The Wife: A Novel of Psychological Suspense

by Alafair Burke

  “Okay, we’ll talk all about it, but in person.” Most detectives arranged interviews at the precinct, which for the special victims unit meant a station house on 123rd Street in an area of East Harlem that many victims were afraid to enter. Corrine, however, believed she learned a lot about people by seeing where they lived. And sitting down in a victim’s living room was a way to begin earning her trust. “Are you home now?”

  “Yeah. Give me an hour to get cleaned up.”

  And already Corrine had learned something about Rachel Sutton. She was the kind of person who tidied up before talking to a detective about a sex abuse claim. That fact meant nothing on its own, but Corrine made a mental note of it, because Corrine liked to think she noticed everything.

  Rachel’s apartment in Chelsea was one of those generic new buildings popping up across Manhattan, all floor-to-ceiling glass. Ticky-tacky fishbowls, Corrine called them. Corrine, on the other hand, had a house—an actual hand-to-God house, with a yard and a driveway—because she’d bought in Harlem before hipsters decided Harlem was cool. A five-minute walk to work was only one reason Corrine had asked to come back to SVU after working homicides for four years.

  She told the doorman she was there to see Rachel Sutton, gesturing toward the badge hanging from the chain around her neck. Years ago, after only two weeks as a plainclothes detective, Corrine had opted for that placement. No one had confused her with a nanny or a housekeeper when she wore a blue uniform.

  Rachel answered her apartment door in cropped boyfriend jeans and a black tank top. Her long dark-brown hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she had applied her makeup in that way that made it look like she wasn’t wearing makeup. As Rachel gestured for her to take a seat in the living room, Corrine noticed a smear of ink on the back of Rachel’s hand, like a temporary tattoo, a couple of inches from a Tiffany-cut solitaire that Corrine guessed was a full two carats.

  “Nice place,” Corrine observed, even though to her it seemed like a photograph from any modern furniture catalog.

  “Thanks. My mom did everything.” Her shrug seemed to acknowledge her good fortune. “I haven’t told her about Jason yet. She’s going to freak. And no way will she let me keep working there—”

  “At FSS?”

  “Yeah. It’s an amazing opportunity for me. Jason’s basically the leading voice at the cross section of finance and international human rights, and now this. I don’t want to blow up my whole professional life before it’s started.”

  Corrine suggested that they talk first about what happened before they discussed what actions might follow.

  Rachel explained that she was getting her master’s degree in economics at NYU and had an internship for credit at Jason’s consulting firm. She’d entered Jason’s office to deliver a memo she had drafted. “I didn’t see him at his desk, but he must have heard me walk in, because he called me into his spa room.”

  “His what?” Corrine asked.

  “That’s what the interns call it. He’s got this huge private bathroom with a shower and a little daybed to the side. Sometimes he closes the door, and we think he takes naps in there. A couple of the interns joke that he might actually live at the office. Anyway, I walked in there, and his pants were undone. I started to turn away, and he said it was nothing I hadn’t seen before. Then he kept talking to me, like it’s normal. But he was like touching himself the entire time.”

  “His genitals were exposed?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No, or at least I didn’t see. His hands were in his pants. I can’t describe it. And it was so fast, and I was sort of freaked out. So then he looked at the memo in my hand and saw my ring. He said something about whether it was a conflict diamond.”

  Rachel must have seen the confusion on Corrine’s face, because she paused for an explanation. “They’re diamonds that come illegally from war-torn areas. Same thing as ‘blood diamonds.’” Corrine nodded to indicate she was following along.

  “I told him I really didn’t know. I held my hand up like an idiot, telling him how I got engaged last weekend.”

  “Congratulations,” Corrine said.

