by Shari Lapena
“Can you be more specific about the date?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, trying to remember. Finally she opens them and says, “It was a Wednesday—it must have been September twentieth.” She watches Moen jot it down.
“Did you see them together any other time?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Detective Webb asks.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But I don’t think Paul is capable of harming anybody. And Olivia’s a friend. I hate to do this to her.”
“Did you ever mention this to Robert Pierce?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“You sure about that?” Webb presses.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Do you happen to know where Paul Sharpe works?” Moen asks.
“Yes. Fanshaw Pharmaceuticals—the same company as my husband. On Water Street, downtown.” She watches Moen write it down.
“Is there anything else you’re holding back?” Webb asks; she hears the sarcasm in his voice.
She looks right at him and says, “No, that’s it.”
* * *
—
We need to talk to Paul Sharpe,” Webb says to Moen, over the hood of the car. She nods. He looks at his watch. “Let’s go.”
The drive back to downtown Aylesford doesn’t take long—a mere ten minutes. It’s a small city, with newer buildings butting up against old in the downtown center. Fanshaw Pharmaceuticals is in a brick building, not far from the Aylesford Bridge.
Webb and Moen enter the building and are told that Paul Sharpe’s office is on the fifth floor. There, they are greeted by a receptionist whose perfect eyebrows rise ever so slightly when they show their badges.
“We’d like to speak with Paul Sharpe,” Webb says.
“I’ll get him for you,” she says.
Webb spends the time staring sightlessly at the expensively bland décor and thinking about Amanda Pierce. They don’t wait long. A man in a navy suit enters the reception area. He’s tall, well built, with very short salt-and-pepper hair, probably close to fifty. He’s kept himself fit, and he walks toward them with the ease of someone who stays in shape. He casts his eyes over the two of them. He looks wary, Webb thinks. He opens his badge, introduces himself and Moen, and says, “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
“Sure, let me find a meeting room.” Sharpe leans over the large reception desk and speaks to the receptionist.
“You can have conference room three, it’s empty,” she tells him in a discreet voice.
“Come with me,” Sharpe says, and they follow him down a carpeted hallway to a glass-walled meeting room. They step inside. There’s a long table and chairs, and windows that look onto the river and the bridge. The water is dark and choppy today. It has started to rain now, and it’s coming down heavily. Sharpe closes the door behind them and turns to face them. “What can I do for you?” he asks, gesturing to them to take a seat.
Webb says, “We’re investigating the murder of Amanda Pierce.”
Sharpe nods, his face a careful blank. “Yes, I’ve heard about it, of course. She lived on our street, and worked here occasionally. It’s a terrible thing.” He shakes his head regretfully, frowning. “How can I help?”
“Did you know Amanda Pierce?”
He shakes his head again slowly. “No. I mean,” he amends quickly, “she temped here sometimes, but it’s a big company; she never worked for me directly. I knew her to see her, but I don’t think I ever spoke to her.”
“Is that right,” Webb says, and waits. Sharpe flushes slightly, looks uncertain. Webb says, “Are you sure you never spoke to her?”
Sharpe looks down at the table, arranges his face as if he’s concentrating, trying to remember something. Finally he says, “I think I did sort of meet her once, now that you mention it. Funny, I’d forgotten it.” He looks up at them. “I was out for drinks one night after work, with some friends, and . . . I think she might have joined us for a drink, but I didn’t speak to her. She wasn’t sitting near me and it was loud, you know.”
Webb nods. “When was this?”
Sharpe looks down and adopts his concentrating face again. Webb isn’t buying it. But he waits to see what Sharpe comes up with.
“It wasn’t that long before she disappeared. I can’t remember when exactly.”
“You can’t narrow it down more than that? Even though she disappeared some time shortly afterward?”
The other man’s eyes flash, a slight hint of temper. “I don’t remember the date, it was unremarkable at the time. But it was shortly before I heard she disappeared.”
“What bar was it?”
“Rogue’s, on Mill Street. Sometimes we go there for drinks after work—not often.”
“Who’s we?” Webb asks.
“Well, it depends. It changes week to week. Just people from the office, whoever’s up for it, you know.”
“Can you remember who was there that night, when she joined you for a drink?”
Sharpe does the same thing again—looks down, furrows his brow for a moment. He’s a poor actor, and a poor liar. “I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure. But me, Holly Jacobs, Maneet Prashad, Brian Decarry, Larry Harris, Mike Reilly. That’s the best I can do.”
Moen is busily writing the names down.
“And why did she join you? Did she know someone?”
He shakes his head again. “You know, I’m not sure. Probably she was temping here that day and came along.”
Webb nods. Then he leans in a little closer to Paul Sharpe and fixes him with his eyes. “You know, I’m having a hard time believing you.”
“What?” He looks worried now. “Why?”
“Why?” Webb says. “Because we have a witness who saw you talking—intimately—with Amanda. Just the two of you, in the front seat of her car, downtown, at around nine o’clock at night. Not long before she disappeared. Wednesday, September twentieth, to be exact.”
