by Margot Hunt
“We’re investigating the death of Robert Gibbons,” Monroe said, confirming what I’d already suspected. “I understand you knew him.”
“Of course,” Nat said. “Our son, Charlie, is a student at Franklin School, but Robert was also a personal friend of ours.”
“What can you tell us about Mr. Gibbons? How well did you know him?”
“When we first moved to Shoreham, we lived in the same apartment complex as Robert and Venetia. Robert’s ex-wife,” Nat explained. “We’d get together with them for dinner or the movies. That sort of thing.”
“Was it a close friendship?”
“Close? No, I wouldn’t say close, necessarily. I mean, we were certainly fond of the Gibbonses, but we didn’t spend the holidays with them or go on trips together,” Nat said. She looked over at me.
“Right,” I agreed. My voice caught in my throat and I cleared it. “They were the sort of friends you’d grab a pizza with on a Friday night.”
“Exactly,” Nat said. “And that happened a lot less frequently after we both moved out of the apartment complex.”
“What about after the Gibbonses divorced?” Monroe asked.
I was surprised that neither detective was recording our conversation or even taking notes on a spiral-bound notepad, like the policemen did on television crime dramas. Was that, I wondered with yet another thud of fear, because they already knew everything we were telling them? Were they not looking for facts, but instead for inconsistencies?
“Things changed then,” Nat admitted. “Venetia moved out of state and we didn’t really see Robert as much socially anymore. Or at all, really. We did see him at school all the time, of course.”
“How did Mr. Gibbons seem to you after the divorce?” Reddick asked, chiming in for the first time since the interview had begun.
“Seem?” Nat asked. “In what way exactly?”
“Did you notice any changes in his personality? Did he seem angry or depressed? Anything like that?”
“Well, yes.” Nat bit her lip, and looked thoughtful for a moment. “I would say he certainly seemed downcast in the months after his divorce. Although that would be normal, wouldn’t it?”
Neither detective answered her. I had a feeling that was another police tactic. Never answer a question in order to keep the target off balance.
“Robert didn’t want the divorce,” I said.
Both of the detective’s heads swiveled toward me.
“Why do you say that?” Monroe asked.
I had no idea why I’d said it. Some combination of terror that the police were in our living room and a desperate wish to turn their focus away from Natalie’s and my relationship with Robert. If the police thought Robert’s death was somehow connected to his divorce, rather than to the fact that he was a pedophile, that would be a good thing for us.
“We went out one time for a beer after work. Just Robert and me,” I said. “It was while back. Three years ago?”
I’d actually forgotten about it until just that moment. I’d run into Robert at school one day, while I was there dropping off Charlie’s lunchbox, which he’d forgotten at home. I’d handed the lunch box to Mrs. Fischer, the terrifying school receptionist who’d taken it from me unsmilingly. I was just turning to leave when Robert wandered out of his office looking downcast, his hands in his pockets. He’d seemed so lost and unhappy that I’d felt sorry for him. I asked him if he wanted to grab a beer after work and had been surprised when he’d accepted. Robert wasn’t really a beer-after-work kind of a guy. I figured at the time he was probably lonely.
Now, thinking about my gesture of kindness—and how Robert had repaid that by targeting my son a few years later—caused a bubble of rage to swell up inside me. Fuck Robert. Fuck him. I was glad he was dead.
“It was after he and Venetia had separated, but before their divorce was final,” I continued, hoping I was successfully concealing my simmering rage. If Nat could keep her feelings contained, I could do the same. “He was still hoping at that point that she would change her mind.”
“Did he say why she wanted the divorce?” Monroe asked.
I shook my head slowly. “No, he seemed genuinely confused as to why she left.” I tried to remember my conversation with Robert that night, but it came back only in scraps. “We’d gone to Winston’s, a local pub, and had each ordered a draft beer. Robert told me he’d tried to talk Venetia into giving their marriage another chance, maybe going to marriage therapy, but she’d refused. He said that once she’d made her decision, it was like she had just turned off her feelings. She was just done.”
“And he never knew why?” Monroe asked.
“I have no idea.” I shrugged. “That was the only time we talked about it.”
“You said your son’s name is Charlie?” Detective Reddick asked.
“Yes,” Nat said.
Reddick nodded. “What grade is he in?”
“Fifth grade,” Nat said. “He’s eleven.”
“Is it okay if we talk to him?”
“No,” Nat said evenly. “It’s not okay.”
Reddick exchanged a look with his partner. “It’s not like we want to bring him down to the station and put him in an interview room.”
“That’s right.” Monroe grinned. “We don’t break out the rubber hoses to use on kids. At least, not usually.”
“We’ll just ask him a few questions here. You can even be there with him.”
Natalie raised her eyebrows and looked coolly back at the detective.
“I know I would have the right to be there,” she said. “I’m a criminal defense attorney. I also know you don’t have the right to question my son without my express permission, which I’m not granting. Unless you have probable cause that he was a witness to a crime.” She looked from one detective to the other. “Do you have probable cause?”
