She’d buy the pregnancy test tomorrow.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN TRINA
Charley’s was a dive bar around the corner from the insurance company Monica worked for. Trina’s friend was meeting her there in a few minutes. They’d met at Charley’s a few times for an after-work drink or a liquid lunch, but always more in a celebratory mood than anything else. Monica wasn’t someone Trina went to for drowning her sorrows. She usually preferred to be alone for that, in the dark of her apartment with the curtains drawn and a bottle of wine propped up in her lap.
A brick square with no real charm, Charley’s was a drinker’s bar. Trina hoped there’d be some booths open in the back, away from the day-drinking crowd of nightshift cleaners, a few doctors and nurses from the MedExpress in the adjoining plaza, and the all-out alcoholics. When she stepped inside, the bar hummed with murmurs from a few groups gathered around the tall bar tables and the droning of a baseball game on the TV hung in the corner. She didn’t see Monica yet, so Trina made a beeline for a booth in the deepest corner, away from the jukebox and pool tables.
She wasn’t really sure why she was meeting Monica in the first place, except that her friend had insisted they meet in person. Whatever she had to tell Trina couldn’t be said over the phone, apparently.
Trina ordered a gin and tonic from the waitress making the rounds. When it arrived, the drink was stronger than she’d anticipated and the large sip she took burned going down her throat, making her cough.
“Can’t hold your liquor, huh?” Monica slid into the seat opposite Trina. “And what, you don’t order anything for me?”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” Monica wore a curve-hugging maroon sweater dress that cinched neatly at her waist, knee-high boots, dark stockings, and a fresh blowout of her chestnut hair. “You look gorgeous.” Trina couldn’t stop herself from rounding her shoulders in a bit, shrinking into herself.
“Thanks. I figured I needed to treat myself after the last few days I’ve had.” Monica sat down and swept her hair over one shoulder. The waitress came over and Monica ordered a Scotch, neat. “Top shelf,” she added. “None of that dishwater you keep lower.”
“You, by the way, look kind of awful.” Monica gave Trina a once-over. “When was the last time you slept?”
“I’m fine.” Trina adjusted the neckline on her sweater and ran her fingers through her hair, which she couldn’t remember if she’d brushed or not this morning.
Monica’s gaze softened. “But maybe I can help.” They paused while her drink came, and then Monica settled into her seat, sipping from the short glass.
“I have a friend who used to be a cop,” she began. “She went into private security a few years ago, because the money is a lot—and I mean a lot—better. But she still keeps in touch with her PD pals and so she has connections. When I got the call from that detective on Monday, I got in touch with my friend to see if she had any information about what was going on with your guy. Want to know what I found out?”
“Of course I do. What the hell is going on?”
Trina leaned forward, keeping her voice low. No one seemed to be noticing them, but still she felt paranoid that perhaps one of the detectives had followed her there. She hadn’t felt like her life was her own for so long.
“It looks like this Dermot guy was stabbed with a piece of champagne bottle.”
Trina blanched. She remembered swilling from the bottle waiting in his hotel room. She’d thought at the time, through her fog of free wedding drinks, that it’d been a nice touch—the champagne bottle on ice in his room, waiting for her.
Now, looking back, she wasn’t so sure.
“They haven’t matched fingerprints from the pieces of the bottle they recovered to anyone yet, or from the shard that killed him.”
Monica took another swig, draining the glass. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back soon. My boss will get snippy if I’m gone too long.”
She reached over and took Trina’s hand. “I wanted to meet you face to face because the cops are clearly keeping an eye on you, and they know that we’re friends. I don’t trust saying anything over the phone or through text, because they can get access to all of that stuff fairly easily now. At least, that’s what my friend says.”
Trina thought back to what she’d been doing on her phone and her laptop since this all happened. If the police were tracking her online movements, then they knew about Simon. But they more than likely already knew about him—and Tom—anyway.
She had an appointment with her lawyer later this afternoon. Simon was paying for it, because Trina didn’t have any savings or money to handle such an expensive and unexpected cost. She barely had enough money to cover Monica’s drink this afternoon.
“Dermot Carine was a social worker, and he had lots of troubled clients he worked with. He specialized in working with teenagers. And he had a few clients, female clients, that may have thought they were in love with him.”
Trina let the information sink in.
“What are you saying?”
Monica started to put her coat on, slipping a few bills onto the table.
“These girls he worked with, they have brothers and fathers and sisters who may not be the best at taking care of them, but they’re good at protecting certain things. This guy you were with, he had enemies.”
“It was just the two of us that night in his hotel room,” Trina said, replaying her evening at the wedding back through her mind. Were there people at the wedding who were angry with him? There was that one woman—almost a girl, Trina recalled—who’d watched Dermot and Trina. The one she couldn’t bring herself to tell the police about.
“I know you feel like this is a terrible tragedy, and that you’re caught in the middle of it,” Monica said. “But you might have also been lucky that night that you didn’t get mixed up in something that ended with you dead too.”
Were they alone in that hotel room? Trina had to wonder, now. Was someone there, just waiting for Trina to leave?
“Be careful.” Monica leaned in and gave Trina a quick but firm hug. “You can only get lucky so many times. You don’t know who’s still out there.”
“Thank you for looking out for me,” Trina said.
“What are friends for?” Monica swung her bag onto her shoulder, and as she headed across the room and out the door, several pairs of hungry, semi-drunk eyes following her shapely frame, Trina caught the waitress’s attention and ordered another drink.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN SIMON
He arrived at the station mid-afternoon, having cleared his appointments for the afternoon. Simon kept mints everywhere, in his desk and pockets and car, and he popped a few into his mouth now, hoping he didn’t smell like whiskey and that he wouldn’t crowd the small interview room with his breath.
A young detective who had the ruddy face of a pug took Simon to a room with the standard-issue metal chairs and table. Two dark-suited detectives sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups, the male one tugging at his shirtsleeves until they were the perfect length past his suit.
Seated on the other side of the table was his wife.
The detectives introduced themselves as Kirkpatrick and Bechdel. Joyce stood tentatively and kissed Simon on the cheek. As she did so, she whispered, “I know what I’m doing.”
What Simon wished he could have told her was that he’d never doubted for a second, in all their years of marriage, that Joyce knew exactly what she was doing. What worried him was that he so rarely was able to guess what that was.
“Thank you for coming down to the station so quickly,” Bechdel told him. She shuffled some paperwork in front of her, and Simon half-guessed it was random detritus she’d gathered up. He’d seen cop shows before. He’d watched The Closer. He was not about to be intimidated.
He saved people’s lives, for God’s sake.
“You made it sound like an emergency,” Simon replied. “I canceled appointments with several patients in order to be here.” He leaned back in his chair and glanced around the room, not meeting their eyes. Playing for advantage and feigning nonchalance. “So what is this all about?”
“Your wife was kind enough to stop by and offer information on a recent case we’re investigating.”
“I see.”
“Darling, it was my civic duty to come forward and tell them what I know.” Joyce reached out and took Simon’s hand in hers. Her hands were so small. Simon felt the soft press of her wedding band on his knuckle.
“Your wife told us about Catriona Dell and your family’s connection to her.” Kirkpatrick read from a page in his notebook. “Which began a year ago, approximately.”
“A year on Tuesday.” Simon hoped she hadn’t done it. Joyce couldn’t have.
“Yes, when Catriona’s partner, a Tom Hovisky, was struck by a car while crossing the street. The car left, not even stopping to check on Tom’s status, but you saw the event and pulled over to provide assistance.”
“That’s correct,” Simon confirmed. He wanted to take another mint, suddenly conscious of his breath again.
