Well... What do you want then?
Dr. Bloom, how well do you know your wife?
Had that been so wrong of him to ask? It had been a simple question, really. One that could have resulted in Quentin closing up shop, heading back to L.A. and finding himself a new angle forClosure. If only Dr. Bloom had been able to answer it. If only he hadn’t chosen instead to psychoanalyze Quentin, to dig down into the reserves of his pain and bring it to the surface, where it could breathe and flourish.
Quentin felt a tap on his shoulder. “Here to pay your respects?”
It was Detective Morasco from the Tarry Ridge Police Department, and Quentin jumped a little when he saw him. A day ago, he’d found Detective Morasco good-looking in a Mark-Ruffalo-with-a-hangover kind of way, and reasonably easy to talk to. But maybe that was just compared to his partner, who was—and Quentin normally didn’t generalize like this—the worst type of straight man: that guy who’d lived his whole life thinking he was the cleverest and most charming son of a bitch in the room, either because no one hadbothered to let him know otherwise, or because in the rooms he frequented (shudder), he was.
Anyway, the partner wasn’t here, but Morasco was, and Quentin didn’t find his presence as reassuring as he had at the police station. “To be honest,” Quentin told him, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
Behind Morasco, Robin was handing the shovel to the rabbi, her head bowed low, as though her neck couldn’t take the weight of it. “Me neither, actually,” the detective said. “I never knew the Blooms when they were alive.”
Quentin’s eyes widened. “Is Mrs. Bloom—”
“No, no. I misspoke. I’m just saying...”
“Yeah, I get it.”
Morasco’s gaze moved to the phone in Quentin’s hand. “You still working on the podcast?”
“No. I mean... I am. I will. But I’m not here in a professional capacity.”
“Well, I appreciate you keeping your distance, anyway,” he said. “I’m sure the family does too.”
Robin had joined her husband. The rabbi was speaking again, urging others to take up the shovel. “I should probably go,” Quentin said.
Morasco nodded—probably the reason why he’d come back here in the first place, to politely kick Quentin out of the cemetery before the Diamonds caught sight of him.
Quentin started to leave.
“Listen, Mr. Garrison...”
“Yeah?”
“If you wind up including the shooting as part of your podcast...”
“I’m not going to do that. I swear. I would never record and report on something as private as this funeral.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “But if you change your mind and decideto branch off into this case. And if, in your reporting, you find out anything that might help us... Anything at all that stands out to you...”
Quentin exhaled. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
“You still have my card?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Quentin looked at him. “You don’t have any leads as to who could have done this?”
He smiled a little. “Every lead helps,” he said. Which wasn’t an answer at all.
They said a quick good-bye, and Quentin headed up the hill and into the parking lot, past rows of cars, the waiting limousine, the empty hearse...
Quentin tried reassuring himself: During his interview with Morasco and his partner, he hadn’t told any out-and-out lies.Dr. Bloom seemed like he was in pretty good spirits, he had said. Which had been true, at least at first.He told me he’d be happy to serve as an expert on my podcast, but said he wasn’t as up on current theories as he once was.Also true.We exchanged numbers and agreed to talk later.True. But.
At the end of the interview, Quentin had shaken hands with Morasco and his partner, who had even told him he’d be “happy to provide law enforcement expertise for your podcasts.” And Quentin had felt emboldened enough to ask a question.I was just wondering where you got my number. You know... to call me in the first place.