The detectives exchanged another look. They obviously did not.
“I thought you looked familiar,” Monroe said. “I’ve seen you in court. You represent the bad guys, right?”
“I protect the rights of my clients. For example, making sure the police don’t cross the line in the course of doing their duties.”
“We’ve spoken to a bunch of school families already,” Reddick said mildly. “You’re the first that’s refused to let us talk to your kid.”
My insides instantly dissolved into an icy liquid, or at least that’s what it felt like. Was Nat making the right call refusing to let them talk to Charlie? And yet, I knew why she’d refused. We had no idea how Charlie would hold up under questioning, no matter how mild. If he admitted that Robert had touched him...Nat and I would instantly become prime suspects in Robert’s death.
“That’s fine,” Natalie said. “But it certainly doesn’t persuade me to change my mind.”
“Do you mind telling us why?” Reddick persisted.
“I do mind, actually. I don’t have to explain why I don’t want the police questioning my eleven-year-old son about an alleged pedophile, which might be a little upsetting for him,” Nat said. “And I’m sure the other parents didn’t know they could refuse. It’s not like you told them that, right?”
“Alleged,” Reddick repeated. He looked over at Monroe. “Lawyers know all the fancy words, don’t they?”
Detective Monroe held up a hand, like a parent trying to silence squabbling offspring.
“Mr. and Mrs. Clarke,” he said in a soothing voice. “Over the course of our investigation, it’s come to our attention that Robert Gibbons might have been alone with Charlie at one point during a school field trip.”
I froze so completely, I actually stopped breathing. I turned to look at Nat and saw that although she still looked composed, her color had paled.
“Who said that?” she asked.
“One of the chaperones.”
“Which
one?” Nat’s voice had an icy edge to it.
“I’m not saying that anything happened,” Monroe continued. “But Charlie might have some information that would help us with our investigation. That’s why we’d like to speak with him.”
“First of all, I would imagine all of the children at the school were in contact with Robert at one time or another,” Nat said. “He was the principal. But second, Robert is dead. You’re not investigating what he may or may not have done to any children. You’re investigating his death.”
Monroe tipped his head to one side. “The two might be related.”
“I certainly hope not,” Natalie said. “As I’m sure you know, there’s a rumor going around that Robert was a drug addict.”
The detectives exchanged a glance. Monroe nodded. “Yes, that’s an angle we are investigating.”
“Good. In my experience, when addicts get in trouble, it usually involves drugs,” Nat said.
I was just grudgingly admiring my wife’s cool response—which was pretty much the perfect retort—when Detective Monroe abruptly said, “Where were you on Friday night?”
And just like that, I was again flooded with terror. They wanted an alibi. The police were in our house, asking us for alibis. This was all moving too quickly.
“Friday night?” Nat repeated. She tipped her head to one side and looked thoughtful. “I think I was home that night. Wait, no, I did go to the grocery store in the early evening, but after that I was in for the night.”
“And, you, sir?” Monroe looked at me.
“I was...out,” I stammered. “With work colleagues. At Rockbar Oysters.”
“Heard the food’s good there,” Monroe remarked. “But that’s a long way to go for oysters.”
“It was pretty good,” I said. “Worth the drive.”
“Will you give us the names of your colleagues?” Reddick asked. He finally pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket and looked up at me, the pen poised over the paper.
“Sure,” I said, desperately trying to think of which of my law partners would cover for me. “Um... Ben Miller was there. And Alex Peters. Oh, and Jaime Anderson. And the kid we were interviewing, although I can’t remember his name.”
“Ben Miller. Alex Peters. Jaime Anderson,” Reddick repeated, scribbling in his notebook. I watched him write, feeling my blood pressure spike, my heart pounding in my chest. I wondered distantly if I could count on Ben and Alex, who I’d known for years, to cover for me. Either one would probably be fine providing an alibi to my wife—it was an open secret in the firm that Ben had an affair with one of the paralegals a few years back and Alex was on his third marriage. But I had to imagine they would not be comfortable backing a false alibi to the police. Hell, I wasn’t even sure Jaime would do that for me.
“If that’s everything, I’ll walk you gentlemen out,” Natalie said, standing.
The policemen got to their feet. Reddick took out a business card, handed it to Nat. She took the card, but didn’t look at it. “If you change your mind about letting us interview Charlie, call me.”
Nat nodded and walked to the front door, which she opened. The detectives filed out and Nat closed the door behind them. Before I could say anything, she raised a finger to her lips.
“Wait a minute,” she mouthed.
“I was just going to ask where Charlie is.”
“He’s in his room. I told him he could watch a movie on my tablet, as long as he wore his headphones.”
“Good thinking.”
Nat glanced out the window. “Okay, we’re clear. They’re in their car, pulling out now.”
“Thank God,” I breathed. I ran a hand over my face and realized that I was damp with sweat. “I feel like shit.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Nat said dryly. “Maybe because you drank a bucket of wine last night?”
