“You’re not exactly brooding, ma’am,” Zina noted. “If you don’t mind my saying, you’re taking this pretty calmly.”
“I deal with problems every day, Detective. Kids who will never hear music or their mother’s voices, kids with abusive parents. Last week I had to tell an eight-year-old her chemotherapy regimen had failed and she probably won’t see Christmas. So this is very hard news, but...” Lauren gave a barely perceptible shrug.
“That would be a lot harder,” Zina conceded, impressed in spite of herself.
“And yet the sun also rises,” Lauren said firmly. “Every morning, ready or not. Are we done?”
“Just a few final questions,” Doyle said quickly. “Your husband had a string of traffic citations, mostly for speeding. Was he a reckless driver?”
“Jared never hit anyone, he had great reflexes. But every trip was Le Mans for him. I hated that car.”
“Was he ever involved in conflicts with other drivers?”
“Road rage, you mean? His driving often ticked people off, but he seldom stopped to argue. It was more fun to leave them in the dust.”
“Which brings us full circle to question number one,” Doyle said. “Can you think of anybody who might wish to harm your husband?”
Lauren hesitated a split second. Another hit, Zina thought, though not as strong as the first.
“No one,” Lauren said carefully. “Jared was a charming guy, as long as you weren’t playing tennis or facing him in court. If he was having trouble with clients, his office staff would know more than I do. He’s with Lehman and Greene.”
“How about you, ma’am?” Doyle asked. “The Benz is jointly owned, so it’s at least possible your husband wasn’t the intended victim. Have you had any problems? Threats, a stalker, anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about your students?” Zina asked. “Your schedule includes mentally challenged students as well as hearing-impaired. Are any of them violent? Maybe overly affectionate? Seems like there’s a lot of teacher-student hanky panky in the papers.”
Lauren met Zina’s eyes a moment, tapping on the desk with a single fingernail.
“You two are really good,” she said abruptly. “Usually the male plays the aggressive ‘bad cop,’ while the female plays the sympathetic sister. Reversing the roles is very effective.”
“Thanks, I think,” Zina said. “But you didn’t answer the question.”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, Detective Redfern, some of my students have behavioral problems that keep them out of mainstream schools. But none of them would have any reason to harm Jared. Or me. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a minute alone before my next class. Please.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Doyle said, rising. “I apologize for the tone of our questions. We’re sorry for your loss.” He handed her his card. “If you think of anything, please call, day or night.”
Zina hesitated in the doorway.
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Something else, Detective?”
“That kid you mentioned? What did she say when you told her the cancer had come back?”
“She... asked her father if they could celebrate an early Christmas. So she could give her toys to her friends.”
“Good God,” Zina said softly. “How do you handle it? Telling a child a thing like that?”
“Some days are like triage on the Titanic, Detective,” Lauren admitted, releasing a deep breath. “You protect the children as best you can. And at five o’clock, you go home, pour a stiff brandy, and curl up with a good book.”
“And tomorrow, the sun also rises,” Zina finished. “Every single day. Ready or not.”
In the hallway, Doyle glanced at Zina. “What?”
“I hate having to tell the wives. The tears, the wailing. Rips your freakin’ heart out.”
“The lady’s used to dealing with bad news.”
“She’s also pretty good at dodge-ball. She echoed some questions to buy time before she answered. Or didn’t answer at all.”
“She’s got degrees in psych and special ed. She’s probably better at this than we are. Anything else?”
“Yeah. Her clothes were expensive but not very stylish. She’s a good-looking woman, but she dresses like a schoolmarm.”
“She is a schoolmarm, sort of. What are we, the fashion police now?”
“Nope, we’re the damn-straight real po-leece, Sarge. I’m just saying a few things about that lady don’t add up. If a toasted husband can’t crack your cool, what would it take?”
“You think she might be involved in her husband’s death?”
“I’ll get back to you on that. Who’s next?”
“She said Bannan’s office staff would know about any threats.”
“Argh, more lawyers,” Zina groaned. “I’d rather floss with barbed wire.”
The offices of Lehman, Barksdale, and Greene, Attorneys at Law, occupied the top floor of the old Montgomery Ward building in downtown Valhalla. Old Town, it’s called now. The historic heart of the village.
The new big-box stores, Wal-Mart, Home Depot, and the rest, are outside the city limits, sprawling along the Lake Michigan shore like a frontier boomtown, fueled by new money, new people. High-tech émigrés from Detroit or Seattle, flocking to the north country to get away from it all. And bringing most of it with them.
But Old Town remains much as it was before World War II: brick streets and sidewalks; quaint, globular streetlamps. Nineteenth-century buildings artfully restored to their Victorian roots, cast-iron facades, shop windows sparkling with holiday displays, tinny carols swirling in the wintry air. Christmas in Valhalla.
Harbor Drive offers a marvelous view of the harbor and the Great Lake, white ice calves drifting in dark water out to the horizon and a hundred miles beyond.
Few of the locals give it a glance, but the two cops paused a moment, taking it in. They’d both worked the concrete canyons of southern Michigan, Detroit for Doyle, Flint for Zee, before returning home to the north. Beauty shouldn’t be taken for granted.
Totally rehabbed during the recent real-estate push, the offices of Lehman and Greene were top-drawer now, an ultra-modern hive of glass cubicles framed in oak with ecru carpeting. Scandinavian furniture in the reception area, original art on the walls. Doyle badged the receptionist, who buzzed Martin Lehman, Jr., to the front desk. Mid thirties, with fine blond hair worn long, thinning prematurely. Casually dressed. Shirtsleeves and slacks, loafers with no socks. No tie, either. New Age corporate chic.
“How can I help you, Officer?”
“It’s Sergeant, actually. I understand Jared Bannan works here?”
“He’s one of the partners, yes. He missed a deposition this morning, though. Is there a problem?”
“Maybe we’d better talk in your office, Mr. Lehman. Wait here, Redfern. I’ll call you if we need anything.”
“Hurry up and wait.” Zina sighed, leaning on the reception counter as Doyle and Lehman disappeared down the hallway. “Is there a coffee machine somewhere?”
“Over in the corner, I’ll get—”
“Don’t get up,” Zina said. “You’re on the job, I’m just hanging around. Can I get you a cup?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” the receptionist said.
“My treat.” Zina winked. “If working girls don’t look out for each other, who will?”
“Jared dead? Good God,” Lehman said, sinking into the Enterprise chair behind his antique desk. “We played golf last Saturday, I can’t—”
He caught Doyle’s look.
“We flew down to Flint, there’s an indoor course there,” Lehman said absently. “It doesn’t seem possible. Jared had so much energy... Had he been drinking?”
“Did he drink a lot?”
“Not really. He loved to party, though, and... look, I’m just trying to make sense of this.”