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“You know, it would actually be best to do it in person. Would tomorrow morning work?” Though she hadn’t realized this before hearing his voice—and she hates the idea of sitting across from him—it seems only fair to drop this bomb face-to-face.
“What’s this about, Emma?”
“I’d really prefer not to do it over the phone.”
“Sounds very cloak-and-dagger. Are you expecting me to drive to Westport?”
Kyle sounds annoyed at the idea, but funny, he didn’t seem to mind coming here when his goal was to rattle her.
“I was thinking we could meet halfway—maybe White Plains? There’s a coffee shop I’ve been to called Caffè Ammi. How would ten thirty or eleven be for you?”
“Neither of those work. But I could meet at eight.”
The commuter traffic will be brutal at that hour, but better to get it over with.
“Okay.”
“You’re not even going to give me a hint of what’s going on?”
“I’d rather not, but trust me, it’s important. I’ll text you the address of the café so you have it.”
As soon as she finishes, Emma sends an email to Jacob Whaley, explaining who she is, how she acquired his address, and why she’d like a few minutes on the phone with him. He might have had a follow-up call with Chris, she realizes, discussing the Rothko, and it will be good to learn what she can from him before she talks to Kyle.
For the rest of the morning, Emma tries desperately to concentrate on her work, making a few calls and meeting with Eric to brainstorm about the second round of research for Scott’s company. But it feels like there’s a brush fire racing through her veins, and she’s unable to push the image of the scarf from her mind. The cops have spent the last hours interviewing Taylor’s colleagues, and if she was wearing the scarf yesterday, someone might have mentioned it. Are they already searching for it by now? Is there a chance they would look at the Goodwill in Bridgeport?
Around three, after she’s picked at a midday salad back at the house, a number with a local area code pops up on Emma’s cell. A female police officer is on the other line, saying that they would like to speak to her as part of their investigation into the death of Taylor Hunt, and asking if she’s available today.
“Yes, today’s fine,” she tells her. At least she doesn’t have to wait and wonder any longer. “I could actually come to the station now if that works.”
“Good. Just give your name at the front desk.”
Emma decided last night that she wasn’t going to ask Dunne to accompany her. Bringing a lawyer to help you explain a couple of phone calls to one of your husband’s staff would surely send the wrong message.
The police station is about ten minutes away in an old brick building Emma’s passed dozens of times but never paid much mind to. Based on how packed the parking lot is, she’s not surprised to find the interior of the station throbbing with activity. In addition to uniformed Westport cops, she notices plainclothes detectives with badges on their belts and men and women in state police uniforms. She assumes the throng has to do with Taylor’s death.
After a short, nerve-racking wait on a bench at the front of the station, Emma’s led into a large, crowded bullpen and to the metal desk of a detective named Tim Hartwick. He’s in his late forties, she guesses, with receding dark hair and a thick, bristly mustache. He greets her courteously and asks her to have a seat in the chair next to the desk.
After taking down some basic information, Hartwick tells her that phone records show that she and Ms. Hunt spoketwice on the phone over the past couple of days. Though it’s not a question, he lets the comment hang there, presumably to see how she reacts.
“Yes, we spoke—and we actually met in person Monday morning at Halliday,” she tells him. It seems prudent to get that on the table because the police are bound to learn about the meeting at some point.
“What was the nature of those conversations?”
She’s already rehearsed an answer several times in her head.
“The call on Saturday was her checking to see if I liked a bracelet she helped my husband pick out for me. The meeting and the other call were about the most recent presentation I did at Halliday,” she adds, amazed by how easily the lie rolls off her tongue. “Taylor had attended it and I asked her to give me some feedback.”
Hartwick nods, appearing to accept her comment at face value. “How did she seem to you when you met in person?”
“Our meeting was pretty brief, but she seemed fine to me. Her usual self.”
While Hartwick takes a minute to thumb through his notebook, Emma attempts to overhear the conversation several cops are engaged in halfway across the room, but their voices are too low. She realizes that Hartwick has looked up again and uttered Tom’s name.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the question,” she tells him.
“What kind of relationship did your husband, Tom Halliday, have with Ms. Hunt?”
“She was his chief of staff, so she did all kinds of thingsfor him—scheduling, keeping an eye on the operation, troubleshooting.”