Sharpe’s face drains of color. His facade has begun to crumble. He swallows. “It’s not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“I wasn’t involved with Amanda, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He exhales deeply, slumps a little in his chair. “I didn’t want to say anything. Maybe I should have, but—” He runs his hand over his face, and suddenly the pretense seems to fall away. “Look, I didn’t really know Amanda. I only spoke to her that one time, in her car. It was to warn her off. She was having an affair with someone here, someone I work with. I told her to stay away from him. I thought she was trouble. I didn’t want to see his life fall apart. Maybe it wasn’t my place. I wish now I hadn’t done it. I should have minded my own business.” He adds, “The night we had drinks at the bar—that was the night I spoke to Amanda, in her car. But I don’t remember the date.”
Webb sits back in his chair and considers the man in front of him. “So you weren’t having an affair with Amanda yourself.”
“God, no.”
“Sharpe’s name hadn’t come up on her cell phone records.
“Do you have a burner phone?” Moen asks.
“No.”
“Where were you the weekend starting Friday afternoon, September twenty-ninth, till the following Monday morning?” Webb asks.
Sharpe looks at him, appalled. “You can’t honestly think I had anything to do with Amanda Pierce—with what happened to her,” he says, his gray-blue eyes alarmed.
Webb says, “You were seen arguing with her shortly before she disappeared. We’re just eliminating possibilities. If you can tell us where you were that weekend, we’re good.”
“Okay,” Sharpe says, nodding. He appears to think. “The only thing that stands out is that on Sunday we had my wife’s parents over for brunch. They stayed till midafternoon. I helpe
d my wife prepare it and clean up afterward. Other than that, it was just a regular weekend at home, I think. We usually stay in on Friday and Saturday night. Watch something on Netflix. I imagine that’s what we did.”
“Okay,” Webb says. “Tell us about this affair Amanda was having.”
Sharpe sighs reluctantly, but begins to talk. “There was always talk about Amanda. She was a gorgeous woman. She could be a bit of a flirt. The gossip was that she cheated on her husband, that she sometimes got involved with men at work. That was the story, anyway—sex in the elevators, that sort of thing. A lot of it was probably bullshit, but she had a bit of a reputation. Ask around.”
“We will,” Webb assures him.
“When she disappeared, I thought she’d left her husband. There was no big hue and cry then, even though her husband apparently reported her missing. I thought maybe she’d run away with another guy.” Sharpe hesitates and adds, “Like I said, there was a lot of talk about her. I didn’t know if it was true or not—but then I saw it for myself.” He pauses.
“So who is this person you work with who you thought was having an affair with her?” Webb asks.
Sharpe sighs heavily. “He wouldn’t have hurt her, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“A name?”
Sharpe says it reluctantly. “Larry Harris. He lives next door to Amanda and Robert Pierce.”
Webb shoots a glance at Moen, sees her eyes widen.
What interesting news, Webb thinks. It never ceases to amaze him what they dig up in the course of a criminal investigation—the secrets people keep. Or try to. “You’d better tell us exactly what you saw.”
SEVENTEEN
Olivia comes to the door when Paul arrives home. He tosses his keys in the bowl on the side table in the hall and takes off his coat. It’s slick with rain. Olivia is always affected by the weather, her mood attuned to its changes. Sunny days make her cheerful. Dark, damp, dreary days like this one always get her down.
Last night she and Paul had lain in bed not speaking for the better part of an hour, until Paul had finally started snoring. Olivia got up and went downstairs and paced the carpeted living room for hours, worrying about Raleigh—and about Carmine coming after him. She fretted about Paul’s reluctance to send Raleigh to a therapist.
She thinks Paul is still angry at her. He said he’d forgiven her about the letters and that they needed to move on and deal with whatever happened, but it doesn’t feel that way.
She notices now that Paul hasn’t spoken to her. “That good, huh,” she says lightly, but he barely looks at her.
“I’m going to change,” he says, finally giving her an absent smile.
She sees that his trousers are drenched. “Do you want something to warm you up?”
“Scotch would be nice. I’m soaked.”
She pours her husband a drink and checks on dinner. Paul comes back downstairs to the living room and picks up the newspaper. She brings him his scotch.
“Anything interesting happen today?” she asks.
“No,” Paul says, not looking at her. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” She hands him his drink and he takes a sip. After a moment he turns to her and asks, “Have you heard anything more from that woman?”
He means Carmine, she’s sure.
“No,” Olivia says. She adds fretfully, “I wish this would all just go away.” But she doesn’t believe that will happen. Instead, she feels as if Carmine is lying in wait for her.
* * *
—
Larry has only been home for an hour. His suitcase is still standing at the bottom of the stairs. Becky has made his favorite meal, lasagna and garlic bread. And pie. They’re just finishing up the pie. They’d talked about Amanda’s murder on the phone while he was away, and in more detail as they ate. It has clearly shocked him. She’s told him nothing about her own involvement in the investigation. She knows she will have to explain, and she dreads it. But he just got home, and she’s waiting for the right moment.
