Finn had lived with easy wealth all of his life, and the material trappings it could buy, but he found Marshall Pike's pristine office, with its low hum of an air filter discreetly sucking impurities, soulless.
"I would, naturally, be happy to cooperate with the police." Piously, Marshall tugged the sleeves of his jacket over the monogrammed cuffs of his crisp white shirt. "As I explained to you, they haven't found it necessary to question me. Why would they? I have nothing to say to the press."
"As I explained to you, I'm not here as a member of the press. You're not obligated to talk to me, Pike, but if you don't…" Finn spread his hands. Jenner was going to be pissed, he thought, that he hadn't cleared this interview with the police. But this particular contact was personal. "Some of my associates might appreciate having their memory jogged about a certain incident between you and Angela. One that slipped through the cracks a couple of years ago?"
"I can't imagine that something so trivial would be of interest to anyone." "It's amazing, isn't it, what grabs the viewer's attention? And what, if presented with a certain angle, will intrigue the police."
The man was reaching, of course, Marshall assured himself. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to connect him with Angela but a momentary lapse of judgment. And yet… a word to the wrong person could result in publicity his practice couldn't afford.
A few questions, he decided, a few answers wouldn't matter. He was, after all, an expert at communication. If he couldn't handle an overexposed reporter, he didn't deserve the degrees hanging prominently on the wall behind him.
More, he would enjoy outwitting the man Deanna had chosen over him.
"My last appointment for the day canceled." He shook his head as if in pity for the unhappy couple who wouldn't benefit from his skills. "I don't have another engagement until seven. I can spare you a few moments."
"That's all I'll need. When did you hear about Angela's death?"
"On the news, the morning after the murder. I was shocked. I understand that Deanna was with her in the studio. As you know, Deanna and I had a relationship. Naturally, I'm concerned about her."
"I'm sure that will help her sleep easy at night."
"I have tried to contact her, to offer my support."
"She doesn't need it." "Territorial, Mr. Riley?" Marshall asked with a curve of the lips.
"Absolutely, Dr. Pike," Finn answered.
"In my profession, it's essential to be fair-minded." He continued to smile. "Deanna meant a great deal to me at one time."
With some interviews you prodded, with others you planted. In Marshall's case, Finn noted that the shorter the question, the more expansive the answer.
"Did she?"
"A great deal of time has passed. And Deanna is engaged to you. Regardless, I would still offer whatever support or help I could to someone I was fond of, particularly under such shocking circumstances." "And Angela Perkins?" Finn leaned back in his chair. However relaxed his pose, he was alert, watching every flick of Marshall's eye. "Were you fond of her?"
"No," he said shortly. "I was not." "Yet it was your affair with Miss Perkins which ended your relationship with Deanna."
"There was no affair." Marshall linked his hands on the desktop. "There was a momentary lapse of control and common sense. I came to understand rather quickly that Angela had orchestrated the entire incident for her own reasons."
"Which were?"
"In my opinion? To manipulate Deanna and to cause her distress. She was successful." His smile was thin and humorless. "Although Deanna did not accept the position Angela had offered her in New York, she did sever ties with me."
"You resent that?"
"I resent, Mr. Riley, that Deanna refused to see the incident for what it was. Less than nothing. A mere physical reaction to deliberate stimuli. There was no emotion involved, none at all."
"Some people are more emotional about sex than others." Finn smiled wider, deliberately baiting him. "Deanna's very emotional."
"Indeed," he said, and left it at that. When Finn remained silent, annoyance pushed him on. "I don't understand how my unfortunate misstep could be related to the investigation."
"I didn't say it was," Finn said pleasantly. "But, just to clear up that matter, why don't you tell me where you were on the night of the murder? Between the hours of eleven and two?"
"I was home."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone." Confident now, Marshall relaxed. His eyes were mild. "I'm sure you'd agree, if I'd been planning on murder I would have had the simple intelligence to provide myself with an alibi. However, I had dinner, alone, spent a few hours working on case studies, then went to bed."
"Did you speak with anyone? Receive any phone calls?"
"I let the service take my calls. I don't like to be interrupted when I'm working — barring emergencies." He smiled cockily. "Do you advise me to contact my lawyer, Mr. Riley?"
"If you think you need one." If he was lying, Finn mused, he was cool about it. "When was the last time you saw Angela?"
For the first time in the interview there was a flash of genuine pleasure in Marshall's eyes. "I haven't seen Angela since she made the move to New York. That would be over two years ago."
"Have you had any contact with her since that time?" "Why would I? We did not have a love affair, as I explained."
"You didn't have one with Deanna, either," Finn commented, and had the satisfaction of wiping the smile from Marshall's face. "But you've continued to contact her."
"Not for nearly a year. She is not forgiving." "But you have sent notes. Made calls."
"No, I haven't. Not until I heard about this. She hasn't returned my calls, so I must assume she neither wants nor needs my help." Assured he'd been more than reasonable, he tapped his cuff again, rose. "As I said, I do have an appointment at seven, and I need to go home and change for the evening. I must say, this was an interesting interlude. Be sure to give Deanna my best."
"I don't think so." Finn rose as well, but made no move to leave. "I've got another question. You can call this one from reporter to psychologist."
Marshall's lips jerked into a sneer. "How could I refuse?"
"It's about obsession." Finn let the word hang a moment, watching for any sign: an avoidance of eye contact, a tic, a change in tone. "If a man, or a woman, was fixed on someone, long-term, say, two or three years, and he had fantasies but he couldn't bring himself to approach this person, face to face, and in these fantasies he felt he'd been betrayed, what would he be feeling? Love? Or hate?"
"A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such little information. I can say that love and hate are as intricately entwined as the poets claim. Either one can take control, and either one, depending on circumstances, can be dangerous. Obsessions are rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me, are you planning a show on the topic?" "Could be." Finn reached for his coat. "As a layman, I wonder if someone who was dealing with that kind of obsession might be able to hide it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the mask slip." He studied Marshall's face now. "The old John Smith who mows down half a dozen people in a K Mart. The neighbors say what a nice, quiet guy he was."
"It happens, doesn't it? Most people are very clever at allowing others to see only what they wish to be seen. And most people only see what they choose in any case. If the human race were simpler, both of us would be looking for other means of employment."
"You have a point. Thanks for your time." As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman's face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.
Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.