by Jason Starr
As he stared me down, I realized that arguing with an NYPD detective who already had his suspicions wasn’t going to improve my situation.
“Look,” I said, “if I felt I was guilty of anything, I’d get a lawyer. But I don’t want to have to get a lawyer and drag this thing out. I’m willing to tell you everything I know if you promise to respect my privacy as much as possible.”
“You think I give a fuck about your privacy?”
Now he sounded like Maria. Maybe I was the problem, not them.
Going for a calmer, more diplomatic tone, I said, “So what do you want to ask me? I told you everything I know last night when you kept me till one a.m.”
“Sit down,” he said.
He settled on the couch, and I reluctantly sat on the love seat adjacent to him.
“Let’s talk about Discreet Hookups.”
“What about?”
“I’m trying to get a hold of your chat transcripts from Sophie,” he said. “We don’t find anything on Sophie’s phone or her laptop or any other devices. Can you provide them or should I get a warrant?”
Panic hit. I remembered the things I’d written to Sophie, how caught up I’d been, how it all would seem. If he got a hold of those transcripts and shared them with Maria, my marriage would go from nightmare to something worse.
“I deleted them,” I said. “She probably deleted them, too.”
“Why did you delete them? Oh, right, because you were cheating.”
“I wasn’t cheating … I was just flirting.”
He rolled his eyes a little and said, “Did you communicate with Sophie Ward in any other way aside from via the Discreet Hookups website?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t even have her email address and we never even exchanged phone numbers.”
“If you won’t play ball, it’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just get a warrant. These days information never disappears.”
He was probably right—there could be cookies, or whatever, on my laptop. Should I destroy my laptop or my hard drive? But how would that look if I did that?
“Why did you need the transcripts?” I asked.
“You’re right,” he said, overdoing the sarcasm. “She was killed, and I’m a detective investigating her murder, but there’s absolutely no reason at all why I should investigate that.”
“You’re just trying to hurt me,” I said, “hurt my marriage, because you think I’m withholding information or something. But I’m not—I’m being one hundred percent honest and cooperative … I’m just saying, if you do this, I’ll sue you. This is totally illegal.”
I had no idea if it was illegal or not. But Barasco didn’t exactly seem concerned.
“How come you didn’t tell me you called nine-one-one twice?”
“I didn’t call twice,” I said. “I called …” Then I remembered—hanging up the first time, trying to figure out how to handle the situation. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I did call twice. I got disconnected the first time, so what?”
“How much do you think Sophie Ward weighed?”
“Weighed?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“I have no idea.” I also had no idea what he was getting at.
“Come on,” he said, “take a guess.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe a hundred twenty, hundred twenty-five. But why—”
“You picked her up, didn’t you?’
“What do you mean, picked her up? You mean at a bar?”
“No, I mean you actually picked her up. You carried her from the hallway and put her in bed, right?”
“I didn’t carry her anywhere,” I said. “I found her in bed.”
“Are you telling me the truth,” he said, “or are you forgetting something, like when you forgot to tell me about the two nine-one-one calls?”
“Look, if this is what this is about,” I said. “If you’re going to be accusing me—”
“I want to know what happened yesterday and I don’t want any more bullshit.”
“I told you what happened.” I realized I was practically screaming and this wouldn’t get me anywhere. In a calmer voice, I continued, “Don’t you have DNA? I mean she was strangled, right, so there must be skin, DNA, in her fingernails. That’s what happens when people get strangled, isn’t it?”
“You tell me,” Barasco said.
“Did you check her fingernails or not?” I asked.
Ignoring my question, he said, “You know so much, maybe you should be the cop and I should be selling real estate … That might’ve helped us, if she was strangled, but actually strangulation wasn’t the cause of death.”
He paused, waiting for my reaction.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “When I got there, the tie was around her neck.”
“We believe she died of a head injury,” he said
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, aware of how stilted I sounded. I was trying so hard to act natural that I was coming off sounding phony, like I had something to hide.
“There was wall damage in the foyer,” he said, still watching me closely. “We believe she was thrown against the wall, or fell hard against it, and then she was carried upstairs.”
Now I got why he’d asked me about her weight; he’d been trying to get me to slip up.
“Don’t you get it?” I said. “He was trying to make it look like I killed her.”
“Who was?”
“Her husband,” I said. “He somehow found out I was meeting Sophie at their place on 32nd Street, so he hired somebody, you know a hit man, to follow her into the city. Maybe the hit man was supposed to kill both of us, but I arrived late. Anyway, the hit man killed Sophie downstairs then maybe he called Sophie’s husband and said, ‘What do I do? She’s dead downstairs.’ Then maybe her husband said, ‘Carry her into the bedroom, make it look like the guy she’s meeting did it.’ I have no idea what actually happened, okay, I’m just saying, when you think about it, it all makes sense. The hit man carried her upstairs and wound the tie around her neck. Then he left, probably a minute or two before I got there.”
