“You said your wife told you she was going to spend the night with her mother, is that right, Mr. Thayer?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her mother’s name?”
“Mary Tomlinson. My wife’s maiden name was Margaret Irene Tomlinson.”
“Where does your mother-in-law live, Mr. Thayer?”
“Out on Sands Spit.”
“Did your wife visit her frequently?”
“Yes.”
“How often, Mr. Thayer?”
“At least once every two weeks. Sometimes more often.”
“Alone, Mr. Thayer?”
“What?”
“Alone? Without you?”
“Yes. My mother-in-law and I don’t get along.”
“So you don’t visit her, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“But you did call her this morning after you saw Irene’s picture in the paper.”
“Yes. I called her.”
“Then you do speak to her.”
“I speak to her, but we don’t get along. I told Irene if she wanted to go see her mother, she’d have to do it without me. That’s all.”
“Which is what she did,” Hawes said, “on the average of once every two weeks, sometimes more often.”
“Yes.”
“And yesterday she told you she was going to her mother’s and would spend the night there?”
“Yes.”
“Did she often spend the night at her mother’s?”
“Yes. Her mother is a widow, you see, and Irene felt she was alone and so she spent…” Thayer hesitated. He sipped at his coffee, put down his cup, and then looked up. “Well, now… now I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“What is it you don’t know, Mr. Thayer?”
“Well, I used to think… well, the woman is alone, you know, and even if I don’t like her, I didn’t think I should stop her daughter from spending time with her. Irene, I mean.”
“Yes.”
“But now… after… after what’s happened, I just don’t know. I mean, I don’t know whether Irene really spent all that time with her mother or if… if… if…” Thayer shook his head. Quickly, he picked up his coffee cup and gulped at the steaming liquid.
“Or if she spent it with this Tommy,” Carella said.
Thayer nodded.
“What time did she leave the house yesterday, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked.
“I don’t know. I went to work at eight. She was still there when I left.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I write greeting-card verse.”
“Free lance, or for some company?”
“Free lance.”
“But you said you left the house yesterday to go to work. Does that mean you don’t work at home?”
“That’s right,” Thayer said. “I have a little office downtown.”
“Downtown where?”
“In the Brio Building. It’s just a small office. A desk, a typewriter, a filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs. That’s all I need.”
“Do you go to that office every morning at eight?” Hawes asked.
“Yes. Except on weekends. I don’t usually work on weekends. Once in a while, but not usually.”
“But Monday to Friday, you get to your office at eight in the morning, is that right?”
“I don’t get there at eight. I leave my house at eight. I stop for breakfast, and then I go to my office.”
“What time do you get there?”
“About nine.”
“And what time do you quit?”
“About four.”
“And then do you go straight home?” Carella asked.
“No. I usually stop for a drink with the man who has the office across the hall. He’s a song writer. There’s a lot of song writers in the Brio Building.”
“What’s his name?”
“Howard Levin.”
“Did you go for a drink with him yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“At four o’clock?”
“Around that time. I guess it was closer to four-thirty.”
“May I give a recap on this, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked. “Yesterday, you left your home at eight o’clock in the morning, went for breakfast…”
“Where was that?” Carella asked.
“I eat at the R and N Restaurant. That’s two blocks from my house.”
“You ate breakfast at the R and N,” Hawes said, “and arrived at your office in the Brio Building at nine o’clock. Your wife was still at home when you left, but you knew she was going out to visit her mother on Sands Spit, or at least that’s what she had told you.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you talk to your wife at any time during the day?”
“No,” Thayer said.
“Is there a telephone in your office?”
“Yes, of course.” Thayer frowned. Something seemed to be bothering him all at once. He did not say what it was, not immediately, but his brows lowered, and his mouth hardened.
“But you didn’t call her, nor did she call you.”
“No,” Thayer said, his voice taking on a curiously defensive tone. “I knew she was going to her mother’s. Why would I call her?”
“What time did you go to lunch, Mr. Thayer?” Carella asked.
“One o’clock. I think it was one, anyway. Around that time. What is this?” he said suddenly.
“What is what, Mr. Thayer?”
“Never mind.”
“Where’d you have lunch?” Hawes asked.
“At an Italian restaurant near the office.”
“The name?”
“Look…” Thayer started, and then shook his head.
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“Mr. Thayer,” Hawes said flatly, “your wife was playing around with another man. It looks as if they committed suicide together, but a lot of things aren’t always what they look like.”
“I see.”
“So we want to make sure…”
“I see,” Thayer said again. “You think I had something to do with it, is that it?”
“Not necessarily,” Carella said. “We’re simply trying to find out how and where you spent your time yesterday.”