“Okay.”
“The newscast, the charity benefit, the photo—that rattled him. He was about to confess something to me outside PTG that night.”
“I thought you said he was probably only confessing to the affair.”
“Right,” Jocelyn said. “And confessing to his inappropriate relationship with Sydney would have been a step in the right direction. Clearly, we threw him off his game. Plus, now he is probably more stressed out because Francine had a miscarriage. Now is the time to apply more pressure, put him on the defensive. What better way than to bring up Becky Wu, another student he was close to who died in his arms?”
Trent smiled. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I got you now. So this is a surprise visit then.”
Jocelyn grinned. “Shock and awe.”
Chapter 23
November 14, 2014
Cash Rigo looked like he hadn’t bathed in a week. He answered his front door wearing red sweatpants and a white V-neck T-shirt with coffee and pit stains on it. His face registered surprise when he saw Jocelyn, his brows shooting upward, and fear when he saw Trent behind her. His facial muscles slackened, and his eyes widened. He kept one half of his body behind the door. “Can I help you?”
He must not have brushed his teeth in a few days either. Jocelyn couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose when she caught a whiff of his foul breath. He didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at Trent. Jocelyn put on a fake smile. “Mr. Rigo, we need to talk.”
He ignored her and stepped back even further, retreating into his foyer. Jocelyn took that opportunity to muscle her way inside, just as she had with Francine a few weeks earlier.
“My wife is very sick,” he said. “You can’t come in.”
Jocelyn was in the foyer, but Trent stayed on the steps. He flashed his badge. When he spoke, his tone was calm but firm. Jocelyn could tell he was one of those people—you did what he said. “Mr. Rigo, maybe you can come downtown and talk with us there so we don’t disturb your wife.”
Cash stared at Trent. “You’re with the police,” he said dumbly.
Trent dropped his credentials back into his pocket and smiled. He stepped inside so he was shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn. “That’s correct.”
Cash looked back at Jocelyn. “I thought you were a private investigator.”
Cold air flowed in around them. Jocelyn smiled and made a point of shivering. Cash caught on and closed the door slowly, cutting off the frigid air outside. He stared at her expectantly.
“Oh I am,” she assured him. “I’m here as a courtesy to my client.”
Cash’s face paled. “The family?”
Jocelyn kept the amiable smile on her face. She felt like a flight attendant. “Yes, Sydney’s family.”
Trent rolled his eyes and hooked a thumb toward Jocelyn. “Yeah,” he joked. “Now I got two bosses.”
Cash looked mildly confused, a line creasing his brow. But their humor seemed to tamp down some of his anxiety. Jocelyn noticed his shoulders relax, a bit of color returning to his face. “Uh, sure, okay,” he stammered. “Come on in.”
He pushed the hair around on his head as he led them to the living room.
“Sit on the edge,” Jocelyn whispered to Trent. He gave her a puzzled look until he watched her perch herself on the edge of the cushy couch. She patted the space beside her, and he sat. Cash sat across from them. Jocelyn noticed the coffee table books hadn’t moved since she’d met with Francine.
Cash’s left knee bobbed up and down at machine gun speed. His eyes were everywhere at once—on her, on Trent, on the doorway to the foyer, on the archway to Jocelyn’s left that led into the kitchen. He looked exactly like every guilty suspect she’d ever interrogated. Right before they broke.
Trent said, “Mr. Rigo, what was the nature of your relationship with Sydney Adams?”
“My what?”
“Your relationship,” Trent repeated. “What was the nature of your relationship with Sydney Adams?”
Cash looked at each of them, incredulous. “My relationship? She was my student. I was her coach. I—”
Jocelyn didn’t let him finish. “Was that all?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Trent tried again. “You and Sydney, did you spend a lot of time alone together?”
Cash shook his head slowly from side to side, looking shell-shocked. Jocelyn heard a creek from the hall—probably the steps. She kept her gaze on Cash.
“She was my student,” Cash said again. “I was her coach.”
“What about when she came here? To your house?” Jocelyn asked. “Was that to study? Or were you coaching her privately?”
Another creek, closer this time. Cash looked like he might vomit. His mouth hung open.
“Mr. Rigo?” Jocelyn coaxed.
“What about Becky Wu?” Trent asked. Cash’s head snapped in Trent’s direction so fast, Jocelyn was surprised he didn’t have whiplash. “You ever coach her privately?”
Jocelyn could sense Francine’s presence lurking in the shadowy archway by the steps.
“Becky? She was—I don’t—what does Becky Wu—”
Trent didn’t give him a chance to finish stumbling over his words. “Becky Wu,” Trent said. “She died in 2005. She was a student. You were her coach.”
Cash’s voice had a squeaky quality to it, like a mouse caught in a trap—still alive but badly hurt. “Becky had an allergic reaction to a bee sting. I had nothing to do—”
“Cash,” Francine’s voice rang out across the living room, a little too loudly.
All three of them turned toward the sound. She stood in the archway in a fuzzy, blue robe and teal and white plaid pajama bottoms. Her hair was pulled back in a messy pony tail. Her skin was ghostly white except for the dark circles under her eyes. She rested one hand against the archway and the other over her stomach. She stared at her husband, smiling weakly. “I was calling you,” she complained. A lie. She’d been standing on the steps almost the entire time they’d been there. She made an unconvincing attempt to act as if she’d just noticed Jocelyn and Trent. “Oh, hello,” she said, her voice strained, as though she was in pain.
Jocelyn imagined she was—the thought of the physical trauma of the miscarriage and D&C alone made Jocelyn cringe inside. Again, Jocelyn felt the stinging slap of guilt. She pushed it aside.
“I didn’t know we had company. I’ll make coffee.” Francine smiled at Jocelyn. “Would you like some?”
“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” Jocelyn said. “You look like you need your rest.”
But Francine had already turned, shuffling off to the kitchen. They all sat frozen, listening to the sounds of Francine moving around the kitchen—cabinets opening and closing, dishes clinking, and water running. Cash stood abruptly, as if it had just dawned on him that he should help his wife. “Give me a minute,” he said.
Jocelyn stood too and motioned to the stairs. “Can I use your restroom?”
Cash sighed and nodded. “Top of the steps, to your right.”
The second-floor hall was painted in periwinkle blue, paintings of flowers dotting the walls. Jocelyn turned right at the top of the steps, peeking quietly into each room as she went. One room held a home office with a treadmill and ironing board taking up most of it. Men’s shirts hung from the frame of the treadmill. There was a smattering of paper beside a powered-down laptop on the desk. Bookshelves were lined with history books. Framed photographs of Cash and Francine graced the shelves. None looked recent. The door to the next room was slightly ajar. Jocelyn poked her head inside. It was an unfinished nursery. It had been decorated in light greens and yellows with baby animals dancing along the border of the wall. The crib was partially assembled, the bedding folded in a pile on the floor. Parts of the crib along with some power tools lay in the center of the floor. A dresser sat against one wall, wrapped tightly in plastic. An unopened video monitor—much like the one Jocelyn still used for her own daughter—sat atop it. The thought that Francine would never know the unique anxiety of wondering whether her baby was still breathing or not a dozen times a night made Jocelyn immeasurably sad.