Mr. Parrish. Fuck. And the police report on the incident. What was that fake name that Crow had given?
“Bob Smith,” the prosecutor read from a photocopy. “Believed to be age sixteen, of 400 Battery Avenue, an address that would put him in the middle of the harbor. Is Bob Smith the correct name for the young man who was staying with you?”
“If it’s the name in the report, then it’s the name my boyfriend gave the police. He’s the one who brought the kid home.”
“Yes, and given that the police decided that fault couldn’t be ascertained in the accident and left it to the insurance companies to untangle, they probably don’t care if the name is correct or not. But we do. Is this the name of the young man who stayed with you, Miss Monaghan? And is this young man the source you’re protecting?”
There’s no time limit, she reminded herself, no penalty for not speaking immediately. Think this through, anticipate where they’re going.
“I should probably have my lawyer with me,” she ventured.
“As I said, we can go downtown to wait for him.”
She should do that. But she was tired and hungry, two factors on which they were clearly banking, and she didn’t want to sit in some uncomfortable chair all evening, waiting for Tyner to return home. The opera, she remembered. He and Kitty had season tickets. Box seats-hardly an indulgence for a man in a wheelchair. She imagined them holding hands, lost in some nineteenth-century melodrama while she was caught up in this twenty-first-century one.
“I can’t lie to you,” she said, her voice sorrowful.
Jenkins nodded in kind empathy, while the younger men just stared at her, sharp and impatient.
“I can’t lie to you-because it’s a federal crime to lie to you. If there was anything for the average American to glean from the exhaustive coverage of the Martha Stewart case, it’s that it’s against the law to lie to federal investigators. So I can’t lie to you. I just won’t answer that question, if that’s okay.”
Jenkins’s smile vanished. “This is your source,” he said, pointing to the photocopy of the police report. “This is your source, and your boyfriend made a false statement to a police officer, and he can be prosecuted for that.”
Tess said nothing, focusing all her energy on remaining impassive. It took an amazing amount of effort, but she imagined herself as the Sphinx. Of course, Oedipus had defeated the Sphinx, but these three men didn’t appear to be anointed by destiny.
“We can’t find Bob Smith at his nonexistent address on Battery Avenue. But we did find a Bob Smith in the database of people who have been convicted of drug crimes. Can we assume that’s your Bob Smith?”
Sphinx. Sphinx, sphinx, sphinx. The word repeated in her head like a key on a tinny piano, pressed over and over again, or a drip from a faucet. Sphinx, sphinx, sphinx. Plink, plink, plink.
“Okay, we’re going to assume that it is. And given that Mr. Smith has served time for distribution-related charges, we’re going to assume that you’re working with him. And given that Mr. Smith had permission to use your vehicles, we can seize those, along with your personal and professional accounts. To keep that from happening, all you have to do is set the record straight and tell us who stayed at your house last week. Once we establish that your Bob Smith is not the convicted drug dealer, we won’t have to pursue these charges against you.”
Tess did not doubt that they could do everything they said they could. But she was reasonably certain they could not do it this very minute and that they were not prepared to charge her with anything. If they were, they would have taken her downtown at the outset. They were bullies and bluffers-for now. They were trying to do an end run around the grand jury proceedings, bigfoot the case on the sly, and grab all the glory for themselves.
“What’s the DOB on your Bob Smith?” she asked on a hunch.
“January thirtieth, 1969,” the prosecutor said swiftly, one of those bright boys who can’t resist giving an answer he knows, even as the older man frowned at him.
“Well, as you said, you’re looking for a teenager.”
“Enough,” said Jenkins. “Tell us the name of the boy who stayed here. You’ll regret it if you don’t, Miss Monaghan. I’m sure you think you’re being noble, but your loyalties are misplaced.”
“I can’t continue this conversation without my lawyer,” she said, much the way a polite child might say, The brussels sprouts look delicious, but I happen to be full.
It was the kind of moment that actually deserves to be called pregnant, a full and bursting moment in which it was clear that something was about to happen, but not what or how.
Then Whitney Talbot arrived.
“I was at Video Americain, so I grabbed a movie from the recommended shelf-Funny Bones, have you seen it? I thought we could order in from the Ambassador. Oh, and I picked up red wine and beer at Alonso’s, because Indian food is so hit-and-miss in terms of beverages, and I don’t trust your taste in wine.” She turned to the agents and rolled her eyes. “She still likes merlot.”
It was always interesting watching someone meet Whitney for the first time, trying to take in what would have been a sedate, preppy prettiness if she were ever quiet for more than twenty seconds. She made an especially striking impression tonight, dressed in ratty sweats that appeared to date from their college days. Tess must have caught her as she headed home from doing erg pieces at the boathouse.
It was also interesting to see how quickly Whitney could size up a situation. Her own breathless monologue finished, she regarded the three suited men in Tess’s dining room, dropped the alcohol and videos on the table, then disappeared into the kitchen and began noisily gathering plates and glasses as if nothing unusual had happened. After pointedly setting two places at the table, she headed into Tess’s office, where she could be heard noisily punching the buttons on the phone and demanding Indian food. All for show, Tess assumed. The Ambassador didn’t deliver.
“Where is your boyfriend, Miss Monaghan?” Jenkins asked.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Is that the truth?”
“He told me he was scouting bands for the club where he works.”
“He told you-interesting choice of words. It almost sounds as if you don’t quite believe him.”
“They’ve had a lot of off-and-on moments, those two,” Whitney said, coming back into the living room with Tess’s digital camera. “Tess, did you forget your ritual?”
“Ritual?”
“Taking everyone’s photograph when they cross your threshold. You know, like John Waters does.” The local film director did in fact take Polaroids of everyone who entered his home, an obsession he had detailed for several magazines. Whitney quickly shot three photographs of the visitors, not giving them time to protest, then handed the camera to Tess. “Me, too. Remember, you shoot me every time.”
Tess followed her instructions, not sure what Whitney was up to, but confident there was, as always, a plan.
“There’s only going to be enough food for two,” Whitney said, her voice den-mother brisk, her hands on her barely existent hips. She looked as if she were about to start a rousing game of I’m a Little Teapot. “So unless you want to watch us eat-”