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“No.”
“Food?”
I gazed up at him, disconcerted by his solicitousness. “You have some?”
“No.”
“I’m okay. You said he was at the bottom of a cliff. How far did he fall? Did he die…”
“He fell about sixty feet,” said Felicia. “He may have died instantly, but we won’t know much until the coroner has done an autopsy.”
“Six floors?” It was one of those questions that’s actually a statement.
“Did you consider going with him?”
“To Red Rocks? No, I had breakfast with a writer. At a bistro called Cocoon.”
“Was Mr. Orlov meeting someone?”
“No,” I said, but then I corrected myself. “At least I don’t think so.” He hadn’t wanted me to go, I remembered. I didn’t say that. But I thought it.
“Who was the writer? What’s his name?”
“Her name. Britt. Britt Collins.”
“Do you have a number?”
“I can probably find it. I have the paper somewhere,” I replied, and for the first time I understood that his death wasn’t necessarily an accident. I had assumed it was because they’d told me he’d fallen.
“Tell us about your relationship. Tell us how you knew Mr. Orlov.”
So, I did. I didn’t have anything to hide. I told him what Yevgeny claimed he did for a living (which I suspected they already knew since he had ID in his wallet and perhaps even business cards), how we met, and how he had flown back to Las Vegas for a visit just yesterday. I didn’t tell them that I believed it was possible he was a spy. It dawned on me, and I felt seasick when the realization hit me, that if he were a spy—and, dear God, a Russian spy—my naivete in shagging him might be misconstrued as treason.
“The only reason he was here in Las Vegas was to see you?”
“As far as I know.”
“What was his state of mind when he left your hotel room this morning?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Chipper. Upbeat. He took great pride in being content. He used that word a lot: content.”
Now she nodded and Patrick looked at her. I got it. I understood one of the other possibilities they were exploring: suicide. “Was he gambling last night or this morning?” she pressed.
“You don’t need me to tell you that. You can just go downstairs and ask. But I can tell you that he wasn’t depressed.”
“Lots of people take their own lives in Las Vegas,” she said.
“Oh, I know.”
“And I’m not saying your friend did. But to fall from where he did?”
“It couldn’t have been an accident?”
“It could have been, sure. But it would have suggested a certain recklessness.”
“Or he liked the view. Maybe he was just content,” I said, using one of his favorite words, “and misjudged his proximity to the edge of the cliff.”
“Maybe.”
