There were other things, too. Her account of what’d happened seemed a little too pat, as if some or all of it had been quickly made up and then gone over and refined several times before his arrival. And why had she volunteered information to the homicide inspectors when she’d been warned not to? There was something else, too, something off-key she’d said or done before Darby and the police showed up that kept eluding him.
It all came down to a measure of premeditation: Bryn had gone to the flat to confront Francine, lost it when she saw Bobby hurt again, and in the heat of the fight that followed picked up the kitchen knife and stabbed the woman. That would explain Bryn’s near hysteria when she called; the aftermath of violence, even anticipated violence, throws most people into a panicked state. It would also explain the calm: resignation once she gathered herself, then the decision, the determination, to alter her account to protect herself.
But the problem with that was, Bryn was neither a liar nor a violent person. He couldn’t see her willfully taking anyone’s life, even a woman she hated as much as Francine Whalen. Or fashioning a net of lies to cover up a homicide. Totally out of character.
Or was it? How well did he really know her? Only a short time since they’d met; only a few weeks since they’d become intimate both physically and emotionally. She was complicated, high-strung, damaged by the stroke, her husband’s betrayal, the custody loss of her son. He wasn’t a shrink, couldn’t probe down into the psyche of a woman like Bryn. Just wasn’t equipped. The trouble he’d had dealing with his own demons was proof of that.
He could be wrong about her. Didn’t want to believe he was, but the possibility was still there. Wouldn’t go away until he knew exactly what had happened in Robert Darby’s flat yesterday afternoon.
* * *
Dragovich’s law office was on Grove Street close to City Hall. As successful as his criminal law practice was, he didn’t believe in spending money on jazzing up his workplace. His private office had the usual shelves of law books and an oversized desk, but there were none of the expensive trappings—leather furniture, polished wood paneling, mirrors, paintings, wet bar—that some high-powered attorneys went in for. Strictly functional. Runyon didn’t much like lawyers as a general rule—too many of them were self-promoting, profiteering sharks—but Dragovich was an exception. A man as straightforward and businesslike as his surroundings.
In his late forties and small in stature, not much more than five eight and a hundred and forty pounds; even with his chair jacked up high, the desk dwarfed him. Thinning sandy hair, a beak of a nose, a pointy chin. Habitually he wore a gray suit, a pale blue shirt, and a striped red tie, a kind of signatory outfit like the TV lawyer Matlock. Except that no matter what time of day you saw Dragovich, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, the knot in his tie was loosened, and his suit had a rumpled look. The compensation for all of that was his voice—deep, booming, commanding. He used it to maximum effect in a courtroom.
Runyon was admitted promptly to the attorney’s private office. Dragovich shook his hand, waved him to a client’s chair. As soon as they were both seated, Runyon said, “I just came from the Hall. Do you know why they AdSeg’d Bryn?”
“Yes. It happened after I consulted with her last night—I saw her again early this morning. I wish you’d told me about her stroke.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Badly agitated after she was booked because she wasn’t allowed to cover the damaged side of her face.”
“Why wasn’t she?”
“Jail rules. No scarves—the standard suicide concern. She begged for a towel, but the matrons wouldn’t give her one for the same reason. While she and I talked she tried to cover her face with toilet paper.”
Toilet paper. Jesus Christ.
“After I left her,” Dragovich said, “apparently some of the other prisoners made fun of her condition and she had what the matrons called a temporary breakdown. They were afraid she might harm herself—that’s why she was AdSeg’d.”
Runyon’s hands bunched into fists. As sensitive as Bryn was about her face, the humiliation she’d felt must’ve been acute. The thought of her being harassed by women without conscience or compassion was galling.
“Is she all right now?”
“Better, yes. Resigned. And very concerned about her son.”
“But still segregated. How long before I can see her?”
“I wasn’t given a time line.”
“Not until her arraignment?”
“It’s possible.”