She took her time thinking about it. Her thumbs were still on her temples, rubbing and circling.
“In the last five or six days, he’d been worried about something. I didn’t know what, and then you came to see me, that first time. So I thought, maybe he’s worried about that. But of course he didn’t say anything to me.”
“You knocked on the study door, and it was locked.”
“That’s right.”
“You took the spare key and opened the door.”
This time, when she looked up, her eyes were more focused. Maybe it was because of the questions, or maybe she’d just begun to wake up.
“I told the woman cop that already. Your boss. We were downstairs, and she called you and told you to come.”
“Was the study door usually locked?”
“Sometimes.”
“When he was in it, or when he was gone?”
“When he was gone. He’d never locked himself in.”
“If it was locked, and he was gone, would you go in?”
“But he wasn’t gone, Mr. Cain—his car was in the driveway. That’s why I went in. I couldn’t find him, but his car was there, and his study door was locked. Harry Castelli doesn’t take long walks on the beach. He’s not that kind of man. If his car’s home, then he’s in the house.”
“Okay,” Cain said. He looked at Fischer. It was her turn for a while, if she wanted it.
“Mrs. Castelli,” Fischer said. “I’m Special Agent Karen Fischer, with the FBI.”
“The FBI?”
“We’re looking into this too.”
“Okay.”
“After you found Harry, what was the first phone call you made?”
“To 911.”
“And you made that on your cell?”
Mona Castelli nodded. She opened the purse on the floor next to her and took out a phone. She put it on the coffee table, then flipped to the call log.
“May I?” Fischer asked.
She leaned across and looked at the phone, then showed it to Cain. The call to 911 had gone out at 3:03. It was the last call she’d made or received. The next closest thing on the log was a short outgoing call at 11:05 p.m. Yesterday evening, when she was supposed to have been down in Monterey.
Fischer handed the phone back.
“What’s this one at 11:05? Short call, lasted five seconds. There wasn’t a name in your contacts list. Whose number was that?”
Mona Castelli looked at her phone screen. Her face scrunched up.
“I think that’s Meredith Miles.”
“The actress?” Fischer said.
“The actress. She was at the fundraiser. She asked for my number, but I didn’t know it—I was—I’d been—”
“Drinking,” Cain said.
Mona Castelli nodded.
“So she used your phone to call hers,” Fischer said. “Is that it?”
“It didn’t seem important. It’s not important.” She looked at Cain. “When will it be all right to use my house again?”
“You’ll be in a hotel the next couple of days.”
“I’ll need to get some things.”
“Tell me what you want, and where I can find it. I’d rather you not go in.”
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll just go to a store.”
Cain resisted looking at Fischer to see how she was reacting to that. She was too good of an investigator to show anything on her face, and of course it might not mean anything at all. Mona Castelli had just lost her husband. She was in shock, humming with the tail end of the lorazepam injected by the paramedics. If none of this had happened, she would have been in bed until sunset, sleeping off the gin.
“I have one more question,” Cain said. “You understand I have to ask it.”
“Okay.”
“Did your husband have life insurance?”
She shook her head, then nodded. She seemed to consider another sip of her coffee but never reached for the mug.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sure he would. Probably something on top of whatever the city had for him. He doesn’t believe in skimping.”
“Who’d know?”
“Who do you think?” she asked. “Melissa Montgomery has all of that. If you go to his office, I’m sure she’ll be able to show you where it is.”
“Okay,” Cain said. He looked at Fischer. “Did you have anything else?”
“No.”
“The officer here will drive you to a hotel,” Cain said. “He can take you to a shop, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the kid said. “Happy to.”
“Just a hotel,” Mona said. “The Palace—Harry and I always stayed at the Palace in between moves.”
“You know where that is?” Cain asked the patrol officer.
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. Go ahead and take her.”
“Yes, sir—but can I have a word first, Inspector?”
The kid led Cain to the kitchen, then gestured through the window of the breakfast nook to the tiny backyard. Fischer shadowed them, standing close enough to overhear the officer without losing sight of Mona Castelli.
“You should talk to them,” he told Cain. “The people who own this house. The Petrovics. Roger and Dana. They were home when it happened—they heard the shot.”
Cain read the name tag on the man’s shirt pocket.