Run Away

Chapter Six

Simon knew he was being played.

He knew Detective Fagbenle was trying to goad him or trip him up or whatever, but he also knew that he hadn’t done anything wrong (“Famous last words of the convicted,” Hester would later tell him), and there was no way, as Fagbenle obviously knew, that Simon was going to let him drop that nuclear warhead and walk out the door.

“Who was murdered?” Simon asked.

“Ah, ah.” Fagbenle waved a mocking, semi-scolding finger. “You said not to talk to you until your attorney was present.”

Simon’s mouth felt dry. “Is it my daughter?”

“I’m sorry. Unless you waive that right to counsel—”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Yvonne snapped. “Be a human being.”

“I waive the right to counsel or whatever,” Simon said. “I’ll talk to you without my attorney present.”

Fagbenle turned at Yvonne. “I think you better leave.”

“Paige is my niece,” Yvonne said. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know if she’s okay,” Fagbenle said, still staring at the cubicles, “but she’s not the murder victim.”

Relief. Pure, sweet relief. It was like every part of him had been starving for oxygen.

“Then who?” Simon asked.

Fagbenle didn’t answer right away. He waited until Yvonne was gone — Yvonne promised to wait by the elevator for Hester — and the door to the office was closed. For a moment Fagbenle stared through the glass wall into the cubicle area. It was odd to visitors, he guessed, having an office that never offered complete privacy.

“Do you mind telling me where you were last night, Simon?”

“What time?”

Fagbenle shrugged. “Let’s just make it all night. Six o’clock on, say.”

“I was here until six. I took the subway home.”

“Which train do you take?”

“The one.”

“From Chambers Street?”

“Yes. I get out at the Lincoln Center stop.”

Fagbenle nodded as though this was significant. “What’s that altogether? Door to door, I mean. A twenty-, thirty-minute commute?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“So you get home around six thirty?”

“That’s right.”

“Was anyone home?”

“My wife and youngest daughter.”

“You have a son too, correct?”

“Yes. Sam. But he’s at college.”

“Where?”

“Amherst. It’s in Massachusetts.”

“Yeah, I know where Amherst is,” Fagbenle said. “So you get home. Your wife and daughter are there...”

“Yes.”

“Did you go back out?”

Simon thought about it, but only for a second. “Twice.”

“Where did you go?”

“The park.”

“What times?”

“Seven, and then again at ten p.m. I was walking our dog.”

“Oh, nice. What kind of dog do you have?”

“A Havanese. Her name is Laszlo.”

“Isn’t Laszlo a boy’s name?”

He nodded. It was. They got Laszlo on Sam’s sixth birthday. Sam had insisted on that name, no matter what the dog’s gender. It was an old story, but once they got the dog home, despite the promises of Sam and his two sisters, taking care of the dog had fallen on the only family member who’d been reluctant about the adoption.

Simon.

Also not surprising: He had fallen hard for Laszlo. He loved those walks, especially the one where he’d come through the door at the end of the day and Laszlo would greet him like a released POW on a tarmac — every day, without fail — and she’d drag him enthusiastically to the park as though she’d never been there before.

Laszlo was twelve now. Her step was slowing. Her hearing was gone, so that some days she didn’t know that Simon was home until he was already in the house, which saddened Simon more than it should.

“So other than the dog walks, did you go out?”

“No.”

“So the three of you were home all night?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Fagbenle sat back and opened his arms. “Do tell.”

“My wife went to work.”

“She’s a pediatrician up at New York — Presbyterian, correct? Doing an overnight shift, I assume. So that leaves you alone all night with your daughter Anya.”

That slowed Simon down. He knew where his wife worked. He knew his daughter’s name. “Detective?”

“Call me Isaac.”

Hard pass, as his kids would say. “Who was murdered?”

The door to his office flew open. Hester Crimstein may have been small of frame but she was large of step. She burst in and stormed over to Fagbenle.

“Are you effing kidding me?”

Fagbenle remained unruffled. He slowly stood, towering over Hester, and stuck out his hand. “Detective Isaac Fagbenle with Homicide. What a pleasure to meet you.”

Hester stared at his face. “Put your hand away before you lose it — like your job.” Then she turned her withering glare toward Simon. “I’m not happy with you either.”

Hester carried on a bit more. She then insisted that they move to a windowless conference room. Change of venue. It had to be a psychological play, but Simon wasn’t sure how. Once they entered the room though, Hester took full control. She had Fagbenle sit on one side of a long conference table. She and Simon took the other.

When they were all settled in, Hester nodded toward Fagbenle and said, “Okay, get to it.”

“Simon—”

“Call him Mr. Greene,” Hester snapped. “He’s not your pal.”

Fagbenle looked as though he were about to argue, but he smiled instead. “Mr. Greene.” He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph. “Do you know this man?”

Hester kept a hand on Simon’s forearm. He was not to answer or react until she said it was okay. The arm was there as a reminder.

Fagbenle slid the photograph across the table.

It was Aaron Corval. The scum was smiling that awful, smug smile, the one he’d had on his face not long before Simon punched it away. He was standing in a field somewhere, trees behind him, and he’d been standing next to someone in the photograph, someone he had his arm around, someone Fagbenle had cropped out — you could see the person’s shoulder on the left — and Simon couldn’t help but wonder whether the cropped-out person was Paige.

