Page 133 of Boardroom Ties
I look up.
Across the table from me sits a man in a navy blazer with sideburns that haven’t been in style since we fought wars with bayonets and muskets. He has black coffee in a Styrofoam cup at his elbow and a manila folder open in front of him. He looks, more than anything,patient.
That scares the living hell out of me.
“I’m Detective Kramer,” he explains by way of introduction, tapping a badge clipped to his lapel. “We’ve met. You don’t remember. You were pretty out of it when we brought you in.”
“Where—” I start to say, but my mouth is so dry that it sounds more like a chew toy’s squeak instead. I lick my lips and try again. “Where am I?”
“19th Precinct. East Sixty-Seventh. Couple blocks from your place.” He nudges a paper cup of water across the table toward me. “Drink. You’ve had a long night, and the day ahead isn’t looking too easy, either.”
I take the cup with two hands. It’s vaguely milky and tastes like an old swimming pool, but it’s still life-giving. I chug it so fast that half of it sloshes down my front. Some spills on the tabletop,and I think of Raymond last night, knocking over that water glass as the pill took hold of him.
What the hell happened after that?!
“Where is my husband?” I croak.
Detective Kramer watches me carefully, twirling the pen in his fingers. “Mrs. Snyder,” he says at last, “your husband is deceased. He was deceased when we found him.”
“I know,” I say, before I can stop myself.
His pen stops twirling.
I clamp my teeth on my tongue so hard I taste copper.Idiot, idiot, idiot.I’ve been awake for two seconds and already I’m gift-wrapping the case for him. I press my lips together and try to get myself in order.
“You know,” he repeats, neutrally. “How is it that you know, Mrs. Snyder?”
“Because…” My brain latches onto the only reasonable explanation. “Because you’re a detective. And I’m in an interrogation room. And Raymond is a lawyer, so if he was here, he’d be with me.”
He tilts his head, like,Fair enough.“That’s a reasonable deduction,” he concedes, but he writes something down anyway.
I look at my hands again. “Why are my fingers like this?”
“We swabbed you when we brought you in. Standard procedure when there’s a firearm involved. We’ll be sending the swabs to the lab for further analysis, but the field kit gave us a positive result.”
“A positive result,” I echo. “For…?”
“For gunshot residue.”
“That’s not possible,” I hear myself insisting. “I was asleep. I didn’t— I couldn’t have?—”
“Mrs. Snyder, please.” Kramer holds up a palm, though not unkindly. “We’ll get into all that shortly. But before you say anything else, I’d like to remind you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney?—”
“I know my rights,” I interrupt. “My husband was a lawyer.”
“Was,” he agrees gently. “Yes, he was.”
I close my eyes again and breathe for a second as I struggle to wrap my head around everything. My thoughts are still murky and indistinct, slowed by the sedative.
Raymond is dead. That much is clear. That part of the plan worked, if nothing else.
But the rest of it has obviously gone haywire. Why am I here? Where is Matvei? Why is there gunpowder residue on my hand? What the hell is happening?!
“Okay,” Detective Kramer says. “If it’s alright with you, let’s just talk for a minute. Not formally. Just you and me. You can stop me whenever you want.”
“I want to know where Matvei Satyrin is.”
I know right away that I just made an incredibly stupid mistake. It could be the drugs in my system loosening my mouth, or thefear, or the isolation, but whatever the cause, there’s no denying it was the exact wrong thing to say.
