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“No,” he said. “Just your average single-parent day. I cleaned up the kitchen. I vacuumed. I did the laundry. I put together a bag of stuff for Goodwill. Julie, Martha, and I went to Whole Foods. I peeled, chopped, parboiled, and roasted dinner. I bathed Julie. I put her to bed. I trimmed Martha’s nails and I ate dinner. Alone. I cleaned up the kitchen. I took out the garbage. I made the bed. I applied for three consulting jobs in DC. Oh. I got a phone call from Evan Monroe, who was looking for you.”
“Who is Evan Monroe?”
“He’s Tina Strichler’s brother.”
Tina Strichler’s brother had called me? Why? I put that newsbreak on a back burner for the moment.
I said to Joe, “Would you have been this mad at me if I’d been home at seven?”
“I doubt it. You’re taking advantage, Linds.”
I did get it. While I was out doing my job all day, he was holding the home team together without benefit of stimulation or adult conversation. I got that he wasn’t just steamed up about today. It was an accumulation of days like this, added to the fact that I was working a very dangerous job that might follow me home—if I even got home.
I told Joe all of that, and I did my best to make amends. I said I would be more mindful of late hours and that I owed him a lot. And that tomorrow I would get Mrs. Rose to come in and that we could go out to dinner. “Anywhere.”
I stopped short of groveling.
“OK, OK, forget it. So. Where were you?” he asked.
“I went to see Wayne Broward.”
“In jail? How’d that go?”
“He’s nuts. He needs to stay locked up. I hope he gets a shitty lawyer.”
Joe hadn’t totally forgiven me, but he laughed. Then he took a plate of food out of the fridge. I got up and took it out of his hand.
“I can heat that up. You sit,” I said.
I put the plate of chicken and green beans in the microwave, and I poured wine for both of
us. While my dinner revolved, I took off my shoes, put my gun away, and went in to see Julie, who was sleeping deeply.
I heard the microwave beeping.
Joe worked on his computer while I ate, which was OK. My mind was focused on the message from Evan Monroe, wondering if it was too late to call him back and if my returning that call would irritate my husband even more.
I cleaned up the kitchen, and after a quick shower and a change of clothes, I said, “Joe, what did Evan Monroe want?”
Joe said, “Wang gave him your name. I think because you were first officer. So Monroe’s calling you because there hasn’t been any movement on the case. He told me he had an idea about who could have killed Tina.”
“He told you that?” I said.
“He was messed up, Lindsay. I told him you’d call, but he wouldn’t let me off the phone. He said that when Tina was in graduate school, she was raped. She identified the guy and he was put away for twenty-five years. She saw him when he was up for parole a while back, and she told Evan afterward that she was no longer sure he was the person who raped her.”
“Is the guy out?”
“Yep. His time was up five years ago. Beginning of May.”
“Holy crap. Evan Monroe told you the guy’s name?”
“Clement Hubbell. I looked him up on ViCAP.”
Joe went to the living room and sat on the sofa. I sat next to him, and he put his arm around me. That felt good.
Joe said, “Hubbell was let out on May fifth five years ago. If Tina wrongly identified him, he’s had a lot of time to make a plan. But it might have been hard to find her from lockup. She was Bettina Monroe when she was raped. She got married and divorced and kept her married name.”
“Let’s see what Hubbell looks like,” I said, putting my hand on my husband’s thigh.
