2

GUY FORREST was sitting now at the dining room table, his head in his hands. A cop had brought down some clothes for him, and rain was no longer streaming from the angles of his body, but his head was still in his hands. His head was in his hands and his lower jaw was trembling, as if struggling to say something, anything. But I maintained a hand on his shoulder and made sure he kept it all to himself. That’s what defense attorneys do. We’re there to make sure our clients don’t do anything stupid after they’ve done something worse than stupid.

With my hand on his shoulder, Guy wasn’t talking, and maybe he wasn’t thinking either. Maybe he couldn’t acknowledge the realities of his world now that Hailey Prouix was dead. Love can do that to you. It can send you soaring higher than falcons, it can rip you open from your sternum to your spleen, it can send you running. That’s what Guy was doing now, at the dining room table with his head in hands and his jaw trembling. I wouldn’t let him do anything stupid like talk to the cops, so instead, in his mind, he was running, but he wasn’t going to get very far.

He was a handsome man, Guy Forrest, wavy dark hair, swarthy good looks, a five o’clock shadow that emphasized his classic bone structure. He worked out regularly, always had, even when we were law students together, but even so, there was something weak about him. His chin was too sharp, his gaze too wavering. Looking at Guy, you had the sense you were looking at a Hollywood facade of what a man should look like, perfect on the outside, but one stiff breeze would blow him down. And now he had been beset by a hurricane.

It had grown crowded in and about that little house. Someone upstairs was taking pictures. Someone upstairs was dusting for fingerprints and swabbing for blood. Someone outside in the rain was examining the windows and flower beds for signs of forced entry. Someone in the neighborhood was going door to door, asking questions. Television vans, alerted by the scanner, were on the street in force. The noose was already tightening around Guy Forrest’s neck, and there was precious little I could do about it.

The coroner’s van sat on the street by the house’s front entrance, its motor running, its lights flashing. The attendants were in the front seat reading the Daily News, drinking coffee, waiting for the okay to take the body away. We were in the dining room, drinking nothing, but also waiting to be allowed to leave. I had already given as much information about Hailey Prouix’s next of kin as I could extract from Guy, the name of and an address for her sister, and had packed for Guy a small gym bag with a change of clothes. Twice I had tried to exit the house with him, twice I had been politely ordered to remain until Guy could speak to the detectives. Except Guy wouldn’t be speaking to the detectives.

“Mr. Carl, is it?” said a tall, good-looking young woman in jacket and pants who entered the room. Her hair was cut short, her nose freckled. With her broad shoulders and confident smirk, she carried the athletic air of a field-hockey coach and referred to her notepad as if it were a playbook.

“That’s right,” I said.

“And Mr. Forrest?”

Guy raised his head, looked at the woman, said nothing. His eyes were impressively red-rimmed, the eyes of the seriously bereaved. Or, considering what I had found in the bathroom, maybe the eyes of someone who was about to ask you to bust open another sack of Doritos, dude.

“As you can understand,” I said, “it’s been a very difficult evening for us all.”

“Of course,” said the young woman. “I’m County Detective Stone. With me is County Detective Breger.”

She gestured at the man standing behind her, whose attention was turned away from us as he examined the edges of the dining room carpet. He was a good three decades older than she, with a sad face and plaid jacket. His shoulders were thick and rounded, his posture slumped, he was a great hunch of a man. There was something soft about Breger, something tired, as if he had grown comfortable in a routine that was being shattered by his younger, more enthusiastic partner.

“I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Forrest,” said Detective Breger even as he continued his inspection of the room. “I have been doing this now for thirty-six years, and it is still a tough thing to see.”

Guy tried to get a thank-you past his quivering jaw and failed.

“Miss Prouix was what to you, Mr. Forrest?” asked Stone. “Your girlfriend?”

“His fiancée,” I said.

“Fiancée?” said Breger. “Oh, hell. That is a tough one. When was the wedding supposed to be?”

“As soon as Mr. Forrest’s divorce came through,” I said.

Stone shot me a look. “Mr. Carl, you’re a friend? An adviser? What?”

“I am a friend of Mr. Forrest’s, but I am also a lawyer. Mr. Forrest called me when he found Miss Prouix on the bed.”

“So you’re here now as what?”

“A friend,” I said. “But a friend who knows that when a man is in shock over the death of a loved one, maybe it’s not the best time to be talking to the police.”

“It is if the goal is to get the bastard who did this before the trail grows cold. We have questions for Mr. Forrest.”

“I don’t think he’d be much help in his current condition.”

“Seems to me you’re acting more like a lawyer than a friend.”

“For the moment, yes, that’s how I’m going to handle it.”

“Is that what he wants?” said Stone, nodding her head at Guy.

“That’s what he wants.”

“What about our questions?”

“I’ll answer what I can,” I said.

Stone looked at Breger, Breger shrugged. This is normally when the cops get angry and indignant, this is normally when it all turns adversarial. This is when Stone starts threatening and Breger holds her back and the whole madcap mad-cop routine plays itself out. I knew it was coming, anxious as I was to get Guy out of that house I was steeled for the onslaught of police craft, but instead of putting on a snarl, Stone smiled. “We appreciate your help. Having you here to assist us will make things easier. At some point we will need to ask Mr. Forrest some questions.”

“Mr. Forrest is still in something of a daze. Could your questioning of him wait until tomorrow?”

“If that’s what you think best,” said Breger, his gaze now scanning the ceiling.

“I do.”

“Of course you do,” said Breger. “Mr. Forrest is going through an ordeal. His fiancée is dead in their bed, a bullet wound in her chest. Any of us would be in shock. You want him to be able to pull himself together before he speaks to us.”

“How’s tomorrow morning?” said Stone as she handed me her card.

“I think that would be all right. I’ll let you know in the morning if his condition makes it impossible. I was going to take Mr. Forrest to my apartment for the night.”

“Good idea,” said Breger, who had stepped over to a window and was closely examining the sill. “Mr. Forrest looks like he could use a stiff drink or two.”

“He knows not to leave the area,” said Stone.

“I’ll make sure of it. I’ll bring him to you myself tomorrow morning.”

“Along with his new attorney,” said Stone.

Stone smiled at me. I smiled back. This was something completely new. They were playing good-cop, good-cop. I supposed that’s how they did it in the suburbs.

“So now,” I said, “if we could be excused, I’d like to let Mr. Forrest get some sleep.”

“If it is any consolation, Mr. Forrest,” said Breger, looking straight at Guy now, “we are going to do our best to get the bastard who did this. We will put all our resources into digging out the truth and, believe us, dig it out we will. We will not rest until the killer is found and tried and convicted. We will not rest until the killer is rotting away in the penitentiary. I want you to know that, Mr. Forrest, and I hope it gives you some comfort.”