Page 42 of The Trap by Catherine
Denise jabbed the button for the third floor and then turned to Angela.
“Now look,” she said. “This time, I can’t tell you not to say anything. You’re going to have to saysomething. He’ll address you directly. Try to get you to engage. He’ll think he’s charming you. You can respond if he does. You should. Talk to him like you would anyone else. The more you talk to this guy, the morehetalks, and the more he talks, the more likely he is to say something he shouldn’t.”
The lift doors opened again, and Denise started leading them down the hall. Its carpet was dotted with unidentifiable stains and the track marks of bicycle tires crisscrossed the magnolia walls.
“I’ll introduce you as a trainee,” Denise continued. “He doesn’t know how things work; he’ll buy it. But he’ll also assume that you don’t know shit.”
Which I don’t, Angela thought.
“Which you don’t,” she added. “Not yet, anyway.”
They stopped outside a door with a 27 on it.
As Denise knocked, it occurred to Angela that you would only be hoping someone would say something they shouldn’t if you thought they’d been holding back until now.
Or lying.
“Do you think he did it?” Angela whispered, just as the door opened, quickly and with a flourish, as if Roland Kearns had been standing on the other side, waiting for them.
He looked just like he did whenever Angela had seen him in the press repeatedly protesting that he was innocent of the crime no one had ever charged him with: tall and broad-shouldered, physically imposing, with a full head of jet-black hair which he’d let grow until it was almost touching his shoulders. He was exceptionally attractive, and smiling now, friendly and looking pleasantly surprised to see them on his doorstep, even though the smile didn’t seem to reach his eyes.
“Denise!” he said, as if a detective involved in the investigation into his wife’s disappearance was an old, beloved friend. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Before she could answer, he turned his attention to Angela—allof his attention, his gaze laser-focused on her. “And who’s this?” He extended a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”
Angela shook it limply, half expecting him to lift it to his lips for a kiss.
“This is my colleague Angela,” Denise said. “She’s in training with the Missing Persons Unit. Do you mind if we come in?”
“Never,” Roland said warmly, and stepped back so they could.
The interior of the apartment was furnished in the Uninspired Single Man Special of beech-effect flat-pack, classic framed movie poster (Goodfellas), glass-and-chrome coffee table that didn’t go with anything else, and a glossy black leather couch and matching armchairs that were patently too big for the space.
But it was clean and neat, not too warm thanks to the balcony doors being wide open, and it smelled better than the building’s common areas.
“Can I get you lovely ladies anything?” Roland asked. To Angela, “This is where Denise will insist that all she wants in this world is a glass of tepid tap water, but I have a very good coffee machine with lots of buttons on it, if I can interest you in a cup?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Denise said.
“I’m fine, thanks,” Angela chimed in, even though she was thirsty.
“Not even water today?” Roland put a hand to his chest in mock shock. “Itmustbe serious.”
He waved them toward the couch and took a seat himself on one of the armchairs, reclining, relaxed, folding one leg over the other. His socks, Angela noted, had little cartoon ice creams on them.
“So, what’s up?” he said to Denise.
“I just wanted to check in,” she said.
Roland raised an eyebrow. “Twice in two days?”
“Well, I was passing. We’re just on our way back from Wexford.” Denise flashed a look at Angela that said,Just go with it. Presumably she was pretending their trip had been today and not yesterday so she could casually bring it up in conversation. “Aren’t we, Angela?”
Angela nodded. “Yep.”
Now Roland seemed bemused. “Oh?”
“Just outside of Enniscorthy,” Denise said. “Lovely area.”
Very deliberately, Roland brought his hand up and looked at his watch.
