Justin held the phone to his ear as Mike Haversham talked. The young cop told him about the call that had just come in and exactly what the hysterical caller had said. Justin listened quietly, trying to keep his expression stoic and flat. As he listened, Abby jumped onto the bed, one graceful leap, gently put her hands on his shoulders, softly kissed his neck, teasing as well as tempting him. His robe was loosely tied around her and her bare leg was directly in his line of vision. He stared at the only piece of jewelry she usually wore, a diamond ankle bracelet that sparkled against her lightly tanned skin.
When Mike had finished with everything he had to say, Justin just said, "Call Gary, tell him to get there ASAP. I'll leave here in two minutes and meet him. You wait at the station."
He hung up, shifted his body so he could face Abby.
"Is everything okay?" she asked. She gave him an evil little grin, an invitation to forget about whatever it was he'd just heard and hop back into bed with her.
"No," he said. "Things aren't okay."
"What's the matter?" She edged the robe off her right shoulder. And then, vamping, "What could be so bad on your birthday?"
Justin put his right hand up to his face and rubbed the middle of his forehead. He exhaled a long breath, took both her hands in his, and said, "A body was just found. There's been a murder."
She looked at him, still smiling the sexy, inviting smile, waiting for the punch line. When she saw no punch line was coming, the smile faded.
He nodded, because he saw the question she was asking with her eyes.
"It's Evan," Justin Westwood said. "It's your husband."
The silence lasted until he realized he couldn't let it go on any longer.
"Get dressed," Justin said gently. "I've gotta go to the house. And you should come with me."
She didn't say anything. Didn't cry. Didn't make a sound. She simply shook her head in tight little motions, as if what she'd just been told couldn't be true. Then she slid off the bed, not slowly but listlessly, all energy drained from her body, and she began to pull on her clothes.
Justin watched Abby for a second, then he found the pair of jeans he'd tossed onto the floor and the black short-sleeved polo shirt that had been discarded near them. He waited for her to finish dressing and watched as she grabbed what was left of her martini, downed it in one quick gulp, and then walked down toward the living room.
So much for contentment, Justin Westwood thought.
So much for happiness.
Then he blew out the candle on his birthday cake and followed her downstairs.
The Harmon house was only a ten- or twelve-minute drive from Justin's. Sitting in his beat-up '89 BMW, he let the first two or three minutes pass in silence. Then he said, as delicately as he could manage, "I should ask you some questions before we get there."
She turned to him, her eyes still dull, and she nodded.
"Where were you before you came over?"
"To your house?"
Justin nodded. He realized that Abby's silence wasn't just due to the shock. He heard the tremor in her voice, understood she was fighting back tears. Knew she was, even more than that, struggling not to reveal any weakness.
"I was looking for your birthday cake," she said.
"Where did you get it?"
"What does that have to do with anything? How stupid is-"
"Abby, please."
"Why do you care-"
"Answer the question," he said. "Please. Just answer the question."
"At that giant supermarket in Bridgehampton. In the mall. King Kullen."
"What time was that?"
"I don't know. What time did I get to your place?"
"Tell me approximately what time you think you were there."
"Jay, what difference does it fucking make what time- Oh my god." She shifted in the bucket seat of the convertible so she could face him. The anger biting through her words was both palpable and remarkably restrained. It was the restraint that surprised him, not the hurt or the bitterness. "Do you think I killed my husband?"
"No." He didn't hesitate or stumble over his response.
"Then what the hell are you doing?"
"They're questions that have to be asked. Someone's going to ask them-I thought it would be better for you if it was me and I asked them now." When she didn't respond, he said, "Look… Abby… I'll know more when I see the crime scene. Evan's death is going to have repercussions. He's rich. And I assume you'll have been left a lot of money."
"That makes me a murderer?"
"No. That makes it a situation cops have to investigate."
Now he hesitated again, and Abby picked up on it.
"And I won't exactly be perceived as the grieving widow, will I?" she said.
"You were having an affair. And I'm not egotistical enough to assume I'm your first."
He didn't say it as a question, but she knew she was supposed to give an answer. "No," she told him. "You're not the first." She chewed on her lower lip for a few moments. He made a right turn now off South Hole Road, the road that separated East End Harbor from Bridgehampton, and drove up into the hills. The charming little houses were no more, replaced by imposing gates, long driveways, hedges, and unseen mansions.
"When was the last time you were home?"
"This afternoon."
"What time?"
"I don't know." She bit off the words, speaking through clenched teeth.
"Approximately," he said. "Two? Three? Six?"
"Three. Maybe four."
"And what were you doing between three or four and… birthday cake shopping?"
"Errands."
"What kind of errands?"
"I don't want to do this anymore, Jay. Stop it."
"Abby, was anyone at the house when you left?"
"No."
"No maid?"
"No. Sara and Pepe were there this morning. Evan gave them the rest of the day off."
"Was that normal?"
"No."
"So why'd he do it?"
"I don't know." She hesitated. "He knew I'd be out tonight. I guess he wanted to be alone."
"Why?"
"Jay, I don't know! I don't know what he did when I went out!"
"Did he know what you did when you went out?"
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her hands were clenched tightly, and he realized she was shaking. He couldn't tell if the shaking was due to fear, anger, or sadness. "What is it you're trying to get at?" she said finally.
"Some of this is conjecture on my part, but I've done this before. I know the drill."
"And what is that drill?"
"A lot is going to depend on what time Evan was killed. We'll know that fairly soon. The timing is going to make things complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"You have to understand, I'm talking about appearance now, not reality."
"Just talk."
"I might be your alibi. Depending on the timing. I'm also your lover. And I'm also the fucking chief of police."
"So?"
"If the time line shows that he was killed while we were together, there are going to be several possibilities that have to be covered. One is that I'm lying to protect you. Two is that we're both lying to protect each other."
"It's crazy. They'll think you killed Evan?"
"Maybe. Or that you were using me and you hired someone to kill him while you could get me to vouch for you."
"Nobody could think that."
"Yes, we will."
"We?"
He nodded and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know how this is going to play out, Abby. But I'm going to be involved in this investigation one way or the other. Either as a suspect or because it's my job."
"Do you think I'm capable of doing that, Jay? Do you think I'm capable of doing what we just did in your bedroom while I knew someone was murdering my husband?"
He couldn't help himself. The tiniest hint of a sad, regretful smile crossed his lips. "I'm a cop, Abby," Justin Westwood said. "I think almost anyone is capable of doing almost anything."
Abby Harmon shifted in her seat again so she faced forward. She didn't say another word as he made a left and drove through the open gates, ornate enough that they looked like they should lead toward a stairway to heaven but only led up the driveway toward her house where her murdered husband's body awaited them.