Things We Do in the Dark(8)

Paris’s husband might not have been her greatest love—that honor still belongs to someone she knew years ago, in a different life, when she was a very different person—but Jimmy Peralta was the love of this life, the one she built from the ashes of her old one.

She chokes back a sob just as they reach room 3. A voice floats through her mind then, always the unwanted intruder, forever the snake in her brain that uncoils at the worst possible times.

You’re absolutely useless. Stop your crying before I smack the shit out of you again.





CHAPTER FOUR


Now that they’re sitting across from each other, Paris notices that Detective Kellogg is pretty, more like an actress playing a detective on TV than an actual detective. Her long blond ponytail bounces when she nods her head. Which is often.

“I’m surprised you’re representing her,” the detective says to Elsie. “You were good friends with the deceased, weren’t you? You must really believe she didn’t do it.”

“Because she didn’t,” Elsie says.

“You know, before we get into all that, where were you last night, Ms. Dixon?” Kellogg’s voice is amiable. Like Elsie, she has a notepad open in front of her, but it’s small, something that would fit in her back pocket. Her pencil taps the table.

“You’re asking me where I was?”

The detective smiles. “I’m asking everybody who knew Jimmy Peralta. You might be Mrs. Peralta’s lawyer, but you were Mr. Peralta’s best friend. Or so we’ve heard.”

Elsie exchanges a look with Paris and sighs. “I was out to dinner with friends until about nine. Happy to give you their names as well as the name of the restaurant. Got in about nine thirty and went straight to bed.”

“When was the last time you saw Mr. Peralta?” Kellogg is still directing her questions to Elsie.

“Last week. Monday, I think.”

“It was Tuesday,” Paris says to Elsie. “I was leaving to teach a morning class as you were pulling up.”

The lawyer nods. “That’s right, Tuesday. Jimmy and I went to breakfast.”

“Okay.” Kellogg seems satisfied. “I’m just asking because we heard your voice on the cassette tape we took out of Mr. Peralta’s portable stereo in the bathroom. It wasn’t easy to find a tape deck to play it on here, but yes, it did catch you saying something about having plans.”

“Jimmy likes to practice his jokes in the bathroom in front of the mirror,” Paris says. An image of her husband gesturing madly at his reflection pops into her mind, and a pang of grief hits her. “He uses his old boombox to rehearse.”

“He single-handedly keeps cassette manufacturers in business,” Elsie says.

“Every phone has a voice-recording app now,” Kellogg says. “Wouldn’t it be more convenient to use that?”

Paris and Elsie both snort at the same time.

“What?” the detective says, looking back and forth between them. “Why is that funny?”

“Jimmy was an old soul, Detective,” Elsie says. “He had a flip phone up until four years ago, and he still has a VCR in the living room. So, am I a suspect?”

“Not at this time, but anything can happen.” Kellogg smiles, then turns to Paris. “So. Your turn. According to your husband’s assistant, Zoe Moffatt, you were scheduled to be away for the weekend. Where’d you go?”

Paris glances at Elsie, who nods.

“I drove up to Vancouver,” Paris answers. “For the International Yoga Convention and Expo.”

“Who went with you?”

“Nobody.”

“Where’d you stay?”

“The Pan Pacific.”

“How long were you there for?”

“Thursday afternoon to last night.”

Kellogg opens the manila folder beside her notepad and thumbs through the documents. “And what time did you leave Vancouver?”

“I got home just after two a.m., maybe closer to two thirty.”

The detective smiles. “That’s not what I asked. I asked you what time you left Vancouver. According to the hotel, you booked the room for three nights. Why did you leave early?”

“There weren’t any more panels I wanted to attend.”

“What does this matter?” Elsie snaps. “I’m sure border patrol can send you pictures of her car the moment she crossed back into the US. Or you could just check the CCTV cameras for the park across the street from their house.”

“The park is more like a lookout, and there are only two cameras nearby. One of them doesn’t work, and the one that does points toward the city, not the houses behind it.”

“You’re kidding,” Paris says.

“Don’t worry about it,” Elsie says to her, but she’s focused on the detective. “This is a pretty clear-cut case of suicide, Detective Kellogg. Jimmy Peralta had a long and well-documented history of addiction and depression, including a suicide attempt years ago.”

“Maybe he did,” Kellogg says. “But here’s what bothers me: Zoe Moffatt, who has her own code to the front door keypad, let herself into the house this morning because she and Jimmy had a meeting scheduled at ten a.m. When Mr. Peralta didn’t come down at the scheduled time, she called up the stairs, and when nobody answered, she checked the garage to see if his car was inside. It was, but it was right beside Mrs. Peralta’s, who was supposed to still be in Canada. Ms. Moffatt called up again, still no answer. Concerned that neither of them were answering, she went upstairs to check, and that’s when she found her boss dead in his own bathtub, with Mrs. Peralta on the floor right next to him, covered in blood, the murder weapon in her hand.”