“I know him,” Simon said.

“Who is he?”

“His name is Aaron Corval.”

“He’s your daughter’s boyfriend, is that correct?”

Hester squeezed his arm. “It’s not his job to describe the relationship. Move on.”

Fagbenle pointed his finger at Aaron’s smug face. “How do you know Aaron Corval?”

“Seriously?” It was Hester again.

“Is there a problem, Ms. Crimstein?”

“Yes, there’s a problem. You’re wasting our time.”

“I’m asking—”

“Stop.” She held up her palm. “You’re embarrassing yourself. We all know how my client knows Aaron Corval. Let’s pretend you’ve already lulled Mr. Greene and myself into a state of relaxation with your insightful albeit obvious interrogation techniques. We are putty in your hand, Detective, so let’s cut to it, okay?”

“Okay, fair enough.” Fagbenle leaned forward. “Aaron Corval was murdered.”

Simon had been expecting that and yet the weight of the words still sent him reeling. “And my daughter...?”

Hester squeezed his arm.

“We don’t know where she is, Mr. Greene. Do you?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Three months ago.”

“Where?”

“In Central Park.”

“Would that be the day you assaulted Aaron Corval?”

“Wow,” Hester said. “It’s like I’m not even sitting here.”

Fagbenle said, “Again I ask: Is there a problem?”

“And again I answer: Yeah, there’s a problem. I don’t like your characterization.”

“You mean my use of the word ‘assault’ to describe what happened?”

“I mean exactly that.”

He sat back and put his hands on the desk. “I understand the charges in that case were dropped.”

“I don’t care what you understand.”

“Getting off like that. With all that evidence. It’s interesting.”

“I also don’t care what interests you, Detective. I don’t like your characterization of the incident. Please reword.”

“Now who’s wasting time, Counselor?”

“I want the interview done right, hotshot.”

“Fine. The alleged assault. The incident. Whatever. Can your client answer the question now?”

Simon said, “I haven’t seen my daughter since the incident in Central Park, yes.”

“How about Aaron Corval? Have you seen him?”

“No.”

“So over the last three months, you’ve had zero contact with your daughter or Mr. Corval, is that correct?”

“Asked and answered,” Hester snapped.

“Let him answer, please.”

“That’s correct,” Simon said.

Fagbenle flashed a quick smile. “So I guess you and your daughter Paige aren’t very close, huh?”

Hester wasn’t having it. “What are you, a family counselor?”

“Just an observation. How about your daughter Anya?”

“What about his daughter Anya?” Hester countered.

“Earlier Mr. Greene mentioned that he and Anya were home alone all night,” Fagbenle said.

“He what?”

“That’s what your client told me.”

Hester gave Simon another withering glare.

“Mr. Greene, you took your dog for another walk about ten p.m., am I right?”

“You are.”

“Did you or Anya go out after that?”

“Whoa,” Hester said, making her hands into a T. “Time-out.”

Fagbenle looked annoyed. “I’d like to continue my questioning.”

“And I’d like to tongue-bathe Hugh Jackman,” Hester said, “so both of us are going to have to live with a little disappointment.” Hester rose. “Stay here, Detective. We will be right back.”

She dragged Simon out of the room and down the corridor, working her mobile phone the entire time. “I’ll skip the obvious admonishments.”

“And I’ll skip the part where I defend myself by reminding you that I didn’t know if the murder victim was my daughter.”

“That was a ploy.”

“As I was well aware.”

“What’s done is done,” she said. “What did you already tell him? Everything.”

Simon filled her in on their earlier conversation.

“You noticed that I just sent a text,” Hester said.

“Yes.”

“Before we go back in and say something stupid, I want my investigator to dig up all he can on Corval’s murder — time, circumstances, method, whatever. You’re not a fool, so you know what’s going on here with our hunky detective.”

“I’m a suspect.”

She nodded. “You had a serious ‘incident’” — Hester made quote marks with her fingers — “with the deceased. You hated him. You blamed him for your daughter’s drug problems. So yes, you’re a suspect. So is your wife. So is... well, Paige. My guess is, she’s the biggest suspect. Do you have an alibi for last night?”

“Like I said, I was home all night.”

“With?”

“Anya.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to hold.”

“Why not?”

“Where in your apartment specifically was Anya?”

“In her room, mostly.”

“Door open or shut?”

Simon saw where she was going with this. “Shut.”

“She’s a kid, right? Door shut, maybe blasting music on her headphones. So you could have sneaked out at any time. What time did Anya go to sleep? Let’s say eleven o’clock. You could have left then. Does your building have any security cameras?”

“Yes. But it’s an old building. There are ways of getting out without being seen.”

Hester’s phone dinged. She put it to her ear and said, “Articulate.”

Someone did. And as he did, Hester’s face lost color. She didn’t say a word. Not for a very long time. When she finally spoke again, her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Email me the report.”

She hung up.

“What?” Simon asked.

“They don’t think you did it. Correction: They can’t think you did it.”