  “Well, as if he’d care. I was nervous, trying to find something to talk about. He took the memo from me, and I started to turn around to leave, but he kind of grabbed my other arm. Not hard, but just sort of held it, like he was keeping me from walking off. I thought maybe he was going to skim my memo and ask some follow-up questions while I was there. But then he kind of pulled me back toward him, and his belt buckle was still undone. He told me I was too young to get married. I hadn’t had enough fun yet. It was clear to me that he was about to put my hand against his—you know. I jumped back immediately.”

  Corrine asked what happened next.

  “Nothing. I kind of stepped backward and pulled my hand away, really abruptly. I didn’t know what to say. And then he turned away, fastened his belt, and started flipping through the memo, like it was no big deal. He told me he’d let me know if he had any questions. And then I left.”

  Corrine asked Rachel whether she’d spoken to anyone about the incident.

  “I told Zack Hawkins. He’s the executive director, officially the person in charge of the interns.” Corrine recalled the name from the FSS website. “I was so shocked,” Rachel said. “I found myself in his office, telling him what had happened.”

  Corrine asked if Zack said what he was planning to do about her complaint.

  “He said he’d talk to Jason about it—that he was sure it was some kind of misunderstanding.” Her dismay that there could be any confusion about Jason’s conduct was clear in her tone. “It was still eating away at me after work, so I went to the police precinct.”

  “Did you talk to anyone else about the incident? Maybe your fiancé?”

  Rachel looked surprised by the mention of a fiancé. “I’m still getting used to that word,” she said, admiring her ring. “No, I didn’t tell Mike, for the same reason I didn’t tell my mother. I don’t want to make a big deal of this—”

  “I’m a police detective, Rachel. Are you saying you don’t want to press charges?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know, but I didn’t feel right not saying anything. What if I let it go, and he ended up doing something worse to another woman? I guess I just wanted to file a report so it would be there. Do you know if this is the first time he’s done this?”

  Corrine told her that the NYPD had no prior complaints.

  Rachel’s lips pursed. “There’s no way for me to prove what happened, is there? It’s my word against his. The classic he-said, she-said.”

  Yes, Corrine thought. And even if she had the entire incident on video, it wasn’t obviously a crime. According to Rachel, Jason never touched her on an “intimate” body part and didn’t clearly expose his own to her. After a few follow-up questions, she confirmed that Rachel’s allegations—if she could prove them—might be considered an attempt to commit an “offensive physical touching.” A Class B misdemeanor. Theoretically, a maximum sentence of six months, but much more likely to lead to probation and some form of counseling.

  “And that’s assuming we can prove that his intention was to place your hand on his genitals,” Corrine added.

  “So I should have lied and said he did it?” Rachel asked.

  “No, because that’s not what happened, right?”

  Rachel shook her head and wiped away a tear. “Sorry, I’m frustrated.”

  “Have you thought about reporting it to the university? Isn’t your internship through the school?”

  “Technically, but it’s more like a job, and Jason’s basically a rock star at NYU. Plus he’s got tenure, so I assume they won’t do anything. To be honest, my guess is that a lot of the female students wouldn’t have pulled away. I’m not sure I want to be ‘that woman’ on campus.” She looked down as if pondering her fingernails. “So does this mean you’re not going to do anything?”

  “My next step would usually be to talk to
any witnesses, but you say there weren’t any. I’d speak to Zack to confirm that you reported the incident right afterward—ask him about your demeanor. And I’d usually speak to the suspect before concluding my investigation. That’s if you want me to proceed. I can’t promise he’ll be charged—that’s up to a prosecutor—but at least the reports will be there.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “Is that what you want?”

  When Rachel answered, she no longer sounded like a confused, conflicted student, worried about unwanted attention and a detour from her carefully planned professional track. Her voice was calm and decisive. “Yes, I’m positive. I just want him to admit what he did to me.”

  As Corrine walked to her car, she thought about all of the reasons no ADA would ever touch this case for prosecution. The delay in reporting. Rachel’s defensiveness with Officer Kendall. The fleeting nature of the interaction. The absence of any type of force. Not to mention the stamp of ink on the back of Rachel’s hand, left over from a club, possibly from the previous night, only hours after the incident.

