“Why don’t I explain when I see you,” she says. “Let’s say nine thirty tomorrow morning.”
My mind scrambles. I can’t show up alone this time, that’s for sure. I need a lawyer with me, but it may be impossible to line one up on such short notice, particularly on a Saturday. Guy’s lawyer, I think. The best strategy is probably to recruit him into accompanying me.
“I think that should work,” I say. “If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know.” This way I’ve secured myself wiggle room if I can’t cough up a lawyer before then.
As soon as I disconnect, I call Guy and he picks up right away.
“It’s good to hear from you, Bryn,” he says.
“Guy, the police want to see me again. Do you have any idea why?”
“Wow, I don’t know. Maybe . . . maybe they want to ask more questions about the missing money. That’s one of the points they kept harping on yesterday. They wondered why you thought Eve had taken it.”
“I never accused Eve of taking the money. I asked her if one of the waiters might have done it.”
“Well, you can clarify that with them. But you shouldn’t go alone. Do you want me to call the lawyer I’m using?”
“Yes, I was going to ask you that.” I pause a moment, gathering my words. “I don’t want to be caught off guard during the interview, Guy. So I need to know. Are there any ugly surprises waiting for me?”
He knows exactly what I mean by “surprises”: other sexy texts to Eve or meet-ups with her that he hasn’t disclosed to me.
“No, there won’t be any surprises, Bryn. As I told you, I did not have an affair with Eve Blazer.”
I can’t help but detect the hint of frustration in his tone. It’s almost a snippiness. He’s close to his limit, I guess, with being questioned and doubted and sent packing. But I’m not ready to say, Come home. First I want a face-to-face conversation with him, as Dr. G suggested, one in which I can take full stock of him.
We end the call with him promising to call Maycock pronto. Ten minutes later Guy phones back, announcing that the lawyer will accompany me to the station but wants to meet with me first at his office to prep.
“Good.” I hesitate briefly, making sure I’m okay with what I’m about to say. “Do you want to meet sometime later tomorrow and talk?”
“Yes, I’d like that. Why don’t we have an early dinner in town?”
After we’ve signed off, I sit for a minute, aware of the relief I’m experiencing over the plan to see him. He’s sworn there won’t be surprises, so maybe all I’m looking at are two small episodes of poor judgment on his part. I don’t know if I can let go of those moments—not because of the actions per se, but because of what they betray about Guy—and yet I think I’m willing to try.
I crash in bed at ten that night, the house once again lit up like an ocean liner. Despite how tired I am, sleep completely rebuffs me. There are the noises again, the house creaking and groaning.
And then there are the noises in my head, as my mind chews over the call with Guy, the trip to Stephanie’s, the awkward conversation with Bloom, and of course the looming meeting with Corcoran.
What more can I possibly tell the woman? If, as Guy suggested, she wants to probe about the missing money, it doesn’t make any sense because the waiters aren’t suspects. Unless the cops have managed to puncture one of their alibis.
I open my eyes and stare into the darkness. The murderer is still out there somewhere. Perhaps nursing a rage toward me. It’s three o’clock before I drift into a fitful sleep.
I’m at the law firm precisely at eight, having done my best to camouflage the dark circles under my eyes with concealer. Maycock himself opens the door to the house-turned-office building. He’s in his fifties, I guess, heavyset, with a square-jawed face, deep blue eyes, and brown hair heavily tinged with silver. He’s dressed in a crisp cotton dress shirt and gray pin-striped suit pants. The only thing undermining the distinguished aura is a florid complexion. His face is the pinky red of a sunrise.
“Come in, Ms. Harper,” he says. Pleasant but professional. “We don’t have much time, so let’s get started right away.”
He leads me from the small entranceway toward the back of the house, which has been gutted and turned into offices and conference rooms. Most are dark today, and the place smells as if it’s been sprayed with one of those air fresheners named “Linen” or “Sky.”
Once we’re seated in Maycock’s office, he grabs a legal pad and asks me to take him through everything from beginning to end. He jots down notes as I speak, with hands as pink as his face.
When I’m done racing through the details, Maycock taps the pen against the pad several times, making a light thwacking sound.
“Did Detective Corcoran give you any indication why she wants to see you?”
“No, she was totally cagey. And I’ve told her everything I possibly can.”