My stomach shifted queasily. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Nat snorted. “I bet.”
“It was a Friday night.”
“Jesus, Will. You have to get it together. The police are now involved. We have to be careful.”
“I am.” I realized this was a complete lie, so I drew in a shaky breath. “I will. Do you think they know anything?”
“No,” Nat said. “That was a fishing expedition. They don’t know anything about us. If they did, they would have brought us in for a formal interview. But that younger detective...what was his name?” She pulled his business card out of her pocket. “Gavin Reddick. I could tell his antennae were up. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Detectives are inherently suspicious.”
“They’re investigating Robert’s death as a murder, then.” The word murder was like a stale cracker in my mouth, crumbling on my dry tongue.
“I’m not sure.”
“Let me put it this way—would detectives be interviewing us, or any of the other school parents, if they didn’t already suspect that Robert was murdered?”
“Probably not,” Nat admitted.
The icy liquid terror returned, pitching through me violently.
“When will we know if we’re in the clear?” I asked.
Nat shrugged, shook her head. “I don’t know. At this point, we’re going to have to wait and see. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”
Chapter 25
The news broke on Monday morning while I was at work.
I had followed Nat’s orders and stopped running internet searches on Robert’s death. I knew she was right, it was too risky, too easy to track, although I wasn’t about to admit that to her. But midmorning, while I was wading through a stack of business holdings for one of my trust clients, Nat sent me a text:
Sheriff Nolan is about to hold a press conference about Robert’s death.
I turned to my computer and pulled up the website for one of the West Palm Beach news stations. The press conference wasn’t among the top headlines—the shooting of a police officer the night before in Riviera Beach was dominating the news cycle, along with a story about a city commissioner who’d been indicted for fraud. I had to scroll down the page a bit. I found the story—“Calusa County Sheriff Garland Nolan to Hold Conference on Investigation into Death of Shoreham School Principal Robert Gibbons at 10 am.” It was just after ten, so I tapped on the link and waited impatiently for the video feed to load on the website.
The news conference was underway. Sheriff Nolan was standing at a podium, with a cluster of microphones set up in front of him. He had a long face with an exaggerated chin, serious brown eyes and close-cropped gray hair. Now that I knew he and Lauren David were related, I could see the resemblance. She’d inherited his bone structure, along with his narrow lips, but certainly not his personality. Whereas Lauren was frivolous and chatty, her father looked like a man who rarely grinned. He was wearing what I assumed was his official uniform—a dark shirt, open at the collar, with patches on the arms and a gold star pinned over his heart.
“The body of Robert Gibbons was found last Sunday, February 25, after a visitor to his house spotted him through a window. Our medical examiner, Dr. Sarah Goldstein, has completed the autopsy. Her conclusion is that Robert Gibbons died of asphyxiation. We are now officially investigating this death as a homicide. Because the investigation is ongoing, I’m not going to comment further on any of our findings to date.”
I watched in stunned horror as the gaggle of reporters immediately began shouting out questions, ignoring the sheriff’s statement that he wasn’t going to comment.
“How was the victim asphyxiated?”
“Can you confirm that there were drugs present at the scene?”
“Do you have any suspects?”
Oh, Jesus, I thought.
The sheriff looked irritated. “As I just said, I’m not going to comment further on what is an ongoing investigation.”
I s
tared at my computer screen, trying to absorb the horror of what was happening. The police were officially investigating Robert’s death as a homicide...and they’d already been at our house asking questions...and I’d given them a false alibi.
“Shit,” I said out loud.
“What?” Jaime said from the doorway.
I startled and banged my knees on my desk. I fumbled to hit the volume button on my computer keyboard, silencing the sheriff.
“What are you watching?” Jaime asked, frowning.
“Nothing. I was just...a video started autoplaying.” I gestured toward the screen. “I hate that.”
“What happened to you this weekend?” She looked back over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening, then stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. I quickly closed the news website. “You never got back to me.”
Jaime looked stunning, as usual. Today she was wearing a tight-fitting green sweater over a knee-length black skirt and high-heeled boots. Her dark curls were loose around her shoulders. Normally, seeing her like this, looking like a sexy librarian, would make me want to stand up and pull her into my arms. But not now. Not after hearing the sheriff utter the word asphyxiation in his deep, clipped voice.
“Sorry,” I said. “I had a lot going on.”
“I really need to talk to you.”
“Oh...okay. What about?” I wondered if it was possible that the sheriff’s detectives had already been to see her about my alibi, but then remembered that she’d started texting me before the police had interviewed Nat and me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, but I want to catch you up on what’s going on. Are you free for lunch today?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to explain, kindly but firmly, that my life had turned into a shit show over the past ten days. That continuing to juggle our affair while also dealing with the aftermath of killing the man who molested my son was inconceivable. That our affair would have burned out eventually anyway, so wasn’t it better that we part now, as friends?