I thought I sounded convincing and my theory made at least some sense, but Barasco seemed incredulous.
“That’s very impressive,” he said. “Yeah, I watch cop shows on TV, too. But, just so you know, we’ve found nothing to back up this idea that her husband’s some crazed, jealous maniac. Actually we took him in last night because when a woman is killed, you always have to look at her husband first. But Lawrence Ward’s a respected guy, a CFO.”
“He was hitting her.”
“Nobody’s telling me that except you.”
“It’s in our chats.”
“The chats that she doesn’t have and that you deleted?”
“I’m not making it up, I swear.”
“There was no history of domestic violence, no restraining orders.”
“She was scared,” I said. “She was hiding it.”
“Or she was lying.”
“No, he’s lying,” I said. “And if somebody’s lying about one thing, he could be lying about everything, right?”
“According to the friends and neighbors we’ve spoken to, there was no recent tension between them. We spoke to her family members, her brother and sister, and no one ever heard of any conflict between them at all.”
“I guess she didn’t tell them. Like they say, you never know what’s really going on in a marriage, but she was seriously scared of that guy. She wasn’t lying. Why would she lie?”
“Wild guess. She might’ve told you things were rough in her marriage to suck you in. If she told you her husband was a saint, would you still want to fuck her?”
“No.” I was shaking my head. “It wasn’t like that. There was real concern, real fear.”
“So let me get this straight,” Barasco said. “She didn’t tell her brother and sister about her husband beating her, but she told you, a stranger on the Internet?”
“We had a connectio
n,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy because we never met … But I think she felt safe with me. Or at least comfortable telling me, because of our connection.”
“Your connection.” Barasco repeated it back to me for effect. Then he added, “I don’t want to say you’re gullible, Mr. Harper, but okay, I’ll say it—you’re gullible. I mean, you meet a chick online, she says she wants to screw around, and you think she’s telling you the truth?”
“She wasn’t ‘some chick,’” I said. “She was a sweet, sincere woman, and yes, I believed her.”
“Just like you believed it was her first time meeting a guy online?”
“Yes, I believe it was her first time meeting a guy online,” I said. “I mean, if she wanted to lie to me, why not lie to me about everything? Why give me her real name?” I felt like I was making sense so I started talking faster, with more confidence. “I didn’t tell her about my past relationships so why would she tell me about hers? She’d want to get to know me first before bringing up something like that.”
For the first time, I felt that if Barasco didn’t one hundred percent believe me, at least he was listening.
“I’m telling you,” I said, “she wasn’t lying about her husband. That was all real.”
“Did Sophie tell you about meeting other guys on Discreet Hookups?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“So you really think you were her first, huh? You think she wasn’t a serial cheater and met other guys?”
Was he right? Had there been others? Maybe I wasn’t special to her at all. Maybe I was just another conquest.
“What difference does it make?” I asked.
“Maybe she met another guy, and he got jealous or possessive,” he said. “I mean, if you say you didn’t kill her, then someone else did, right?”
“Sorry, yes, that is important,” I said. “But no, she didn’t mention any other guys.”
“Did she mention anyone else she was scared of? Threatened her in some way?”
“No, she didn’t mention anyone she was afraid of except her husband.”
“But her husband has an alibi so we have to look at other options. You see where I’m coming from, right?”
“How did you know he didn’t hire somebody to kill her?” I said. “You know, like a hit man. Are you looking into that?”
“We’re looking into everything, Mr. Harper.”
For the next half hour or so, Barasco continued to question me, mainly rehashing questions he’d already asked yesterday and today. Maybe he was trying to get me to slip up or give him new information. I remained as patient as possible, continually telling myself that this was probably all routine, that he probably questioned all his witnesses extensively, and just because he was treating me like a murder suspect didn’t necessarily mean I was one.
I tried my hardest to believe this was true.
Finally, when he realized I had no more information to give him, he put the pad away in his inside jacket pocket and said, “Well, that should do it for now, but this investigation is ongoing … obviously. I’ll probably have to talk to you again later or tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” I said, “but I’m telling you, her husband did it.”
“If he did, I’ll find out about it. Nobody gets away with murder, Mr. Harper, at least not on my watch.”
He held my gaze for a good five seconds, like a warning, then left the apartment.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN MARIA AND Jonah returned from dinner, Maria didn’t say anything to me. She seemed barely aware of my existence as she busied herself with getting Jonah ready for bed.
I knew her wrath was coming. It was only a matter of when.
Jonah was brushing his teeth and Maria was in Jonah’s room, unmaking his bed.
“Before you say anything, I’m sorry,” I said. “I know we’ve had problems lately, but nothing justifies putting you through all this.”
Without looking at me, Maria spewed, “We’ll discuss it later.”
I agreed though that this was obviously going to be an involved conversation and we were better off having it when Jonah was asleep.
