Picture Perfect (23 page)

“Ms. Tate was at home watching TV,” Tanya answers. She reaches into her Fendi bag and pulls out an iPad. She taps the screen and up pops photos of what look like security camera footage of my car entering my parking garage. “She arrived home Sunday afternoon at four-sixteen and did not leave her apartment building until seven-forty-five the following morning.”

Detective Wilson ignores Tanya and looks directly at me. “Mrs. Tate, did you have a physical confrontation with your husband Sunday evening?”

“Absolutely not,” I blurt, and I instantly feel the pointy toe of Tanya’s shoe against my ankle, reminding me to keep my trap shut.

“As I just stated, Ms. Tate was at home watching television Sunday evening.”

The detective opens his manila folder and spreads glossy photos out on the table. I refuse to look at them, knowing surely they’re gruesome images from the scene of the crime. Again, he looks straight at me.

“Mrs. Tate—”

“I prefer
Ms
. Tate,” I interrupt. Tanya’s designer pump connects with my shin, signaling me to shut up.

“Fine.
Ms
. Tate, did you and your husband have an argument Sunday evening? Perhaps over your divorce or community property? Maybe things got a little heated. A little out of hand.”

“She was at home watching
Downton Abbey
.”

I notice that Tanya hasn’t looked at the photos before us, either. Maybe she already knows what they contain.

“Look, Mrs. Tate,” Detective Wilson starts, but I give him a stern look. “Sorry.
Ms
. Tate. Let me get real with you. We are going to find your DNA at the scene. We are going to match your fingerprints to the weapon. Your alibi is weak. Those pictures your lawyer has of your car, are not evidence. They only prove that you arrived, not that you never left. We have multiple eye witnesses to several public verbal confrontations with the victim. We have motive. And very soon we’ll have a warrant. So, now is the time to explain yourself.”

I stare at him, waiting for Tanya to leap to my rescue, which she does almost immediately. “Of course you’re going to find her DNA, her fingerprints in the home. She lived there for many years. She was there that afternoon, a fact she did not hide from you. Your ‘evidence’ is circumstantial and the motive you speak of is moot. She already informed you that she had decided to sign the divorce papers prior to Mr. Tate’s death.”

Tanya taps the iPad again and a PDF pops up. “This is a signed affidavit from Ms. Tate’s friend, Justine Baker, attesting to the fact that she told her over the phone Sunday afternoon that she was going to sign the papers.” She taps the screen again and another document appears. “This is a copy of Ms. Baker’s phone records indicating that they spoke for several minutes between four-thirty and four-fifty-two. You have no motive, Detective.”

I ogle Tanya, wondering just when she managed to obtain such highly valuable proof of my innocence. Justine never said a word to me about it. Not even when she wished me good luck as I left this morning.

Detective Wilson leans back in his chair, and right on cue, in comes Detective Fallbrook. He whispers something into his partner’s ear who then exits the room without a word to Tanya or me. The elder detective takes a seat and turns his attention to the photos spread out on the table. He scoops them up and stacks them neatly in a pile next to the folder, which still lies open. He quietly studies the contents of the file, completely ignoring the two women before him. I don’t know if Tanya is perturbed by this, but I’m ready to throw my vintage Dior clutch at him.

I know this is all just some sort of tactic to get a rise out of me, to annoy me to the point of confession.  Obviously, he isn’t familiar with my reputation in the land of long-form television. I’ve dealt with divas and master manipulators for years and have always managed to keep my cool. But, of course, that’s business. This is murder.

Finally, Detective Fallbrook lifts his head and addresses me for the first time. “Good Morning, Mrs. Tate. Thank you for coming in to talk to us. I know you want us to apprehend your husband’s killer just as much as I do.”

I say nothing, allowing his use of
Mrs
. to slide.

“Ms. Tate has been under tremendous strain and we would like to wrap this up as quickly as possible, Detective,” asserts Tanya. “We know you have a job to do. We know spouses are always a person of interest in crimes such as this. And Ms. Tate is eager to assist in your inquiry. But we will not stand for unfounded accusations. I have presented documents that mitigate your so-called motive and with nothing but circumstantial evidence that any jury would have no trouble attributing to a reasonable doubt, I highly recommend you broaden your investigation and leave Ms. Tate to mourn in peace.”

