“But she would be unlikely to remain an heir.”
“Unlikely,” Gates said.
43
Jenn’s apartment was clean, but it wasn’t neat. Clothes were scattered about. The dirty dishes and scattered crumbs of a small and hurried breakfast were in the kitchen. There was a chaos of makeup in the bathroom and a wet towel wadded on the floor near the shower. Sunny smiled.
Running late this morning.
In the bedroom, on the bureau, was a big picture of Jesse. He was hatless and the sun was full on his face. Sunny looked at the picture for a time. Then she went back to the living room and sat at the little painted writing table with French legs that Jenn appeared to use as a desk. There was a phone on the desk and a laptop computer, open, the screen lit. Sunny opened the address book at the bottom of the screen. There were a lot of addresses. Jesse’s e-mail address was there. And so was tpat@cybercop.com, which when she clicked on it proved to be Timothy Patrick Lloyd.
That was easy.
The smell of Jenn’s perfume was strong in the apartment. The place was expensive and, Sunny thought, a little overdecorated.
Well, I’m here. I might as well learn what I can.
She opened the drawer in the writing table. It was like most people’s desk drawers. Pens, paper clips, papers that weren’t necessary but couldn’t be thrown away yet, a ruler, a box of notepaper, some scissors, a roll of stamps. In the small second drawer was a checkbook and some bills. Systematically, Sunny went through the apartment. In a drawer in the buffet in the dining area, she found a photo album/ scrapbook. There were pictures of Jenn and Jesse at their wedding. There were several different pictures of Jenn with several different men, one of whom was a recognizable actor. There was a picture of Jesse, very young, in a baseball uniform. And a clipping from the newspaper about Jesse’s part in the capturing of two serial killers in Paradise several years ago. There were pictures of Jenn on air, and publicity head shots of her. There were also two pictures of Jenn, in a bikini, with Timothy Patrick Lloyd, on a beach somewhere.
Sunny took the two pictures and put them in her purse. She went through the rest of the album. There were no family pictures in the album. No one who appeared to be a parent. No pictures of Jenn as a child. Sunny put the album back. In Jenn’s bedroom closet was nightwear from Victoria’s Secret. The lingerie in her dresser drawer had been selected for appearance far more than comfort. Sunny smiled to herself.
The medicine cabinet had a partly used package of birth-control patches. The makeup was expensive and showed thought. The perfume was very good. The hair products were mostly what Sunny used. The hot-roller device was the same one Sunny had.
She’s not that different. Looks good. Wants to look better. Nothing remarkable, except she’s a liar.
Sunny stood for a few moments in the silent living room and looked around. The apartment was new and stylish, and clean and careless and ordinary and still. Sunny spoke aloud, her voice much too real in the empty space.
“God, I’m glad I have Rosie,” her voice said.
44
Walton Weeks Enterprises had offices in a building near Penn Station. There were several secretaries in a big front space, Walton’s imposing office, now bearing silent witness in the corner, and a somewhat smaller but still substantial office beside it where Jesse sat with Alan Hendricks.
“You nervous?” Jesse said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re about to become Walton Weeks,” Jesse said. “Does that make you nervous.”
“Well,” Hendricks said. “They are certainly big shoes to fill.”
“Of course, you’ve walked some distance in them already,” Jesse said.
Hendricks’s face looked stiff to Jesse.
“Meaning?” Hendricks said.
“Well, you have done a lot of Walton’s research and writing,” Jesse said. “Have you not?”
“Well, of course, I’ve been with him for some years.”
“And you’re prepared to proceed, alone,” Jesse said.
“If Mrs. Weeks wants me to.”
“Does she?”
“She has suggested as much,” Hendricks said.
He looked humble.
“And you get along,” Jesse said.
“She’s a very fine woman,” Alan said. “I hope I don’t disappoint her.”
“Have you ever?”
“I don’t think so.”
Jesse smiled and didn’t say anything.
“What are you implying,” Hendricks said.
Jesse shrugged.
“Maybe you’re inferring?”
Hendricks stared at Jesse.
“I have interviewed half a dozen heads of state,” Hendricks said. “If you think I’m going to be intimidated by some small-town police chief, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Damn,” Jesse said.
“Why are we having this conversation?”
“The time-of-death issue has opened up,” Jesse said. “I suppose you have an alibi for the last six weeks?”
“Six weeks,” Hendricks said. “That’s a joke. I thought you had time of death established.”
“We thought so, too,” Jesse said. “But we didn’t.”
“So you now come here on some sort of fishing expedition, implying something illicit between me and Lorrie Weeks?”
“I don’t recall suggesting that,” Jesse said.
“I know what you’re doing,” Hendricks said. “I’m not some scared teenager you’ve stopped for speeding.”
“I guess not,” Jesse said. “So were you intimate with Mrs. Weeks?”
Hendricks stood suddenly up behind his desk.
“This interview is over,” Hendricks said.
Jesse stood more slowly. He smiled and nodded.
“You were,” he said. “Weren’t you.”
Hendricks said nothing. Jesse turned and left. Stephanie had that one right, Jesse thought as he waited for the elevator.
45
Suit brought a box of donuts and three coffees with him into the squad room. He put the box in the middle of the conference table and gave a cup each to Molly Crane and Jesse.
“I miss anything?” Suit said.
“I was outlining my theory of the crime,” Jesse said.
“Which is?” Suit said.
“That we’re not solving it,” Molly said.
Suit nodded.
“Cox is on the front desk,” Suit said. “He wanted to know how come he didn’t get donuts. I told him because he hadn’t made detective yet.”
“Good, Suit,” Molly said. “Promote unit cohesion.”
Jesse took the plastic cover off his coffee and tossed it onto the conference table. He stood beside the green chalkboard where he had written a list of names in yellow chalk.
“I talked to the divorce lawyer,” Jesse said. “Esther Bergman. She affirms that Weeks wanted a divorce. That he was prepared to make a generous settlement on Lorrie, but that he didn’t want alimony and he would, of course, change his will.”
“Any of this happen?” Molly said.
“No, the lawyer was in process.”
“Lorrie Weeks know?” Suit said.
“The lawyer said she did.”
“Funny no one mentioned this,” Suit said.
“Good old Stephanie,” Jesse said.
“What else did you find out this trip?” Suit said.
“Lorrie was having sex with Hendricks,” Jesse said, “the faithful researcher.”
“How’d you find that out?” Suit said.
“Good old Stephanie,” Molly said. “Jesse employed the three-martini-lunch interrogation.”
“Often effective,” Jesse said.