Джонатан Келлерман - Crime Scene

“Of Stanwick and Green, LLC,” I said.

He puffed up a bit. “That’s right.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Olivia Harcourt said.

I smiled. “Don’t imagine there’s a choice.”

“None at all,” the lawyer said.

Olivia crossed her legs, a maneuver that took a long time and ought to have involved the FAA.

“Before we begin,” Stanwick said, “I’d like to clarify the purpose of this meeting.”

“Information gathering,” I said.

“To what end?”

Expecting I’d be called upon to explain myself, I’d assembled a curated version of the facts.

“You think some person or persons unknown may have been responsible for Mrs. Harcourt’s ex-husband’s death,” Stanwick said.

“I’m exploring alternative explanations for his death.”

I watched Olivia for a reaction: nothing.

Stanwick said, “What’s it got to do with my client?”

“You knew him,” I said to Olivia.

“Once upon a time,” she said.

“Was there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm him?”

“Besides me, you mean.”

Stanwick said, “Nothing my client says should be construed as an admission of any kind.”

“Relax, please, Bob, I’m joking... I honestly wouldn’t know, Officer. Nicholas and I didn’t have much contact after the divorce.”

“Did it end on bad terms?” I asked.

“It was a divorce,” Stanwick said. “It’s on bad terms by definition.”

“Not true,” Olivia said. “I have a girlfriend who engineered a very meaningful uncoupling. It actually brought them closer together than they’d ever been. Isn’t that remarkable?”

“Is that what occurred between you and Nicholas?”

“No comment,” Stanwick said.

“I can answer for myself, thank you,” Olivia said. “We tried our hardest to be graceful, but it wasn’t perfect. There were tears.”

“What was your reaction when you heard that he’d died?”

“Don’t answer that,” Stanwick said.

She recrossed her legs. “You’ll have to excuse him, Officer. Bob’s always been a strong advocate for my interests.”

Warm smile at the lawyer, who grunted bashfully.

“Well, let’s see,” Olivia Harcourt said. “I have to put myself back in that frame of mind. It feels like another life... My reaction? I suppose I thought: Too bad for him. ”

“You weren’t still angry at him.”

“Don’t answer that.”

“No, I wasn’t angry,” she said. “Not anymore. I’d moved on. I found love again. I had my children. My life was — is — very full. I was barely twenty when I married Nicholas. Swept up. We all do things we regret when we’re young.”

The lawyer ground a fist in a palm.

“If it wasn’t an accident,” Olivia said, “what do you think happened?”

“I’m exploring several possibilities.”

“A little unfair of you, don’t you think? Come in and ask me questions and yet you won’t answer mine.”

“My assumption is that if someone did harm him, they had a reason to do so.”

“I’m going to insist we put an end to this,” Stanwick said. “You’re just trying to scare her, and I won’t accept that.”

“I’m not, sir,” I said. “As I said, I’m interested in Mrs. Harcourt’s perspective, and I appreciate her letting me into her home.”

“Then start showing some respect,” Stanwick said.

“More tea?” Olivia said.

“Yes, please,” I said.

She plucked a golden bell from the end table and jangled it. The maid reappeared.

“Officer...” She looked to me.

“Edison,” I said. “Deputy, actually.”

“Sandra, Deputy Edison would like more tea.”

“Yes, Mrs.”

“And you know what, I’ll have a glass of rosé. From the bottle in the fridge. Thank you, Sandra.”

I heard Ming’s voice: Two wineglasses.

“Unless you’d like some, too,” Olivia said to me.

“Good with tea, thanks.”

“Bob?” Olivia said.

The lawyer shook his head and fooled with his tie. The maid went off.

I said, “Am I correct that you were paying alimony to your ex-husband?”

“Well, he wasn’t in a position to pay me,” Olivia said.

Stanwick unsnapped his briefcase and produced a binder-clipped document. “We were more than generous with him,” he said, handing it to me.

It was the Linstads’ mediated marriage settlement, dated January 4, 1997.

He’d come prepared, too.

“Let me save you some time,” Stanwick said. “Mrs. Harcourt and Mr. Linstad agree to the dissolution of their marriage according to the following terms as established by their prenuptial agreement” — out came another document, dated July 17, 1992. “One, in the event that the marriage is terminated within thirty-six months of its taking effect, Mr. Linstad waives any claim to spousal support. Should the marriage be terminated subsequent to that point, Mr. Linstad is granted spousal support of seventy-five hundred dollars a month for a term of twenty-four months, which term may not be extended, and after which he waives any further claim to spousal support.”

So Ming had it wrong. Or Linstad’s father had gotten it wrong and misinformed Ming. The millstone around Olivia Harcourt’s neck was far smaller than they’d believed, had long dropped off by the time Linstad died.

More to the point, seeing her in her natural habitat, I realized that the millstone was no millstone. She probably spent that much every month on scented candles.

“Two,” Stanwick said, “and bear in mind that this was not part of the prenuptial, but an adjunct thereto, offered voluntarily by Mrs. Harcourt as a gesture of good faith — Mr. Linstad is granted full title to the property located at twenty-three thirty-six Le Conte Avenue.”

“The duplex,” I said.

“Mm,” Olivia said.

“You paid for it originally.”

“I paid for everything,” she said.

“And then you gave it to him?”

She shrugged. “For all practical purposes, he was already living there.”

“While you were separated.”

“Well before that,” she said. “We purchased it in — I don’t know. Bob?”

Stanwick said, “September ninety-two.”

“Thank you, Bob.” To me: “The idea was that Nicholas would have someplace close by campus to sleep when he worked late. Little did I know.”

“He was using it for other activities,” I said.

She beamed. “Bravo, Deputy Edison.”

The maid brought the tea and a generous balloon glass of wine and retreated.

“I’m sorry to be dense,” I said, “but why give him the property, at that point? It’s not like he deserved it.”

“I wanted him to have a permanent reminder,” Olivia said.

“Of his cheating.”

She sipped, dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “More that he’d never earned anything on his own.”

“Like he gave a shit one way or the other,” Stanwick said. “Free real estate.”

“I know,” Olivia said. “You were right.” To me: “Bob didn’t want me to do it.”

“I told you at the time it was a waste.”

“C’est la vie,” she said, raising her glass. “I gave Nicholas a gift in order to punish him. Never in a million years did I imagine it would actually work.”

A gleeful note had appeared in her voice.

Money didn’t have to be the motive.

There was always spite.

She took a deep gulp of wine.

I asked how she’d found out about Linstad’s affair.

“A friend of mine spotted them at a bar in San Francisco, groping each other in a booth. She didn’t tell me for months. She didn’t want to upset me. But she got drunk at a party and let it slip. She felt awful, apologizing right and left. ‘I don’t judge, I don’t know what kind of arrangement you two have.’ Believe that? ‘Arrangement.’ ”