Detective Fallbrook gives us a gentle smile. “Of course. This is just a conversation.” He then retrieves a photo from the pile and holds it up for me to see. I look away quickly. “Now, Mrs. Tate, I know this is difficult, but perhaps you can tell me about this.”

I look at him, the image in his hands slightly visible in my periphery.

“Do you recognize this?” he asks, pointing to something in the picture.

I allow my gaze to drift to the photo. My breath catches at the sight of the murder weapon. The star-shaped crystal trophy that gashed my palm less than forty-eight hours ago. A lump forms in my throat.

Tanya leans over and whispers, “Do you know it?”

I quickly explain to her in hushed tones how I know it, and she relays the information to the detective.

“I see,” he says. “Curious that the murder weapon is in fact the very same object that wounded you, Mrs. Tate.”

Neither Tanya nor I respond.

“You know what I find really interesting, Mrs. Tate?” he asks, leaning forward on one elbow. When met with silence, he continues, “I find it really interesting that the single fatal blow to your husband’s head was delivered from behind.”

He pauses for effect. I suddenly notice just how cold the room is, and clench my fists in an effort to warm my fingers.

“It’s as if he turned away from his killer,” Detective Fallbrook goes on. “Curiously, there were no signs of a struggle at the scene, either.

He lays the photo face down on the table and grabs another from the pile. He holds it up for me, but I turn away.

“The office was neat and organized. Nothing out of place. Except, of course, for the heavy crystal object that was found near your husband’s body.”

He sets the photo down, and I let out a breath as I turn my head back in his direction. My mouth begins to water, and my nostrils flare. I know that brown rice is about to make another appearance.

“This lack of disorder at the scene indicates that perhaps he turned his back on someone who was not done arguing with him. And in a fit of rage, that person grabbed the nearest heavy object and threw it at his head. One. Single. Blow,” he says ominously.  “It’s amazing how fragile the human skull really is.”

I gulp down the bile that managed to creep up into my throat.

The detective leans back in his chair. “You know what I think?  I think this person didn’t even mean to kill him. I’m guessing he or she wasn’t even expecting to hit him. Just trying to make a point.” He leans forward again. “The problem is, she
did
hit him, and it had to be very clear after he fell to his knees and dropped face first onto the floor that he wasn’t going to get up again.” He stares hard at me, and I practically cower under his gaze. “That, Mrs. Tate, is murder.”

I gape at him, stunned by this information. Tanya hadn’t given me any specifics on Alan’s murder, and hearing this horrifying account turns my blood to ice. I allow my eyes to fall on the photo still upturned on the table. The image of Alan stretched out on the floor, as if he’d just decided to lie down for a nap, is eerily stark. There is no careful use of lighting, no artful composition, nothing but Alan’s long body lying lifeless on the carpet, a dark stain surrounding the area around his head and shoulders. And knowing that someone left him like that, left him to die alone when they could have called for help, could have saved him, has me in a cold sweat.

“So the fact that you injured yourself with the murder weapon on the same day it was used to kill your husband,” the detective continues, “well, it gives me pause.”

My stomach begins to quiver and a wave of nausea overcomes me. I must appear sickly to the detective because he adds, “The restroom is at the end of the hall.”

I leap from my chair and race out the door and down the long white corridor, Tanya following behind. I shove open the bathroom door and scurry into a stall. I’m barely able to lift the lid before I wretch into the bowl. Hot tears escape my eyes as Tanya lifts my hair out of the way.

When my stomach finally stops heaving, I lean against the cold metal stall, my legs folded beneath me. Tanya hands me a moist paper towel, and I pat my face. As my sobs subside, I gaze up at her in wonder.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I plead.

“I thought you knew,” she says coolly, clearly indicating that she assumed I already had intimate knowledge of the whole grizzly affair.

Chapter 18

I ride in the back of Tanya’s car in silence, accompanied by the fizz of a ginger ale bubbling in my glass, while my high-priced lawyer screams into her mobile phone.
Chain of custody. Evidentiary hearing. Grand jury summons.
She bandies these words about like a tennis champ lobs highballs at Wimbledon. I don’t know who she’s talking to, but clearly, someone is in a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, that someone is me.

