. “No one deserves to die the way she did.”
“Are you trying to make me feel worse?” Crowley asked. His attorney placed a hand on his arm, but Crowley jerked it away. “I didn’t kill her.”
“Enough, Detectives,” Blackstone said.
“We’ll be revisiting this conversation again, Mr. Crowley,” Adler said. “Are you staying in the same hotel?”
“The Richmond Inn on Broad Street.”
It was an expensive boutique hotel that catered to tourists and business travelers. “And there’s someone who can vouch for you there?”
“Talk to the manager. He knows me well.”
“Anyone else?”
Crowley’s chin lifted and he looked to Blackstone, who nodded. “There’s a woman.”
“Her name?” Adler asked.
“Barbara Austin. She’ll vouch for me.”
Adler scribbled down the name and the phone number Crowley provided. “She’s your girlfriend?”
“Not that formal. But we were intimate.”
“Adultery doesn’t translate into murder,” Blackstone said.
“Your client wasn’t forthcoming about Ms. Austin. What else is he holding back?”
“That’s it,” Crowley said. “I was afraid how it would look.”
Blackstone all but shoved Crowley out of the conference room, leaving Quinn and Adler to saunter out behind them. They pushed through the front door into the bright sunshine.
“On a scale of one to ten, how guilty do you think he is?” Quinn asked.
Adler knew Crowley was hiding something and Blackstone was helping him do it. But was their secret murder? That he couldn’t say right now. “He’s no choir boy.”
“A mistress could be motive for murder.”
“Sure. But what’s the motive for killing Jennifer Ralston?” The two women knew each other and had seen each other occasionally at Saint Mathew’s events, but he believed more than ever that their deaths were linked to Kaitlin’s stabbing and whatever happened to Gina. He didn’t have all the answers yet, but he was getting closer. “The motive goes beyond a girlfriend and a bad marriage.”
“Back to Gina?”
“Yep,” he said.
INTERVIEW FILE #20
HIDDEN MESSAGES
After the police released my name to the media, I started to get letters. A few weren’t bad. There were people praying for me. Others wanted to shame me. Most were menacing.
You don’t deserve to live.
God will punish you.
Judgment Day is coming.
Some were sent via US Mail with no return address, and some were left at my aunt’s house. Those letters, coupled with continued media scrutiny, were what finally drove me out of Virginia. I moved back to Dallas, changed my name, and dyed my hair blond. The letters and media calls finally stopped, and I had an opportunity to start over. I threw myself into school and later my career. And in the rare off hours, I partied hard like there was no tomorrow.
Over the years, there were times when I could almost believe losing Gina wasn’t my fault, and I didn’t deserve to be punished.
CHAPTER NINETEEN