“No problem.” I held up a hand and began to shuffle backward from the door out into the hall. “Nice to meet you, Trudy. Catch you later.”
Then I wheeled around and burst the length of the hallway, listening for his following footsteps but not surprised to hear nothing. I vaulted down the stairway to the first floor, thinking I couldn’t bear to be trapped in the elevator with anyone else where I’d have to act normal and unruffled.
At least I hadn’t rushed into his office announcing my intention to cook him dinner, nattering on about the level of heat in the pasta sauce. That would have been too mortifying for words.
Very near tears, I pushed the heavy door from the stairwell into the hallway and nearly slammed into Officer Torrence. His expression of surprise, followed quickly by sympathy, cracked my dam.
“Oh my,” he said, glancing up the stairs and frowning. “You’ve come from the detective’s office. I’m sorry. How did you get in? I would have warned you she was here if I’d known you were coming.”
I started to sniffle in earnest. He circled an arm around my shoulders and shuffled me around the corner to his office. He handed over a box of generic brand tissues and shut the door, waiting for me to pull myself together.
A million questions surged through my mind. How long had Trudy been here? I remembered from an article I’d read about their home invasion a couple of years ago that she lived in Miami. Had he asked her to come down? Had they been talking all along? Where was she staying? Were they reuniting? Was that hair color real? And why the hell hadn’t he said something, like warned me that his wife was back in the picture? His wife.
But Torrence shouldn’t be put in the position of feeding me information about his boss. And to preserve the tiny shreds of dignity I still had intact, it felt important to act as though those details couldn’t have made the slightest difference. So I blew my nose and wiped my eyes and tried to smile. “You do have a way of finding me in shaky condition.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Not to worry. Can I help you with something? Besides him?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
I laughed. “I had some thoughts about the murder, that’s all. That’s what I came to tell him.” I shuddered and squared my shoulders.
“You might as well tell me,” he said. “I can pass it on.”
“It will sound silly.”
“Okay.” He nodded.
“You know that Sam Rizzoli was a judge for the cooking contest I’m involved with?”
He nodded again.
And then I told him about my conversation with Toby Davidson. “She’s afraid that someone might be targeting us three other judges. I spoke with our executive producer this morning—he swears that none of the candidates have been preselected to win. That was one idea Toby had about a possible motive—that one of the candidates believed that Rizzoli would gum up the machine.”
“That’s a big leap,” said Torrence.
“As Toby pointed out,” I argued, “there’s an awful lot riding on the outcome. It’s not only a local fundraiser. Winning could mean a huge game change in someone’s career. And we’re definitely not all in agreement. Chef Adam really loves this guy Buddy Higgs. Toby seems to like Henri Stentzel. And so far I’m leaning toward Randy Thompson. Except for the cake pops. Randy suggested cake pops for a wedding.” I hated to agree with Chef Adam on much of anything, but in this case, after thinking it over, I had to admit he was right. “At first, I thought it was a fun idea. But when he described how they’re made, I realized he’d lost his mind. He actually admitted that his ingredients were a boxed cake mix and a can of Betty Crocker icing.”
Torrence’s eyes had begun to glaze over like the chocolate frosting on one of Randy’s treats. Torrence was clearly no chef. He wouldn’t have a clue about how using a cake mix would be anathema to a culinary professional.
“All I’m saying is no one’s a lock. But I keep wondering who’s got the biggest stake in winning the contest. And how far would he or she go to be sure he or she won?”
Torrence squinted and shook his head. “To be honest, your theory, while interesting, feels like quite a stretch. How would killing off another judge garner a win? More likely it would end the contest.”
“Point taken.” The same thing Peter had said. But then I reminded him about last night, how Toby dove into the water off Mallory Square when she thought someone was shooting at her. “Doesn’t that mean something?”
“I heard about the incident in this morning’s report,” Torrence said. “Good thing you were there to pull her out. I think her body would be floating toward the Bermuda Triangle about now if you hadn’t. Shark bait.” He rubbed a finger over his mustache. “I shouldn’t say much, but we have examined the footage from the Mallory Square webcam before and after the time your friend went overboard. We didn’t find much—only a fuzzy sequence of her ducking, and then leaping over the concrete lip into the water. And then you followed soon after. One man came up to the edge but he appeared to be talking to you, not shooting.”