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“I’ll need some time alone with my client first,” Jack told him.
“No problem. She’s in an interview room. Follow me.”
Ventura led the way through the lobby and into the inner depths of the department. Most of the offices were dark, save one where another detective sat hunkered over a file spread across his desk. He didn’t look up as the group passed.
Beyond the offices were more doors and a small waiting area. Just past the small lobby, Ventura reached for the second door on the left.
“Let me know when you’re ready to move forward on her official statement and the additional questions I have for Ms.Winthrop.”
“You got it,” Jack confirmed.
Ventura wandered back in the direction of the offices, and Finley entered the interview room ahead of Jack.
Ellen Winthrop was seated in the lone chair on the far side of a narrow beige table. The side no one wanted to find themselves on, becauseyou were facing either the CCTV camera or the one-way viewing window so that your every response could be observed. She sat straight, shoulders square, though she looked exhausted and sad beneath the smattering of makeup that had faded over the course of the day. Her dark-brown hair was arranged in a chin-length, face-hugging style. The black pullover she wore matched the leggings that topped off black flat-heeled shoes. Both feet rested firmly on the floor, knees together. No crossed legs or overly casual positioning. A barely touched bottle of water sat on the table to her right.
The door closed, and Jack took care of the introductions. Handshakes were exchanged. The older woman’s hand was cold, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly, but then she squared her shoulders once more and lifted her chin in preparation for battle. This might not be her first encounter with the police, though Finley imagined it was her first for murder. Ellen Winthrop had a reputation as a tiger in the business world; whether it would stand up in a moment like this was yet to be seen.
“Ms.Winthrop,” Jack began as he and Finley took the seats on their side of the table.
“Call me Ellen, please,” Winthrop suggested. Her voice was steadier than her hand and pleasantly toned.
“Ellen,” Jack acknowledged, “we have a good deal to talk about, and you’ve had a long day already. Theories and supposition about why or how this unthinkable tragedy happened can wait. We need to nail down the details as you remember them right now, while they are freshly imprinted in your memory.”
She nodded. “Of course.” Deep breath. “Where would you like me to begin?”
“Let’s start with when you woke up this morning,” Jack suggested. “Don’t leave anything out. How did you feel? Exactly what did you do?”
“Did you have any reason to want your husband dead?” Finley interjected, just to liven things up.
Winthrop blinked once, twice, her gray eyes bright with emotion. “I woke up at eight,” she said, starting as Jack had suggested and avoiding Finley’s question entirely. “I was stunned that I’d overslept. I’m usually up by seven at the latest. I don’t have a scheduled workout on Sundays, but I do go for a nice walk, weather permitting.”
She moistened her lips, glanced away briefly. “Jarrod almost always accompanied me, but this morning was different. He looked a mess and was clearly hungover. There were numerous empty beer bottles scattered around the family room.”
“Why was he hungover?” Finley asked before Ellen could go on.
“We quarreled last night. He stayed up and obviously overindulged long after I exited the unpleasant exchange.” Winthrop stared at Finley for one long beat. “To answer your first question, no, I had no reason to wish my husband dead.”
“Good. Did you sleep in the same bed last night?” Finley pressed on, needing more specific details. As for the other comment, no suspect ever admitted to having a reason to want someone dead—at least not in the beginning.
“No.” The single word was expressed firmly, almost angrily. “I needed some space. He slept on the sofa.”
“What time did you go to bed?” Finley asked next. She and Jack had their strategy down to a science. He asked the primary questions, and she did the digging for the details. It served them well, allowing the clients to wear out their anger on Finley rather than Jack.
“I didn’t try to sleep. There was no point,” Winthrop said. “If you mean what time did I walk away from him, it was around nine.”
“What did you quarrel about?” Jack asked as Finley relaxed against the back of her chair.
So far, the lady showed no outward signs of deceit. No avoiding eye contact. No nervous twitches. Direct, confident responses. No hesitating. A hint of emotion thrown in here and there. The only troubleFinley picked up on so far was a noticeable lack of real, palpable emotion, which never looked good to a jury.
“On Friday I discovered a number of discrepancies in several of my personal bank accounts,” Winthrop explained. “I was startled, and frankly I didn’t know what to make of it. Jarrod was away on business. He wasn’t supposed to return home until Saturday afternoon. I’m generally not overly patient with financial discrepancies, but this was personal. I needed time to step back and shore up my objectivity before proceeding.” She drew in a fortifying breath. “Under the circumstances, I decided to wait until he returned and I had a better handle on the details of the transactions to discuss the situation with him.”
“Tell us about the accounts and the discrepancies.” Jack rested his forearms on the table and waited expectantly.
Another quick swipe of her tongue over her lips. First sign of nerves in response to the questioning. Understandable. Her husband was dead. If she weren’t at least a little nervous at this point, Finley would be concerned.
“I have three online savings accounts to which he has—had—access, and they were almost emptied, as were both my checking accounts, along with the account I created for him. The transfers were done over a period of time, in increments just below the maximum threshold, ensuring I wasn’t notified.” A weary shrug lifted her shoulders. “The past several weeks have been inordinately busy with our new international endeavors at the firm; otherwise I’m certain I would have noticed.”
“How much money are we talking about, Ellen?” Finley was guessing it was a significant amount. After all, Winthrop operated a financial consulting firm. No kids and not even a spouse until a couple of months ago to absorb resources. She was no doubt loaded.
