Nell started to cry, sniffling vigorously, intercepting her tears with her fingertips before they could smudge her mascara. Melanie found a tissue in her bag and handed it to Nell. Tears welled up in her own eyes as it hit her what Nell was going through. She knew what it was like when ugly, despicable violence invaded your home, sneaked up on you, changed your life forever. She’d experienced that as a child, and now here was Nell Benson experiencing it as a wife and mother. Her husband murdered, her daughter horribly maimed. God, what could be worse? Melanie had fantasized Steve’s violent death more than once lately, but she knew she didn’t mean it. If it really happened, how would she face it, how would she go on? And to think of her baby daughter harmed, some part of her precious, pudgy little body cut-she couldn’t imagine such grief. She could hardly stand it when Maya had the slightest cold. She reached out and stroked Nell’s shoulder, overwhelmed by sympathy. Almost instinctively Nell shrugged off Melanie’s hand.
“I’m fine, really,” Nell said. She struggled to regain her composure, clearing her throat and sitting up straighter.
Stung, Melanie pulled her hand away. This woman was one tough customer. She obviously did not like to be touched.
“Take your time,” Melanie said, in a cooler tone.
“Okay. I’m better.” Nell forced a smile.
Melanie was starting to lose patience. Every minute she wasted with Nell was another minute Slice was on the street.
“Thank you for telling me about Amanda, Mrs. Benson. I completely understand your concern, but I still have to talk to her. She’s an eyewitness. There’s simply no way around it. I promise you, I’ll be very gentle.”
“Don’t you understand? My daughter may become suicidal after what she’s seen. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“Why would it be on my conscience? I didn’t kill your husband. I’m just trying to catch the man who did.” The attempt to manipulate her was obvious and upsetting. Melanie had to remind herself that Nell had just lost her husband and might not be thinking rationally.
“At the very least, I insist on having her psychiatrist present.”
“How long would that take?”
“I’m really not sure. He’s at Wellmead. I’d have to call and inquire.”
“It’s four-thirty now. I can postpone interviewing Amanda until later tonight to give you time to get the psychiatrist here.”
“I can’t commit to that. I have no reason to think he’s even available tonight.”
Melanie sighed and took a sip of her soda, buying a minute to think. Amanda was so groggy anyway that interviewing her right now probably wouldn’t be fruitful. Maybe it made sense to wait a few hours for Amanda’s psychiatrist to show up in order to win Nell’s cooperation. After all, the other alternative was forcing the girl into the grand jury. Even putting aside Melanie’s own qualms, it would look strange to the grand jurors to compel Amanda’s testimony. They’d wonder what was wrong, why Melanie couldn’t get Amanda to talk voluntarily. Come to think of it, she was wondering that herself.
“I could agree to wait until the morning, Mrs. Benson, on the condition that we proceed then whether or not the doctor is present. Oh, by the way, where were you last night when your husband was murdered?” The question just popped out.
“I was in East Hampton, having dinner with some girlfriends. I can give you their names if you’d care to check.”
Nell looked Melanie square in the eyes as she uttered this. Her gaze was so cool and casual that Melanie wondered if she’d been waiting for that question. She decided to call Nell’s bluff. She took a small notebook from her handbag and withdrew the tiny gold pen tucked into its spine.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Melanie said, handing them to Nell. But Nell looked untroubled as she carefully wrote down several names in a girlish script.
“I’m giving you their telephone numbers as well. Feel free to call. They’ll be happy to answer any questions about me. These are my Hamptons chums. We’ve been summering together for years. We have dinner together every Monday night.”
“Without your husbands?”
“Of course. The wives and children spend the summers out there. The men are generally in the city during the week, doing whatever it is they do.” Nell’s condescending glance underlined the social chasm between them.
“Of course,” Melanie said. She took back her notebook and looked at the names. She’d call each one of them, but she felt certain the story would check out one way or the other. Her imagination was working overtime. Nell Benson was surely completely innocent in her husband’s murder. And if she wasn’t…well, she’d be smart enough to manufacture an airtight alibi.
Back in the room, under Nell’s watchful eye, Melanie told Randall that the interview would have to wait until later. She studied Amanda Benson’s face as Randall folded the newspaper he’d been reading and stood up. The girl was pale as snow, her eyes tightly closed now. She lay so listless that she barely seemed to breathe. How much could she do for them in this condition anyway? Melanie felt desperately sad for her. She could predict how it would go for Amanda-the nightmares, the flashbacks, the debilitating fear following her everywhere for years to come. Guilt-stricken, Melanie chided herself for making such an issue with Nell Benson about interviewing Amanda. Shouldn’t she, of all people, have a little more sensitivity?
A FEW MINUTES LATER, WHEN THEY WERE ALONE in the elevator, Randall said, “I don’t get it. Why are we backing off?”
“It would look pretty damn weird to throw the maimed daughter in the grand jury under subpoena, don’t you think?” Melanie’s tone was defensive. Despite her sympathy, she wasn’t convinced she’d made the right choice for the investigation. “I’m giving Nell Benson a chance to cooperate voluntarily. She says Amanda has psychological problems. She wants her psychiatrist there when we interview her. She’s got a point, when you consider what Amanda’s been through.”
“Say we do like she asks. You really think she’ll cooperate once the shrink gets here?” Randall asked.
“You don’t?” His dubious look answered the question. “You get a weird vibe from her, too, huh?”
“I know stonewalling when I see it,” he said.
“You think she could possibly be involved in her husband’s murder?”
“Is it possible? Normally I’d say hell yeah. I been on the job a long time. Find a body shot dead in a ditch, the first thing I do is check the spouse’s gun. Nine times out of ten, it still reeks of powder. But here we got reliable third-party information that some serious players are involved. Even if the wife would normally be a suspect, I don’t see Nell Benson associating with gangsta types, do you?”
“Not hardly,” Melanie agreed.
“Then again, she hinks me up big-time.”
“Yeah, me, too, but could that be because she comes off as a rich, snotty bitch? I don’t want to be influenced by personal animosity.”
Randall raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was one to trust his own gut.
“Okay, then,” Melanie continued, “maybe Nell’s genuinely trying to protect her daughter. I mean, come on. The girl just got her fingers cut off by a psycho killer and watched her father get tortured to death. Put yourself in the place of a parent seeing a child suffer like that.”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way,” Randall said, a catch in his voice. “Maybe you’re right.”
The elevator reached the lobby. As the doors opened, she read in Randall’s face a lot of years of watching a child suffer.
“How old are you, Randall?” she asked as they stepped off the elevator and headed for the exit.
“Me? Forty-seven. But that’s cop years. Twice as long as regular-people years, so really I’m ninety-four.” He chuckled at himself, then turned serious. “But why do you ask, dear?”