  The complaint wasn’t quite right. But they never were. That was a truth that every sex offense investigator would admit if it weren’t wholly unacceptable. You’re not supposed to say that victims never tell the complete truth, because it sounds as if you’re calling them liars. They’re not liars. They’re protecting themselves. They’re preparing not to be believed. They’re anticipating all the ways that others will attack them, and are building a protective shield.

  All things being equal, Corrine believed that something had happened to Rachel yesterday—or at least Rachel believed it had happened. The main reason Corrine thought Rachel was telling the truth? Because a liar would have made up something far, far worse.

  She called her lieutenant from the car. He didn’t understand why she was calling him about a stupid misdemeanor until she explained who Jason Powell was. He responded with an annoyed obscenity.

  As expected, he played hot potato and told her to call an assistant district attorney.

  She called the New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau and asked for the supervising ADA, Brian King. He answered after three and a half rings. “Hold on a sec. Sorry. I’m inhaling lunch before a sentencing hearing. I wasn’t going to pick up until I recognized your number.”

  “I’m honored.” She told King everything she knew so far about Rachel’s complaint.

  “Schadenfreude,” he said. “Every time my ex-girlfriend saw him on TV, she used to turn up the volume. Have you questioned him yet?”

  “No. We thought we’d get you roped in early. Make sure we do this right. One way to play it is to pop in and have a little chat. Get his side of the story. Maybe he admits something . . .” She let her voice trail off.

  “Or maybe he kicks you out, calls a lawyer, and brings in a hazmat team to scrub down his sex den.”

  “Lots of men have private bathrooms in their offices.”

  “I don’t see this thing going anywhere. You know that, right?”

  “Won’t be the first time. I just work the case. My guess is Rachel won’t want to press charges if it’s his word against hers, but I won’t know until I at least ask the question.”

  “Fair enough. I’m thrilled to be involved early on,” he said sarcastically.

  Corrine was a few blocks away from the FSS offices when her cell rang. She had only dialed Rachel Sutton’s phone number once, but she recognized it on the screen.

  “Detective Duncan,” she answered.

  Rachel identified herself, apologized for bothering her, and said she remembered something. “His underwear. They were white boxer shorts with red candy canes. It was so ludicrous, I almost laughed. Does that help at all?”

  In a case of he-said, she-said, “she” had just racked up one small point on her side of the board.

  5

  Detective Corrine Duncan

  Interview: May 15, 1:55 PM

  Location: 1057 Avenue of the Americas, FSS Consulting I went to location to contact Jason Powell regarding a complaint filed by Rachel Sutton. I was told that Powell was not in the office. I then asked to speak with Zachary Hawkins, executive director of FSS Consulting.

  I identified myself as an NYPD detective to Hawkins and informed him that an intern had reported an incident allegedly occurring the previous day. Hawkins nodded as if he knew what I was referring to. He said that Jason Powell had left earlier in the day for a business trip to Philadelphia, even though I had not indicated to him yet that the intern’s complaint concerned Mr. Powell. I asked him directly, “Do you know why I’m here?” He said without hesitation, “This is about Rachel, right?”

  Hawkins reported that he studied under Powell at NYU and began working at FSS after a few years at a hedge fund. He explained that this is the first time FSS has supervised student interns, under pressure from the university because Powell is still a professor while pursing outside business endeavors. Rachel Sutton is one of four interns, spending approximately 6–10 hours per week at FSS, primarily researching potential investments.

  Hawkins indicated that Rachel Sutton went to his office the previous day, asked to speak to him, and closed his office door. She reported that Jason Powell had “sexually harassed” her. She stated that Powell had “been inappropriate” with her. According to Hawkins, when he pressed Sutton further for details, she responded, “He’s the one who should explain himself.”

