Whiskey Beach(79)
“Tell me where you were that night, the night she fell.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Let’s be thorough, Mr. Landon. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, because I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face the next morning when she came in to tell me, after Abra called the house. I wasn’t sleeping well. I hadn’t slept well since . . . in a long time. I moved in with my parents a few weeks after Lindsay’s murder, so I was there the night of my grandmother’s accident. My father and I ended up playing gin and drinking beer until about two. I guess I could’ve hauled my ass up here, tossed my grandmother down the steps, then hauled my ass back to Boston and settled in before my mother came in to tell me Gran was hurt and at the hospital.”
Ignoring the comment, Corbett took out his book, made some notes. “There are a lot of valuables in this house.”
“I know it, and I can’t understand it. There’s plenty you could basically stuff in your pockets and make a nice profit. But he spends hours, days, hacking at the basement floor.”
“Esmeralda’s Dowry.”
“It’s all I can come up with.”
“Well, it’s interesting. Any objection, if her doctors clear it, if I talk to your grandmother?”
“I don’t want her upset, that’s all. I don’t want my family dragged through another mess. They’ve dealt with enough.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I shipped a dead man back to Boston, and as far as I can tell, he was just doing his job. Because somebody broke into this house and might’ve done more than assault a woman if she hadn’t defended herself and gotten away. Because you didn’t kill your wife.”
Eli started to speak, then whatever had been in his mind just slid away. “What did you say?”
“Do you think I didn’t read and review every word of your file? You never changed your story. The wording, the delivery, but never the content. You weren’t lying, and if it had been a crime of passion, as speculated, a good criminal defense lawyer—and you had a record of being one—would’ve covered his tracks a hell of a lot better.”
“Wolfe thinks I did.”
“Wolfe’s gut tells him you did it, and I think he’s got a good gut. This time it’s wrong. It happens.”
“Maybe your gut’s wrong.”
Corbett smiled thinly. “Whose side are you on here?”
“You’re the first cop who’s looked me in the face and said I didn’t kill Lindsay. It takes some getting used to.”
“The prosecutor didn’t think you did it either. But you were all they had, and Wolfe was dead sure, so they pushed until they ran out of room.”
Corbett rose. “You got a raw deal. You won’t get one from me this time around. You’ve got my number if you think of anything relevant.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
“We’ll get out of your hair.”
Alone, Eli sat back and tried to sort out his mixed feelings.
One cop saw him as innocent, one cop saw him as guilty. It felt good to be believed, to have the words still hanging in the air.
But any way he cut it, he was still stuck in the middle.
Fifteen
SHE WORRIED HOW SHE’D FIND HIM. DEPRESSED AND brooding? Angry and dismissive?
Whatever his reaction, she couldn’t blame him for it. His life had been disrupted, again, his morality questioned, again. And his privacy shattered—not only by the police, but by people like Heather. Again.
She prepared herself to be understanding, which might mean firm and matter-of-fact or supportive and sympathetic.
She didn’t expect to find him in the kitchen working at a cluttered island with a look of exasperation on his face and a bulb of garlic in his hand.
“Well. What’s going on here?”
“Chaos. Which is apparently what happens when I try to cook.”
She set aside the plate of brownies. “You’re cooking?”
“‘Try’ is the operative word.”
She found the trying both sweet and positive. “What are you trying?”
“Some chicken-and-rice thing.” He shoved at his hair, scowled down at the mess he’d made. “I got it off the Internet under ‘Cooking for Morons.’”
She came around the island, studied the printout of the recipe. “Looks good. Want some help?”
He turned the scowl on her. “Since I qualify as a moron in this area, I should be able to handle it.”
“Great. Mind if I get a glass of wine?”
“Go ahead. You can pour me one, too. In a freaking tumbler.”