Then he said, “This sounds weird, but I feel like it was all my fault. Her affair, I mean. It wasn’t that I … well, I loved her, and I treated her well, and I don’t think I was a bad lover. We were married for twelve years, and I did everything … everything right, I thought. Everything a good husband is supposed to do. I built up a good practice, earned good money, tried to give her everything she wanted.”
“What about children?” Riley asked.
Fisher shook his head again.
“We just kept putting it off. It never seemed like the right time somehow. Neither of us could say exactly why. Maybe we had doubts about ourselves, whether we’d be good parents. And as the years passed by, it just seemed to get less likely that it ever would be the right time.”
Fisher let out a sad, bitter chuckle.
He said, “Did you know that that Barnwell, Illinois, has been ranked the third most boring town to live in, in the whole Unites States? Except for golf. It’s not a bad town for golf. Even the bowling is considered lousy. Reese and I both grew up here. I don’t guess it occurred to either of us to go anyplace else until we were way too settled—until it was too late.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Small wonder she was bored—not just with the town, but with me. She loved literature and the arts. I wish I did too, but I don’t, and I’ve never been able to fake it. And Barnwell is dead to the world as far as that kind of thing is concerned. She did everything she could to liven up this town, like start a choral group, put on plays, organize reading clubs. But nothing took hold. She tried not to act like it, but she was miserable.”
He squinted pensively.
“I guess I hoped that whoever she was seeing … could really help fill what was missing from her life. Sometimes I try to imagine what he must be like. Rich, maybe—or at least comfortably well off, with all the taste and culture that I just don’t have. Somebody who could take her to art galleries, plays, symphonies, the opera. I hoped he could do everything that I couldn’t do.”
Riley asked slowly, “Were you ever unfaithful?”
Fisher shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I don’t feel especially virtuous about it. I never took enough interest in anyone else, I guess. I’m just too …”
He didn’t finish his sentence, but Riley knew what he was leaving unsaid.
“I’m just too boring to do something like that.”
Riley was feeling strangely uncomfortable now. She wasn’t sure just why. But for some reason, this man was reminding her of Ryan again.
Why? she wondered.
Aside from a certain physical resemblance, how were they in any way alike? Ryan was vain, self-centered, amoral, and impervious to self-criticism. This man seemed introspective and empathetic, perhaps to a fault—that is, if Riley could believe anything he was saying.
Be careful, she told herself. She knew that credulity could be dangerous at a moment like this.
She said, “Mr. Fisher, what you’re telling us could be very important. Do you have any idea how we might find out who your wife’s lover was?”
“No. I’ve snooped through her office and her computer, looking through letters and emails. I’ve never found anything suspicious.”
Riley was on the verge of asking …
“So are you really sure she was having an affair?”
It was quite possible that the man’s insecurity had made him paranoid.
She reminded herself that Reese Fisher’s cell phone was supposedly on its way to Quantico to be examined by technicians there. Maybe Sam Flores and his team could find significant text messages or calls.
Riley leaned toward Fisher slightly.
“Mr. Fisher, do you think your wife’s involvement with another man might have had anything to do with her murder?”
Fisher’s eyes widened, as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “I can’t imagine …”
He seemed to be searching for the right words.
He said, “Surely Reese would never have been involved with anybody who meant her any harm. I just can’t believe that.”
He sounded perfectly sincere.
But was he?
Why couldn’t she tell?
Riley turned toward Bill and gave him a nod, a familiar signal for him to ask his own questions. Bill complied, asking about routine details. Did Reese have any relationship with Fern Bruder, the earlier victim? Did Fisher personally know of anyone with grudges or grievances against Reese? Had she been acting strangely lately?
As Fisher kept saying no in answer to all of Bill’s questions, Riley studied him carefully, trying to be alert for any trace of dishonesty or evasion. She got no clear gut feelings about him at all.
That worried her—and worried her badly.
She knew that his alibi was almost worthless. He was certainly well off enough to hire out his wife’s murder if he wanted to.
And now it appeared that he had ample reason to want to.
His self-effacement and self-blame might be nothing more than an act.
I ought to be able to tell, Riley thought.
In fact, she prided herself on being able to see through facades, to detect evil when it was in the same room with her.
But for some reason, her instincts didn’t seem to be engaged right now.
Why? Was his resemblance to Ryan clouding her thinking? The possibility disturbed her deeply.
Finally, there seemed nothing more to ask.
Riley said, “Mr. Fisher, we’re terribly sorry for your loss, and we’re deeply grateful for your time. Do you have any plans to leave Barnwell in the next few days?”
“No,” Fisher said.
Riley handed him her card and said, “We’d rather you don’t. In fact, we want you to keep in close touch with us. We may need to talk to you again in the near future.”
Fisher took the card and nodded.
When Riley and her colleagues left the building, she was surprised at how dark it had gotten. She looked at her watch and saw that it was after nine o’clock.
As they walked toward the car that the local police chief had lent them, Jenn asked, “So what do we think? Is he our killer?”
Riley hesitated.
Then she said, “I don’t know. But somebody had better keep a close eye on him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As they walked toward the car, Riley was worried, but not about the man they had just interviewed. She had no idea whether or not he could be the killer, and that’s what disturbed her.
Why were her instincts floundering right now?
What was she going to do about it?
She was grateful for the distraction when Bill’s cell phone buzzed.
Bill took out the phone and looked at it, then said, “It’s a text from Bull Cullen. He says he’s put the three railroad men up in a local motel, and he’s made a reservation for us as well. He wants us to meet him there.”
Riley was about to protest, but she realized she had no alternate course of action in mind. The day had slipped away quickly and there didn’t seem to be anything more they could look into tonight. Uncertainty was all they had to show for their efforts.
Her spirits sank further as she got into the driver’s seat and drove the short distance to the motel. It didn’t help to see Bull Cullen waiting for them when she pulled the car up to the motel office. With a wide smile, he directed them to the parking spot outside a numbered door.
Riley thought that Cullen looked positively gleeful as they got out of the car and followed him into the room he had rented for them. Then she understood why he was so pleased with himself.
The room was small, with two single beds and a sofa that had been opened up to make a third bed. There was small desk with a chair, a shabby cabinet with an old TV, and very little space left to walk around in. It had to be the cheapest room available.
Not that Riley cared especially, and she knew that Bill didn’t either. Over the years they’d shared much sparser lodgings and had even slept overnight in cars and vans when it had been necessary. Of course she was sure that these meager lodgings weren’t a matter of necessity.
This was nothing short of a deliberate slight.
She could see that Bill was trying to control his amusement, but Jenn looked thoroughly disgusted.
Trying to sound nonchalant, Cullen asked, “How did your interview go with Chase Fisher? I don’t assume you learned anything new.”