  I asked Hawkins what he did in response to her complaint. He admitted that he has no training in responding to workplace complaints, and that FSS is too small to have a human resources department. He said that he spoke with Jason Powell, who appeared “completely shocked and even outraged” by the question. Powell indicated that he could not think of any explanation for the complaint except for a brief conversation regarding Rachel Sutton’s recent engagement.

  I asked Hawkins if he had any other information to provide regarding the incident, and he said he did not. He said he was “stunned” and “disappointed” that the police were involved, indicating his belief that there was a misunderstanding between the two parties.

  After leaving FSS, I telephoned Jason Powell at a cell phone number provided by Hawkins. I identified myself as an NYPD detective (I did not specify SVU) and told him that I wanted to speak to him about a complaint I had received. He immediately stated that he would not answer questions unless he was in the presence of counsel.

  Action: Reports forwarded to ADA King, New York DA’s Office Special Victims Bureau

  6

  Three Days Later

  This is how I found out.

  I am used to waking up alone, depending on which moment you count as “waking up.”

  The first time is usually around three in the morning. Jason doesn’t know about these restless minutes. No one does. I tell myself they don’t matter, that they’re not real. They have nothing to do with my life as an adult—in this house, with Jason and Spencer. These lost blocks of time belong to the person I used to be. It’s as if sleep carries me into a time machine and I emerge briefly as my younger self: terrified, lonely, but more than anything, flat. That is how I used to feel all the time. Now, it’s only how I wake up—the first time, in the middle of the night, after an awful dream. I force myself to close my eyes and follow the “alphabet game” that Jason taught Spencer when we first spent the night under one roof together.

  Spencer was nearly seven years old at the time. He was used to falling asleep on Long Island to the sounds of ocean wind and the hum of cicadas. Jason’s guest room was fifteen floors above Seventy-Fourth Street, but Spencer could not adapt to the staccato eruptions of sirens and honking horns.

  He stepped into the living room in his Batman pajamas, rubbing his sleepy eyes. I looked apologetically to Jason and started to get up to take Spencer back to bed, but Jason pulled him onto the sofa between us.

  “Start by thinking of something you like—a cartoon, a TV show, a subject in school.”

  I wasn’
t surprised when Spencer chose Harry Potter. He was an advanced reader for his age, but I suspected that the movies—and my mother—had helped him work his way through the books.

  “Excellent,” Jason said. “Now close your eyes. Start with the letter A. Do you know your letters?”

  Spencer smiled and nodded, eyes still closed. He had begun reading when he was only four.

  Jason explained the game: Start with A and think of something related to Harry Potter. “Aunt Petunia.”

  Then to B. “Broomstick.”

  I could tell from my son’s face that he was no longer scared of the street outside. His mind was busy, inside a Harry Potter story. It was the first time I felt sure that Jason was going to love my son, not just me. Jason promised him that if he went back to bed and played the game, he’d be asleep again by the time he made it to Z.

  This is how I spend those middle-of-the-night minutes, working through the alphabet—our family’s non-pharmaceutical Ambien—usually in the world of a familiar television show like Scandal or Friends. Something to make time pass. Anywhere except inside the dream that woke me in the first place, back in that house in Pittsburgh.

  The second time I wake up—barely—is when Jason’s alarm goes off at precisely 5:30 a.m. By the time I met him, his schedule called for getting up early so he could work on the book he hoped to publish someday. Once that plan had worked, the timeline was set in stone.

  As for me, the day doesn’t actually begin until my seven o’clock alarm, at which point my daily routine kicks in. I start with my iPad. Check e-mail. Browse Facebook. Skim the headlines. But I give myself fifteen minutes max, followed by a two-minute plank and a couple of stretches to get the blood moving. I swing by Spencer’s room to make sure he gets up, then it’s down to the kitchen to make breakfast. Boring? Yes. But I’m a firm believer in routine. Predictability is comforting. It’s safe.