“No, you’re deflecting. You call me up and tell me you’ve been to the crime scene, which you know you’re not supposed to do, since this isn’t your case, so you try to put me on the defensive about my eating habits.”
I pour myself a glass of gin. One won’t kill me. “Ten gets you twenty that the abrasions on the armoire leg came from a handcuff. He made each of them watch the other die,” I say. “He immobilized Zach and he handcuffed Melanie to the armoire. He made them watch each other bleed out.”
“Jenna—”
“This guy knew what he was doing,” I say. “He stabbed Zach in a place where he wouldn’t die instantly. I mean, he could have sunk that knife into his heart, or slit his throat. Instead, he stabbed him in a place that would cause incredible pain and a slow death. And when Zach made any feeble attempt to raise himself up, he stomped on his hands. And he did the same thing to Melanie. Every time she tried to move, he stabbed her. She kicked her legs, and he stabbed her in the calf. She raised her free arm, and he stabbed her in the triceps—”
“Jenna—”
“These were sadistic, brutal torture-murders,” I say, “not crimes of passion committed by a jealous lover.”
“Crimes of passion can be sadistic, Jen—”
“Do you really think if Noah was in love with Melanie, he’d watch Zach have sex with her first? Why wouldn’t he rush in while they were in the heat of it?”
“Hey!” the chief shouts. “Do I get a word in here? I’ve heard enough. There is protocol, and there is a chain of command, and nobody breaches that in Southampton. If you think just because you’re my niece—”
“Of course I don’t think that. And I’m just trying to help—”
“You’re not helping. You’re not helping at all!” The chief coughs into his fist, his face turning red. He needs to take better care of himself. I can make all the heart-healthy meals the culinary world has to offer, but I can’t make him eat them. I can tell him to walk a couple of miles a few times a week, but I can’t walk them for him.
He ignores every bit of advice I give him. He openly defies me on a daily basis. So why do I love this grouchy old man so much?
“Why am I not helping?” I ask.
Lang polishes off his glass of gin and composes himself. “Because Noah Walker confessed,” he says.
I draw back. “He … confessed?”
“Ah, the hotshot from NYPD doesn’t have all the answers, does she?” Lang pours himself another inch of gin. “He confessed this morning. So don’t you go writing up a report that I’ll have to show a defense lawyer. Not when this thing is tied up in a bow.”
“Noah confessed,” I mumble, raising the glass to my lips. “I’ll be damned.”
“Noah Walker is guilty, and Noah Walker confessed,” he says. “So do me a favor and move along.”
8
THE DIVE BAR is aptly named, dark in every way, from the dim lighting to the oak furnishings, with the Yankees on the big screen, mirrors behind the bar sponsored by various breweries, and nothing but some fried appetizers on the menu for those who dare eat. But the people are friendly and laid-back. It’s a place to disappear, and disappearing sounds good to me at the moment. It started as a glass of wine, and then it became three, and I’m thinking it’s five now. Once I started, I couldn’t think of a good reason to stop.
This place is locals only—tradesmen and laborers and the occasional cop—which I prefer, because it’s high season in the Hamptons and all the money’s in town. Not that I don’t enjoy seeing men with cardigans tied around their necks and women with so much work done on their faces that they’ve begun to resemble the Joker. Just not on my day off. And not after the day I’ve had, making a jerk out of myself in front of my uncle, the guy who gave me a second chance.
I should stop drinking. My thoughts are swimming and my mood is darkening. I’m still not sure I made the right move, coming to the Hamptons. I could have found something else to do in Manhattan, or I could have tried to find another big city and start over, even if I had to start at the bottom rung again on patrol. But my uncle the chief made me an offer, and nobody else was knocking down my door.
“Shit,” I say, the word slow and heavy on my tongue. I check my watch, and it’s nearing six o’clock in the evening. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and my stomach is hollowed out and churning. (Some might argue that’s an apt summary of my life, too.)
“Whatever, man. Whatever! You know I’m good for it! How long I been comin’ here?”
The small outburst comes from the guy at the end of the bar, whom I’ve managed not to notice since I’ve been here. Or maybe he just arrived. My brain isn’t hitting on all cylinders right now.
He’s dressed the same way he was today at Melanie Phillips’s funeral, a dark T-shirt that I might otherwise use to wipe my kitchen counter, a green ball cap turned backward, his long, strawlike hair popping out on both sides and covering his ears.