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Sanders nodded. “Which they can’t do unless they know the pass codes.”
“How many people know those codes, Mrs. Hobson?” Melnick asked politely.
Katrina just blinked.
“The codes,” Sanders said.
“You know. To turn the whole thing on and off?” Melnick said.
“He means the security system,” Sanders said.
Melnick nodded. “And the cameras, too.”
“Who knew those codes?” Sanders repeated.
“I, I guess—just Michael and, uh . . .” Katrina swallowed hard. “Just me now, I guess.”
“No housekeeper, cook, nothing like that?” Sanders said, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe a butler—or a majordomo?” Melnick smiled and turned to his partner. “Really rich people go for that one. Majordomo. Very regal,” he said.
“Did you have a majordomo, Mrs. Hobson?” Sanders asked blandly. “A regal majordomo who knew the pass code?”
Katrina could only shake her head numbly.
“Well then, see, that’s the thing, Mrs. Hobson,” Sanders said, leaning forward and lowering his voice confidentially. “The two cops that got there first say the alarm was on—you turned it off to let them in. Is that right?”
Again, Katrina nodded, trying to fight down the sick feeling that was growing in the pit of her stomach.
“And the cameras,” Melnick said. “Somehow they got turned off for a few minutes—while your husband was getting killed.”
“So you see the problem,” Sanders said. He leaned back and shook his head. “The alarm is on. Nobody can get in. Only two people in the house, and one of ’em ends up dead.” He spread his hands.
“Which is really only a charming puzzle if you’re Agatha Christie,” Melnick said. “Which we are not.”
“I think Agatha Christie is even dead,” his partner added.
“That’s right, she is.”
“So you see what we have to think here, Mrs. Hobson?” Sanders asked, again politely—but this time that bland and even tone seemed harsher than a snarl of rage.
“With the whole alarm thing, you know,” Melnick said mildly.
And then they both just looked at her.
Katrina fought for air. The inside of her mouth felt like sandpaper and she couldn’t swallow. And her brain seemed frozen. She fought for something to say—anything. There had to be a few simple words, some elementary phrase, that would make them see how ridiculous this was—how totally impossible—to think she had killed Michael. But she couldn’t think of anything, and her head was throbbing, and the room seemed to be getting dim and wobbly. And the two detectives just looked at her with matching expressions of mild and patient curiosity. And just when she thought her head would explode, the room’s door popped open.
A woman in uniform stuck her head in. “Detective Sanders?” she said. She held up a file folder. “They said you should see this ASAP. Uh, forensics?”
Sanders nodded and got up. As he stepped over to take the folder, Katrina felt a small trickle of relief. She’d seen CSI enough times to know what forensics was. And the ASAP part—it was obvious that they’d found some kind of evidence that implicated the real killer. So now they would have to let her go. She was innocent, for God’s sake—and they had to know the kind of political pressure her family could bring; it could make things very unpleasant for the detectives. She took a deep breath and waited while the room steadied a bit and reminded herself not to be too harsh on them—after all, they’d made an awful mistake, but they were just doing their jobs, and really, they’d been very polite to her.
Sanders was showing the contents of the folder to his partner. The two of them looked at her, and Sanders smiled. Here it comes, Katrina thought. Now they apologize and let me go. And I will be gracious.
It didn’t quite go that way.
The two detectives settled back into their chairs and exchanged a glance. “Where were we?” Sanders asked innocently.
“Mrs. Hobson was about to explain that she didn’t kill her husband,” Melnick said with the same fake blandness.
