P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

Darcy searched her face for a moment, then nodded. “Good luck.”

The conference room was empty except for a gunmetal gray table and four folding metal chairs with padded seats. The walls were painted white but had their share of nicks and smudges. Arnold Drake rose from his chair as they entered.

“Mrs. Marsh.” He shook her hand, his grip slightly damp. “Please, have a seat.”

A man of slight stature, Drake had the rumpled look—though lacked the charm—of the fictional Lieutenant Columbo. She wondered whether he had a physical condition that caused his hands to sweat, or whether he was nervous. Observing his confident, relaxed demeanor, she suspected the former.

“J. Cunningham,” Jase supplied as he indicated where he wanted Jordan to sit—across but kitty-corner from Drake. He chose the chair directly across. “Mrs. Marsh’s attorney.”

Drake’s brow had risen at the mention of Jase’s name. “In my book, Counselor, people who retain high-priced legal talent such as yourself are guilty as hell.”

“Come now, Detective—I just happen to live here in town.” Jase gave him a relaxed smile. “Mrs. Marsh has agreed to this interview for the purpose of helping you with your investigation. However, only a fool would talk to the police without legal representation.”

Jordan gave him a sideways glance. He’d morphed into a glib, polished attorney, right before her eyes.

He asked that they skip any small talk and get right to the business at hand, managing to leave the impression that Jordan’s time was valuable and not to be wasted. Even so, they were forced to wait while Drake reviewed his notes. Jordan’s tension grew as the silence stretched out, though she recognized the interrogation tactic for what it was—an attempt to rattle her even before the interview began.

When she shifted in her chair, Jase shot her a quick warning glance.

“I’d like to review once more the events leading up to the time of the accident, Mrs. Marsh,” Drake said finally. “What time did your husband arrive at your condominium in Malibu Canyon?”

“Around seven P.M., I believe. Ryland had called around six to tell me he was leaving his office in Beverly Hills.” Jase pressed his foot down lightly on hers, reminding her to restrict herself to answering the question.

“And he came to your residence—excuse me, the residence you both still owned until the divorce finalized, correct?”

“Yes.”

Drake made a note, then continued. “He remained at the condo for how long?”

“Until just after nine P.M.”

“Two hours. That’s quite a long time, Mrs. Marsh. What did the two of you talk about for two whole hours? You weren’t on good terms, according to the newspapers.”

“Don’t answer that,” Jase interrupted. “Respond only to the content of your conversations with your husband.”

“We discussed the upcoming court date and the terms of the settlement.” That much was true, though “discussed” was probably too mild of a term. Ryland had been furious with her.

“Did you offer your husband any alcoholic beverages?”

Jordan hesitated, wondering what he was getting at. “He asked for, and I gave him, Scotch on the rocks.”

“Why would you give him hard liquor if you knew he would be driving back after dark on dangerous, winding canyon roads? Was it your intent to get him drunk? Did you hope that he would lose control of his car?”

“Don’t answer that.” Jase pinned the cop with a hard look. “You know better, Detective.”

Drake shrugged. “How many drinks did your husband have?” he asked, acting as if he found it absurd to have to rephrase the question.

Jordan’s breathing sped up slightly. “Just the one drink, Detective. Ryland knew better than to drive while intoxicated.”

“Surely the autopsy included a blood alcohol test,” Jase said. “What were the results of that test?”

“That his blood alcohol level was within legal limits,” Drake admitted.

“Then move on.”

Drake gave Jase a quiet look, then returned to his notes. “Did you and your husband argue about the terms of the divorce settlement?”

Jordan waited for Jase’s nod, then answered truthfully. “No.” They hadn’t argued about the settlement, per se, but she knew she was splitting hairs. Dangerously.

“Then what did the two of you take two whole hours to chat about?”

“You’re fishing,” Jase said. “Do you have any more questions for my client of a substantive nature?”

“Who suggested you meet that evening, Mrs. Marsh? Was your little get-together your idea, or your husband’s?”

Jordan tensed, knowing they were now on quicksand. “Ryland had called me earlier in the week, expressing a desire to talk. I suggested that he meet me at the condo after we’d both dealt with the workweek.”

“So the rendezvous was your idea.”

Jordan frowned at his use of the term “rendezvous,” and Jase held up a hand. “Asked and answered, Detective. Ryland Marsh initially suggested the meeting, and my client suggested the location and time.”

“Which is odd, don’t you think?” Drake asked in a bland tone. “After all, wouldn’t it have been more convenient to meet in town, closer to both of your offices? Did you have a reason for luring your husband out to the condo?”

“I didn’t lure Ryland anywhere,” Jordan answered, increasingly irritated with his innuendos. “If you’ll recall from our original conversation, I wasn’t at work that day. The paparazzi were being annoyingly persistent because of the civil suit, so having Ryland come out to the condo, where we could talk in privacy, made sense.”

“But you suggested the location, didn’t you? Had Mr. Marsh wanted the meeting to take place closer to his office?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And you demanded that he meet you at the condo, which conveniently happens to be located at the end of a very dangerous canyon road—”

“Don’t answer that,” Jase interrupted, placing his hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Move on, Detective.”

Drake glared at Jase, then seemed to pull himself back. “Did you and Mr. Marsh argue that night?” he asked abruptly.

“We weren’t on good terms,” Jordan replied vaguely. She felt Jase tense beside her.

“So you argued.”

Jordan hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally.

Drake pounced. “What about?”

She tried to think of a way to answer without revealing the whole truth. “The divorce.”

“But that’s not exactly true, is it?”

“What are you getting at?” Jase asked.

“What I’m getting at , Counselor, is that we have a reliable witness who claims that prior to that evening, Mrs. Marsh knew her husband was hoping for a reconciliation, and that she suggested the meeting to discuss it. That Mr. Marsh drove out to the condo, hoping to reconcile with his wife, who, it now appears, had no intention of doing so. That they argued violently. And further, that she had to have understood that her chances of a substantial divorce settlement were evaporating.”

Jordan managed—just barely—not to show her dismay. He knew everything. Who had told him? “There wouldn’t have been a huge cash settlement, regardless,” she managed calmly as her mind raced. “Ryland had used most of our joint assets to fight the civil suits against him.”

“Which means your only hope of benefiting from any kind of financial settlement was to ensure that your husband died, so that you could receive an insurance settlement.”

“Don’t answer that,” Jase said, but Jordan slashed her hand through the air.

“Any assets that still existed were in my trust fund, set up by my maternal grandmother at her death,” she said. “I didn’t need an insurance payout.”