After we returned to the interview room (and I managed to compose myself), Detectives Fallbrook and Wilson resumed their questioning, but with a gentler tone. Done playing bad cop, they seemed genuinely interested in finding Alan’s killer and not just in pinning it on the easiest target,
moi.
I filled them in on Alan’s affair with Jennifer, their break up, and their plan to push me out of my job. Although, in hindsight, that last bit of information probably only served to boost my motive in their eyes.

However, while trying to bolster my defense, Tanya managed to implicate Jack for the death of my dearly departed husband. I didn’t doubt that she was doing her best to defend me, but what I did question was whether or not she cared one iota that she was serving up an innocent lamb to the slaughter. I really wanted to shove that iPad of hers, the one she used to display photos of him crossing the Mexican border on his motorcycle at a quarter past eleven Sunday night, right up her ass. But I maintained a relative calm, despite the panic bubbling in my gut. I pointed out that if Alan was murdered at nine-thirty it would be nearly impossible for Jack to get to Mexico from Malibu in that time span.

Alan’s death, however, as Detective Wilson advised me, was not determined down to the very minute. And if Jack were speeding, which he mostly likely would be if he’d killed Alan, he could make it to Tijuana in plenty of time. I tried to explain that my foolish young lover was not capable of hurting a fly, being such an old soul and all that. But when they produced the bogus assault charge Alan had filed against him, my argument fell hard and fast like a dimwitted daredevil base jumping with a faulty chute. It was futile.

Sitting in that cold, little room for over two hours, my ass began to take on the shape of the hard plastic chair beneath it. The chilly temperature, the uncomfortable seating, the relentless interrogation—all deliberately staged to elicit confessions, I’m sure—were taking their toll on my already beleaguered spirit. When we were finally released, I was so grateful I nearly kissed Detective Fallbrook full on the lips.

But just because the grilling was done for today, that didn’t mean I was out of harm’s way.  Warned not to leave Los Angeles and to notify the Sheriff’s office immediately if Jack contacted me again, I was released into a mob of trigger-happy paparazzi. News crews, tabloid photogs, and even scandal-hungry tourists had managed to sniff us out. Tanya threw her jacket over my head and out of nowhere a team of bodyguards flanked us, providing escort to Tanya’s awaiting limo. I guess she earned that fat retainer I gave her yesterday.

Whisked away like a screen siren after a failed movie premier, I sank into humiliation and abject disgrace. Tanya thrust a freshly popped can of ginger ale at me, obviously concerned that my despair would result in another bout of barfing; and we zoomed off, leaving the feeding frenzy firing off shots and recording video of the back of our vehicle as we sped away from the scene.

Now, as I gaze out of Tanya’s tinted windows at the fast-approaching Westwood skyline, I wonder if Alan would be pleased with all the attention his untimely demise has garnered. He’d always craved fame, and now the only person trending faster than him was me.

For his murder.
 

I take another sip of my bubbly beverage, the sweet liquid sliding down my throat like a soothing serum. And as Tanya’s driver turns into the alley behind my building and drives up to the service entrance, a faint smile forms on my lips.

Alan would love this.

“Are you going to work?” Tanya asks, rousing me from my reverie.

“I’ve been suspended.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“We need to show that your life is in tatters.”

“It is,” I say flatly.

“Whatever you felt for Alan, America needs to see a grieving widow.”

“I
am
a grieving widow,” I say, growing more and more perturbed at the woman tasked with my defense. “Just because we were divorcing, doesn’t mean I’m happy he’s dead. He was my husband, my partner, for five years. I loved him.”

“You don’t have to convince me. It’s the public who’ll crucify you. They love to see successful, beautiful women scandalized. And unless you appear distraught, they will think you did it, and they won’t want you to get away with it.”

“But I didn’t do it,” I say, exasperated. “How many times do I have to say this?”

“I’m on your side, Lauren,” she says, her face softening slightly. “But we have to do damage control. I’ll release a statement on your behalf, requesting privacy and expressing your despair over the loss of your husband and hopefulness that the police will find his killer.”