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.
“Tom Hovisky was suffering from life-threatening injuries you determined, and as a trained surgeon you assessed him and began providing what you believed were life-sustaining measures.”
Simon looked at Joyce, who stared back at him earnestly. Go on, her face told him. But how could he?
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Bechdel cleared her throat. “Which were ultimately unsuccessful.”
“I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with your current investigation?”
“A young man was murdered.” Joyce clasped her hands on the table. “It seems that he had connections to Catriona. I knew that it was important to tell the police what we’d been dealing with, having her harass us, asking for money, calling you at random hours of the day and night. It spoke to her instability, I thought. And I wanted to make sure she wasn’t a threat to us.”
“Has Catriona been in touch with you recently?” Kirkpatrick asked, pen poised above his notepad.
Simon felt Joyce’s foot press on top of his underneath the table. “Yes, she has.”
“In what way?”
He took a deep breath. “I’d tried to contact her, as the anniversary approached. I wanted to make sure she was all right, and ensure she wasn’t spiraling out of control. It had been a difficult time for her, after the accident. We’d tried to help her as much as we could.” An image of Joyce, standing at the top of the stairs in their home, holding a piece of paper and so furious her hands shook, the paper fluttering in the dark. “Recently, though, she’s been in touch, asking for money.”
Simon felt the shame press down on his shoulders. Joyce should never have done this. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve this.
“Money for what?”
“A lawyer, for this case,” Simon admitted.
“And have you provided this?”
“Yes, I helped her connect with Blanche Grainger. You might know her work. I’ve promised to pay the legal fees for her. She needs good representation.”
“Is this the first time you’ve offered her money?”
Simon avoided looking at his wife, although he could feel her eyes on him. “No, it is not.”
“When have you offered money to her before?” asked Kirkpatrick.
“After her fiancé died. She had issues with his life insurance. I stepped in to help with some of her bills.”
“Mr. Morgan, are you involved at all romantically with Catriona Dell?” Bechdel asked, her look one of laser focus.
