Chương 6
“There was nothing he could do by remaining at the scene.”
“He could have told the police why she crashed.”
“He did not know why she crashed.”
“He was following her!”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is when she sees him and swerves.”
“We did not know she had seen him.”
Claire said, “You suspected.”
Richard looked at her.
“Yes.”
The admission silenced everyone.
Margaret sank deeper into the chair.
Claire could hear the rain changing against the glass, softer for a moment.
Richard walked to the window.
His reflection floated over Manhattan.
“When Caleb called me,” he said, “he was panicked. He said you had lost control. He said he had not made contact with your vehicle. I had no way to know whether his presence contributed.”
“You could have told police.”
“And said what? That one of our security employees had been observing the future wife of my son?”
“Yes.”
Richard looked back at her.
“You say that now because you are sitting on the other side of the consequence.”
Claire almost laughed.
“You think there is a side of this where you’re the victim?”
“No.”
“Then stop talking like there is.”
His eyes hardened.
“I am telling you what happened.”
“No. You’re telling me why you think what happened was reasonable.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Claire said. “It’s worse.”
The elevator chimed again.
Two people stepped out.
Claire recognized Detective Lena Ortiz first. Mid-forties, dark hair pinned badly because she had probably redone it in a car mirror, gray raincoat dripping onto the marble. Beside her was Claire’s attorney, Daniel Mercer, carrying a leather folder under one arm.
Richard did not turn from the glass.
Margaret stood.
Ethan looked at Claire.
“You really did.”
Claire met his eyes.
“Yes.”
Ortiz took in the room and then looked at the silver case.
“Captain Hayes.”
“Detective.”
“I was told there might be an issue with your departure.”
“The weather.”
“Good. Weather I understand.”
Mercer’s gaze moved to Richard.
“I see everyone made it.”
Richard finally turned.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Mr. Whitmore.”
The dislike between them had the stale familiarity of people who had already exchanged letters written by other lawyers.
Ortiz held out a hand to Claire.
“Case?”
Claire gave her the silver case.
Richard watched it leave her possession.
Another rearrangement.
This one permanent.
Ortiz set the case on the table without opening it.
“I’m going to say this once,” she said. “Nobody in this room is under arrest. I am not conducting a custodial interview here. I came because Captain Hayes reported concern that evidence relevant to an active investigation might be removed or destroyed before she could transfer it.”
Richard looked at Claire.
She did not blink.
Ortiz continued. “If anyone wishes to leave, you can leave.”
Richard’s mouth tightened.
“Can I take the case?”
“No.”
“Then your invitation is less generous than it sounds.”
“The case belongs to Captain Hayes.”
Claire said, “Not anymore.”
Ortiz looked at her.
Claire nodded toward it.
“I’m transferring it to you.”
Mercer opened his folder and removed a one-page receipt.
Ortiz signed.
Richard watched the entire process.
There would be no dramatic snatching of evidence.
No gun.
No confession.
Just paper, signatures, dates, hands.
Claire had come to understand that most irreversible things looked ordinary when they happened correctly.
Ethan stood near the glass wall, his back to the room.
Margaret remained seated.
Richard’s phone vibrated again.
This time he answered.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“No.”
Another pause.
“I said no.”
He ended the call.
Ortiz glanced toward him.
“Company attorney?”
Richard gave her a thin smile.
“My driver.”
Ortiz did not smile back.
Claire suspected it was a lie. She also suspected Ortiz knew it and had decided the lie was not currently worth her time.
That was another thing Claire had learned since the crash.
Not every lie deserved immediate pursuit.
Some were useful because people became more careless after they believed a lie had worked.
Ortiz looked at Claire.
“Do you still intend to transfer tonight?”
“If weather clears.”
“You’re comfortable traveling?”
Claire nearly said yes.
Then the pain in her leg climbed high enough to blur the edge of the room for half a second.
Mercer saw.
So did Ethan.
Claire closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Ethan was still exactly where she had told him to stay.
That restraint cost him.
She noticed.
“I need medication first,” she said.
Margaret stood too quickly.
“I can get the nurse.”
Ortiz said, “I’ll call.”
“No,” Claire said.
Everyone stopped.
She looked at Margaret.
“You can.”
Margaret’s face changed.
It was not forgiveness.
Claire did not mean it as forgiveness.
But Margaret nodded and went toward the elevator.
Richard watched his wife leave without him.
For thirty-nine years, Margaret Whitmore had moved through rooms in relation to her husband, even when she moved against him.
This time she did not look back.
Ethan turned from the window.
“What happens now?”
Ortiz answered carefully.
“We verify what we have.”
“You have Caleb’s statement?”
“We have information from several sources.”
“Does he admit following her?”
Ortiz’s eyes moved toward Richard.
“I’m not discussing witness statements in front of everyone.”
Richard said, “A wise decision.”
Ethan’s head snapped toward him.
“Could you not do that?”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’re still chairing the meeting.”
Richard looked at his son.
Habit again.
Perhaps he could not stop.
Claire felt tired enough to sleep through the end of civilization.
Mercer crouched beside her.
“Your color’s bad.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t aesthetic criticism.”
“I know.”
“You need to go downstairs.”
“I’m supposed to leave.”
“You’re supposed to avoid another surgery.”
Claire glanced toward the helicopter.
The rooftop lights strobed through the wet glass.
“I hate hospitals.”
Mercer stood.
“An opinion you have expressed with impressive consistency.”
Ortiz almost smiled.
May you like
Claire looked at Ethan.
He had heard her complain about hospitals long before she needed one. She disliked the smell, the fluorescent lighting, the strange absence of ordinary time. Ethan once teased her for taking stairs in a medical building simply to avoid walking through a surgical waiting room.