When the doorbell rings, she jumps up to answer the door. She sees the detectives dripping on her doorstep, and looks at them in disbelief. “He just got home,” she says.
“I’m afraid this can’t wait,” Webb says. “May we come in?”
“We’re eating dinner,” she protests.
“Who is it?” Larry calls from the kitchen, and he appears behind her, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He comes up beside her. “Who’s this?” he asks.
She knows there’s nothing she can do. She says wearily, “They’re the detectives I was telling you about. They’re investigating Amanda’s murder.”
Her husband says, “Come in.” Webb brushes past her, followed by Moen. “Can I take your coats?” Larry offers.
Becky watches her husband as he hangs up the detectives’ wet coats. Her heart is pounding in her chest and her mouth feels dry. Larry will never forgive her.
Becky turns on a couple of lamps and they all sit down in the living room. The night outside is dark and the rain beats against the front window.
“I don’t know how much your wife has told you—” Detective Webb begins, with a sidelong glance at Becky.
The bastard. “I haven’t told him much of anything,” Becky says. “I told you he just got home.” Larry flashes her a nervous look. Suddenly she just wants to get it over with. She can’t stand waiting for the ax to fall on her neck. “Larry, there’s something I have to tell you,” she says. She feels almost short of breath. “I would have told you anyway,” she swallows, “I swear, I would have—”
“Told me what?” Larry says. He looks uneasy.
She blurts it out, looking down at the floor. “I slept with Robert Pierce. When you were away. They found out when they were investigating him about his wife.” She finally brings her eyes up to look at her husband. He’s sitting perfectly still, and has gone quite pale. “I’m sorry.”
Larry looks completely shocked. Of course he’s shocked. He would never expect this of her. She closes her eyes.
“How could you?” he says.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats miserably, opening her eyes.
Larry looks pointedly at the two police detectives and says, “Maybe you’d better leave.”
“I’m afraid we have some questions before we go,” Webb says.
Becky turns bitter, resentful eyes on the detective and waits. She doesn’t want to help them.
“We talked to Paul Sharpe,” he says.
Becky remembers what she told these same detectives that morning. She thinks uneasily of Olivia.
“Paul?” Larry interjects in surprise.
It occurs to her suddenly that maybe Larry knew about Paul and Amanda. Becky says, “Paul was seeing Amanda.”
“We don’t know that,” Webb says mildly.
She turns on him. “Did he deny it?”
“Yes, he did.”
Becky snorts. She knows what she saw.
“He admitted speaking to her that night, in her car,” the detective says. “But he said he was warning her off. He believed she was having an affair with a colleague at work, and he was telling her to back off.” Webb is looking at her husband as he says this.
“A likely story,” Becky says sarcastically, expecting her husband to back her up.
But Larry says nothing at all.
Webb continues. “In fact, he told us that he believed Amanda was having an affair with your husband—isn’t that right, Larry?”
Becky looks at her husband, stunned.
Now Larry is shaking his head, slowly, back and forth, frowning. “No. I wasn’t having an affair with her. I can’t believe Paul told you that.”
Becky’s mind is spinning. They’re all watching Larry.
“It’s not true,” Larry protests. “I wasn’t sleeping with Amanda.” He looks at the rest of them defiantly
.
“Why would he tell us that if it wasn’t true?” Webb asks.
Larry glances at them all nervously. “The fact is, Paul thought I was having an affair with Amanda. He spoke to me about it. I denied it, because it wasn’t true. I thought he believed me. I can’t believe he spoke to Amanda about it.”
“Why would he think you were having an affair with Amanda? Even after you denied it?” Webb asks. “Any idea?”
Becky catches something sarcastic in the detective’s tone.
“You have to understand what Amanda was like,” Larry begins, sounding defensive. “She was very attractive. She sometimes worked at our office as a temp. She could be—inappropriate. She was in my office one day, and she was behaving improperly, and Paul saw it.”
“You’re going to have to spell it out for us, Mr. Harris,” Webb says, and stares at Larry until he squirms.
Larry admits reluctantly, his face coloring with embarrassment, “She was performing oral sex.”
“On you.”
“Yes.”
Becky stares at her husband, speechless.
“Paul saw it,” Larry explains. “He drew the obvious—but entirely incorrect—conclusion. He confronted me and I told him I wasn’t seeing her. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t think he’d go so far as to warn her off. I mean, that’s just ridiculous. There was nothing going on—it was just that one time. That’s just what she was like.”
Becky wonders if her husband is telling the truth. She realizes that she has no idea. Suddenly she doesn’t feel so contrite, so ashamed. Maybe her husband had his hand in the cookie jar, too. She watches the two detectives, trying to get a read on what they’re thinking. She can’t tell.
“Yes,” Webb says, “Sharpe told us about that. In detail.”
Becky watches her husband’s face flush.
“That’s all it was, I swear, that one incident. I wasn’t seeing Amanda. I knew her from her temping at the office and they live next door, but we didn’t have much to do with them. I think we had drinks with them once or twice.” He adds, “I don’t know what happened to her.”
