Melanie sighed and took a sip of her soda, buying a minute to think. Amanda was so groggy anyway that interviewing her right now probably wouldn’t be fruitful. Maybe it made sense to wait a few hours for Amanda’s psychiatrist to show up in order to win Nell’s cooperation. After all, the other alternative was forcing the girl into the grand jury. Even putting aside Melanie’s own qualms, it would look strange to the grand jurors to compel Amanda’s testimony. They’d wonder what was wrong, why Melanie couldn’t get Amanda to talk voluntarily. Come to think of it, she was wondering that herself.
“I could agree to wait until the morning, Mrs. Benson, on the condition that we proceed then whether or not the doctor is present. Oh, by the way, where were you last night when your husband was murdered?” The question just popped out.
“I was in East Hampton, having dinner with some girlfriends. I can give you their names if you’d care to check.”
Nell looked Melanie square in the eyes as she uttered this. Her gaze was so cool and casual that Melanie wondered if she’d been waiting for that question. She decided to call Nell’s bluff. She took a small notebook from her handbag and withdrew the tiny gold pen tucked into its spine.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Melanie said, handing them to Nell. But Nell looked untroubled as she carefully wrote down several names in a girlish script.
“I’m giving you their telephone numbers as well. Feel free to call. They’ll be happy to answer any questions about me. These are my Hamptons chums. We’ve been summering together for years. We have dinner together every Monday night.”
“Without your husbands?”
“Of course. The wives and children spend the summers out there. The men are generally in the city during the week, doing whatever it is they do.” Nell’s condescending glance underlined the social chasm between them.
“Of course,” Melanie said. She took back her notebook and looked at the names. She’d call each one of them, but she felt certain the story would check out one way or the other. Her imagination was working overtime. Nell Benson was surely completely innocent in her husband’s murder. And if she wasn’t…well, she’d be smart enough to manufacture an airtight alibi.
Back in the room, under Nell’s watchful eye, Melanie told Randall that the interview would have to wait until later. She studied Amanda Benson’s face as Randall folded the newspaper he’d been reading and stood up. The girl was pale as snow, her eyes tightly closed now. She lay so listless that she barely seemed to breathe. How much could she do for them in this condition anyway? Melanie felt desperately sad for her. She could predict how it would go for Amanda-the nightmares, the flashbacks, the debilitating fear following her everywhere for years to come. Guilt-stricken, Melanie chided herself for making such an issue with Nell Benson about interviewing Amanda. Shouldn’t she, of all people, have a little more sensitivity?
A FEW MINUTES LATER, WHEN THEY WERE ALONE in the elevator, Randall said, “I don’t get it. Why are we backing off?”
“It would look pretty damn weird to throw the maimed daughter in the grand jury under subpoena, don’t you think?” Melanie’s tone was defensive. Despite her sympathy, she wasn’t convinced she’d made the right choice for the investigation. “I’m giving Nell Benson a chance to cooperate voluntarily. She says Amanda has psychological problems. She wants her psychiatrist there when we interview her. She’s got a point, when you consider what Amanda’s been through.”
“Say we do like she asks. You really think she’ll cooperate once the shrink gets here?” Randall asked.
“You don’t?” His dubious look answered the question. “You get a weird vibe from her, too, huh?”
“I know stonewalling when I see it,” he said.
“You think she could possibly be involved in her husband’s murder?”
“Is it possible? Normally I’d say hell yeah. I been on the job a long time. Find a body shot dead in a ditch, the first thing I do is check the spouse’s gun. Nine times out of ten, it still reeks of powder. But here we got reliable third-party information that some serious players are involved. Even if the wife would normally be a suspect, I don’t see Nell Benson associating with gangsta types, do you?”
“Not hardly,” Melanie agreed.
“Then again, she hinks me up big-time.”
“Yeah, me, too, but could that be because she comes off as a rich, snotty bitch? I don’t want to be influenced by personal animosity.”
Randall raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was one to trust his own gut.
“Okay, then,” Melanie continued, “maybe Nell’s genuinely trying to protect her daughter. I mean, come on. The girl just got her fingers cut off by a psycho killer and watched her father get tortured to death. Put yourself in the place of a parent seeing a child suffer like that.”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Randall said, a catch in his voice. “Maybe you’re right.”
The elevator reached the lobby. As the doors opened, she read in Randall’s face a lot of years of watching a child suffer.
“How old are you, Randall?” she asked as they stepped off the elevator and headed for the exit.
“Me? Forty-seven. But that’s cop years. Twice as long as regular-people years, so really I’m ninety-four.” He chuckled at himself, then turned serious. “But why do you ask, dear?”
“I don’t know. Something in your face just now. You look like you’ve seen a lot.”
He smiled wearily. “That I have. Including plenty of things I’d rather forget.”
She wouldn’t ask him directly about his son’s overdose death. She didn’t feel right about that. He might be upset that Dan had told her.
“The job must take its toll,” she said instead, as they emerged onto the street. “How long until you retire?”
“Soon, very soon. And then you won’t be seeing me around here no more. I’m gonna take my pension and my savings, buy a little shack somewhere with a stream out back. Somewhere warm, good for my wife’s health. I’ll catch a fish for dinner every night, and she’ll cook it up just right.”
“Sounds nice. Too quiet for me, but nice.”
“Aw, you should give quiet a try. Good for the soul. Anybody looking in your eyes can see you need it as much as me.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t, so taken aback was she that he saw through her like that.
“Need a lift?” she asked after a silence. “I have an appointment at Benson’s law firm in twenty minutes, but I could drop you somewhere on the way.”
“No thanks. I’m parked around the corner.”
“Okay. Catch up with you later, then.”
“Yup. You take care, child.”
Melanie got into her car, turned on the engine, and pulled out into the stream of traffic. Because their conversation had taken a personal turn, Randall hadn’t questioned her further about her decision to back off on interviewing Amanda Benson. But, thinking about how little information she’d gotten from this visit, she questioned herself.
10
PRESTIGIOUS NEW YORK CITY LAW FIRMS, RATHER than bustling with commerce, tend to be hushed and reverent places. The attorneys who work in them neither remove their suit jackets nor raise their voices. And they prefer to think of their profession as sublime and intellectual, rather than the hard-nosed business it really is.
Melanie recalled this attitude the moment she stepped off the elevator into the tasteful thirty-second-floor reception area of Reed, Reed and Watson. She’d spent two years after her judicial clerkship toiling in the silent law library of just such a firm, researching the fine points of reinsurance law and the Uniform Commercial Code. Occasionally the partners she worked for took her to lunch at some elegant old establishment. They all shared an uncanny ability to make restrained, polite conversation while revealing nothing whatsoever about themselves or their opinions. She never knew whether they liked her or merely tolerated her, or whether she had the slightest chance of making partner if she stayed for the requisite eight or ten years. The arctic chill of the place sent her fleeing the second she landed a prosecutor job.