The Gentlemen's Hour

91

The wife’s story matches.

Almost too well.

Her husband came home, she doesn’t remember the time, and was clearly upset. He told her he knew about her affair with Philip Schering. She admitted it. They sat and talked for hours, but she doesn’t recall what time it was when they went to bed. The next thing she remembers is hearing a discussion and going downstairs to find Mr. Daniels there. That’s when she learned about Phil’s death.

“This is awkward, Mrs. Nichols,” says Johnny, “but were you seeing Mr. Schering?”

“You already know that I was.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Yes,” she says. “I was.”

“And did you have sexual relations?”

“We did.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last night,” Donna says. “No, I guess it was the night before. I don’t know, what time is it now?”

“It’s early in the morning,” Johnny answers. “Where were you last night?”

“At home.”

“Alone?”

“No, my husband was with me.”

Johnny asks, “When did he get home?”

“Early,” Donna says. “Seven, maybe?”

Nice, Johnny thinks. She has him home by seven, the shot isn’t heard until shortly before eight-seventeen. While someone is pumping a bullet into Schering’s head, the Nicholses are at home doing Dr. Phil’s Relationship Rescue. Funny how life works.

“You said your husband confronted you with the evidence of your infidelity,” Johnny says.

“I didn’t say that,” Donna snaps. “I said that he told me he knew. There was no ‘confrontation.’”

“Did you ask him how he knew?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That he had hired a private investigator who had me under surveillance,” Donna said. “Who had tracked me to Philip’s house.”

“Did you deny it?”

“There didn’t seem to be a point,” she said. “Obviously, he knew.”

“So your husband had Schering’s address.”

“I suppose so, yes,” Donna says. “But my husband isn’t a violent man. He couldn’t have done this.”

Yeah, but he did, thinks Johnny, who’s not a big believer in coincidence. On the same day a man finds out his wife is fucking around, the fucker gets killed. That’s motive, not coincidence. And now the wife, guilty as hell about the affair, colludes with the alibi.

“Do you know what an accessory is?” he asks.

“Don’t patronize me, Detective Kodani.”

“Your husband is not a practiced criminal,” Johnny says. “Sooner or later—I’m betting sooner—he’s going to confess to this killing. When he does—not ‘if,’ Mrs. Nichols, ‘when’—your lying about this alibi will make you an accessory. You can write each other from your respective cells.”

“Should I retain an attorney?”

“That’s entirely your choice, Mrs. Nichols,” Johnny says. “Shall we break off this interview so that you can make a phone call?”

“Not just now, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She’ll fucking kill on the witness stand, Johnny thinks. Cool, beautiful, sympathetic. Contrite about her affair. Burke will lead her through her testimony and the jury will believe her. Then women will want to be her and the men will want to do her. She’ll pull her husband right out of the shit.

It’s good to be Dan Nichols, he thinks.

If you can afford to marry a Donna and hire an Alan Burke, you get away with murder.