Jonah, God bless him, was in his usual great mood. He was yapping excitedly about his friend Andrew’s birthday party at Chelsea Piers and, for tonight at least, seemed oblivious to the tension between his parents.
At eight thirty I checked on Jonah and saw he was asleep. Maria had gone into our bedroom and shut the door. When I entered, I saw her sitting on the foot of the bed, talking on her cell phone. She looked up at me, and I could tell how angry she was. I took a deep breath, gathering strength. We’d had some big arguments during our marriage, and I knew this would be another one of them. But I was willing to do whatever it took to convince Maria that I could be a great husband and to not give up on me.
“I have to go,” she said to whoever she was talking to. From her tone I assumed it was one of her friends from college—probably Anne or Tasha.
Seizing the chance to speak first, I said, “I know how angry you are at me right now and I know you don’t want to go to marriage counseling. But I just want you to know I’ll do anything you want to make up for this. I’ll delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts, I’ll never send any emails without you screening them, I’ll never go online again. I just want a chance to get your trust back, that’s all I want. Tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said.
“What’s not possible?” I said. “I’m telling you, I’ll do anything you—”
“I want you to move out,” she said.
This was different from the times when she threatened to leave me for dramatic effect, to get a rise out of me. There was a rigidness and finality and coldness in her tone, as if she’d made a decision and there was nothing I could say to change her mind.
Though I understood the gravity of the situation, I pretended to not take it seriously, saying, “Come on, let’s just talk about it. There’s no reason to—”
“It’s over,” she said. “There’s nothing you can say.”
She wouldn’t look at me. She was biting on her lower lip, staring at the dresser.
“I know you’re upset but—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I just want you out of here.”
“Why?” I said. “I didn’t do any—”
“Please, just stop it!” she screamed. “Fucking stop it!”
Knowing it would be impossible to talk to her when she was this upset, I said, “Fine, we’ll talk about this later or tomorrow morning.”
“We’re not talking about anything,” she said. “I’m through with you. Through with you, you lying, cheating son of a bitch!”
“You’re not being logical right now.”
“Bullshit!” she yelled. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!”
“I told you the truth.”
“The truth,” she said mockingly. “Oh, and that means so much coming from you.”
I knew this was a dig about my past, the lies I used to tell her when I was drinking.
“I know I’ve screwed up before,” I said, “but this is different.”
“Oh, really?” She fake smiled. “You go on some cheating website and you expect me to believe you changed, you’re a new man?”
“I was acting out,” I said. “I know it’s no excuse, but we’ve been having problems, and I didn’t know how to solve them so—”
“You picked up a woman online and she wound up dead.”
“I didn’t pick her up,” I said. “It was just flirting, and I know that’s bad, too—”
“So if the detective sends me your chats,” Maria said, “are you telling me all I’ll see is harmless flirting?”
Remembering the things Sophie and I had written to each other, I said, “It’ll look worse. It’ll look a lot worse. But things aren’t always like they seem.”
She stared at me, holding my gaze, as if trying to see into my brain.
Then she said, “Why should I believe anything you tell me anymore? How do I know you’re not lying to me to me right now? How do I know you didn’t kill that woman?”
This hurt, the way you’d expect it to hurt when your wife accuses you of murder.
Looking right at her, I said, “You know I didn’t do that.”
She wouldn’t look back at me.
“Get out,” she said.
“Look,” I said. “Let’s talk about this later, when we’re both calmer—”
“Fuck later! I want you out of this apartment, out of our lives!”
“Our lives? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I knew exactly what she meant, of course.
She walked away, into the living room.
I followed her, saying, “I can’t control what you do, but if you think I’m just going to walk out on Jonah, you’re out of your mind.”
“Just leave,” she said. “Get the hell out of here!”
“Then tell me,” I said. “Why did you say ‘us’?”
“I’m not supposed to discuss this with you,” she said.
“What do you mean, not suppose—” I cut myself off, realizing what she was getting at, and all of the implications. “Wait a second,” I said. “You were talking to your cousin Michael, weren’t you?”
“What if I was?”
“What did you do, call him when you were out? Holy shit, did Jonah overhear—”
“Jonah didn’t hear anything,” she said. “I was very vague.”
“I can’t believe you,” I said. “Why? Why’re you doing this? What the hell’s wrong with you?”
She smiled in a self-satisfied way, like she felt she was, what, getting some kind of revenge?
Then I made a big mistake. I was so frustrated I cocked my fist. I wasn’t going to hit her, of course. I just did it as a reflex, because she’d gotten me so upset, made me feel so helpless.
I lowered my fist almost immediately, but it was too late. She’d seen what I’d done.
“Changed my fucking ass,” she said, and then she marched melodramatically into the bathroom and slammed the door and locked it.
I was still angry at myself, but it wasn’t all my fault. Anybody threatened with the possibility of losing a child was liable to lose control.
