Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

On TV, the pretty, thirtysomething blond reporter wasn’t posted outside Lynette’s house. Instead, she stood in the light drizzle in front of the W Hotel, speaking into her handheld microphone: “Seattle Police arrested local businessman Jeremy Hahn at the W Hotel this afternoon, after receiving an anonymous tip that Hahn, an executive vice president for Sea-Merit Financial, was engaged in sexual activity with a minor in one of the rooms. . ”

The image on the TV screen switched to show two uniformed officers leading Lynette’s handcuffed husband into a police car, parked in front of the luxury hotel. Jeremy looked angry. His casual Brooks Brothers clothes were disheveled and his thinning brown hair was uncombed so the bald spots weren’t covered. Behind him, a young woman in a Catholic schoolgirl uniform was being led out of the hotel as well. But her face had been blurred digitally, which of course, made the scene appear even more lurid.

“We’ve protected the identity of the minor,” the reporter said. “But police sources say she is sixteen, and accepted money from Hahn in exchange for sexual favors.”

The picture switched back to the blond reporter in front of the hotel. “I’m told the police found a substantial amount of cocaine in the hotel room — along with some child pornography. This will only add to the number of serious charges Jeremy Hahn is already facing. . ”

On another local newscast, they indicated that Sea-Merit Financial would be investigating if Hahn had used company funds for his sexual trysts with underage girls.

Even though she hated her guts, all Molly could think was, Poor Lynette .

The house was still a disaster area from the party. As she moved into the living room, Molly turned a blind eye to the dirty plates, cups, and glasses on every table. Instead, she gazed out the window at the TV news vans and the people in front of Lynette’s house.

She remembered Lynette coming to her rescue, dropping by with McDonald’s and her take-charge attitude the day after Angela’s murder. Molly still had some food left over from the party. Taking over some dinner to the Hahns would have been the neighborly thing to do. But like Rachel, she was giving Lynette a wide berth today. After all, Lynette clearly blamed her for Jeremy’s arrest — all because some woman had phoned in that tip to the police.

Molly remembered once again something Angela had told her over lunch on the last day of her life: “Someone else is behind this, some woman. . Do you think it’s possible somebody is trying to pit us against each other?”

Staring out at the Hahns’ house, Molly spotted a jogger in a sweat suit running up the street. It was Natalie, from down the block, out for her run — at night this time. She seemed to ignore the news vans and the onlookers outside Lynette’s.

Molly recalled her doing the exact same thing last week, when the TV trucks and gawkers were there because of Angela’s murder. Natalie had jogged by, barely glancing at them.

It was almost as if on both occasions Natalie knew ahead of time they’d be there.

Molly wasn’t thinking when she answered her cell phone.

Since Angela’s murder, she’d been screening nearly all incoming calls on the house line. But this call had come in at eight-thirty that night, and she was dead tired. With some help from Jeff, Chris, and Elvis, she’d cleaned up most of the mess from the party.

She was trying to pay bills online in Jeff’s study but kept nodding off in front of the monitor. She had her cell phone on his desk, so when it rang, it startled her. She grabbed it and switched it on: “Yes, hello?”

“Mrs. Dennehy?” It was a woman on the other end of the line. Her voice sounded raspy, almost demented in the singsong way she talked.

Molly quickly took the cell phone away from her ear and glanced at the caller ID box. The number was blocked.

“Who is this?” she asked.

“Mrs. Dennehy, ask your husband where he was when his ex-wife was murdered.”

Then there was a click.

Molly stared at the phone in her hand. She knew it was the same woman who had called last week. “Ask him where he really was,” had been the message. This time, the woman was less cryptic.

Chances were pretty good the same woman had phoned Angela and threatened her. Maybe she’d also tipped off the police regarding Jeremy Hahn’s clandestine activities, too.

The scary thing about it was this woman had known something about Lynette’s husband that even Lynette didn’t know. What did she have on Jeff?

Molly got to her feet and wandered into the family room. Jeff was asleep in his easy chair in front of a reality show on TV. It had been a long, grueling day for everyone, and she didn’t want to wake him and grill him about where he’d been on the night of Angela’s murder.

Molly remembered the mixup about which Washington, D.C., Hilton Jeff had stayed at that week. He said he hadn’t been at the Capital Hilton that trip, but at another Hilton hotel.

Retreating back to Jeff’s study, she went on the Internet to refresh her memory about the three other Hilton hotels in Washington, D.C. She called the Washington Hilton in Dupont Circle and got the operator.

“Hi, I’m not sure if I have the right Washington Hilton,” Molly said. “But my husband was staying at a Hilton last week. He checked out Wednesday morning. He thinks he left his iPod in his room. I’m trying to track it down. Could you check if I have the right Hilton? His name is Dennehy, Jeffrey.” She spelled it, and waited.

She knew the business, and hotel clerks sometimes got calls like this from wives, trying to get the goods on cheating husbands. If the clerks were smart and discreet enough, they often came back with, “We’re sorry, we can’t give out that kind of information.” But most of the time, the hotel clerk really didn’t give a damn if they were getting some cheating spouse in trouble.

“Mrs. Dennehy?” the clerk said after a minute. “I’m sorry, but we have no record of Jeffrey Dennehy staying here last week. You might try the Capital Hilton on Sixteenth.”

“I will,” Molly said. “Thank you.” Then she clicked off.

The Capital Hilton wasn’t where Jeff had been staying. She knew that much. So Molly called the Hilton Washington Embassy Row on Massachusetts Avenue, and the Hilton Garden Inn on Fourteenth Street Northwest. She gave them the same story and got the same answer.

Jeff wasn’t staying at any of the Hilton Hotels in Washington, D.C., on the night of Angela’s death.

Molly kept thinking about that woman with the raspy voice.

Ask him where he really was.

She waited until morning to ask him.

Jeff had finished with his shower, and he was shaving in front of the mirror with a towel around his waist. Her arms folded, Molly stood in the bathroom doorway in her nightgown. She studied his reflection in the steamy mirror. He kept wiping it with his hand every few moments. He still had shaving cream on one side of his jaw and on his neck.

“I was at the Hilton on Dupont Circle,” he said, eying her in the mirror for a moment. He worked the safety razor under his chin. “They just don’t give out information like that. Jesus, Molly, I can’t believe you called all the Hiltons in D.C. Why didn’t you just ask me?”

“Because I think you’re covering something up — something really horrible,” she admitted.

His reflection gazed back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Like what? Don’t tell me you think I killed Angela. . ”

“No, but the police might think that,” she replied steadily, “especially if they realize you’re lying about where you were that night. Jeff, what’s to keep this woman from calling the police and saying to them what she said to me?”