Someone Else's Husband(3)

Richard handed Gretchen the warrant after he hung up with Bruce. “We probably shouldn’t even talk to each other,” he said. “Not with them…” He gestured toward the officers making their way around the apartment with focused precision.

One of the two detectives, Raul Reyes—short but with very good bone structure, she couldn’t help noticing, and thick eyelashes—asked if Gretchen and Richard might come down to the precinct. You know, just voluntarily, to talk while the officers conducted the search. They were trying to gather as much information as they could about Ms. Callahan, and they had a few questions.

“Either way, we’ll need you to leave until they’re done.”

Gretchen waited for her husband’s polite but firm no, per Bruce’s instructions.

“Yes, of course,” Richard said without missing a beat. “Anything we can do to help.”

Gretchen didn’t say a word as they grabbed their jackets and one set of keys. They were not allowed to take anything else from the house, on account of the search. They could change before leaving the apartment, but only in the presence of a police officer. In Gretchen’s case that meant a glowering tattooed woman who was, quite frankly, physically intimidating. Being in a room alone with her sounded unpleasant enough, but removing her clothing while this woman watched? Absolutely untenable. She opted for grabbing her fleece instead.

She and Richard didn’t speak again until they were alone together in their car. Well, not alone—Sam was there, driving them downtown to the East Village precinct, which was apparently the one near the…whatever had happened. But Sam had worked for them for fifteen years. He was practically family.

“Bruce said not to answer any questions,” Gretchen said finally, “so why are we going down there?”

“Because I have questions. I want to know why they’re at our house.” Richard sounded more angry than upset, luckily. “Besides, I don’t care what Bruce says. It would seem suspicious to say no. Would you have preferred that?”

“Of course not,” Gretchen said, but she felt a little attacked, which hardly seemed fair under the circumstances.

They were quiet for a moment. Then Richard exhaled heavily and reached for her hand. “It can’t hurt to be cooperative,” he said. “To keep things…calm.”

“But why are they searching our house?” she asked again. Just the thought—those police officers with their hands all over her things, their things. Their family. It was a violation.

He turned to look at Gretchen, his eyes searching pointedly. “I don’t know, Gretchen.” A pause. “Do you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gretchen snapped, freeing her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“They must have a reason, though. A decent one, because a judge gave them a warrant. That’s why I want to talk to them—poke around a bit and find out.”

And so here they were, still down at the police station at nearly six in the morning. They’d casually separated them right away. Mr. Falk, you can come right this way. Mrs. Falk, someone will be right out for you in a minute. As though this were all a routine matter. “A minute” had turned into hours; Gretchen had been sitting there for what felt like a lifetime, shivering in her Natori pajamas.

It didn’t seem right for them to be purposely making her uncomfortable while she waited. She’d already mentioned how cold she was to at least three different officers, one of them a woman. And yet even that female officer hadn’t done anything but frown and shake her head as if the solution weren’t as simple as adjusting the thermostat or offering Gretchen a blanket or an extra jacket. Gretchen had also asked to see Richard at least a half dozen times and been ignored. Or, rather, assured: Any minute, any minute—they’re just wrapping up. They were stalling, obviously.

Gretchen could also picture Richard in the interrogation room, doing his part, charming the pants off the officers, trotting out his man-of-the-people credentials. Taking his sweet time, his wife forgotten on a rock-hard bench in a frigid lobby, along with Bruce’s warnings about not talking to the police. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Three hours and eleven minutes now! Enough was enough. This had gone on too long. They needed a lawyer, and Gretchen still hadn’t been able to reach Scotty—her calls kept rolling straight to voicemail. She called Bruce again.

“What are you doing down at the police station? I expressly told Richard not to answer questions!” Bruce shouted. He was a very good attorney but a very unpleasant man who was particularly condescending to women. Not surprising, given that he and her father had gotten on famously. He’d even drafted their prenup, the one she’d been mortified her parents had insisted on. “What the hell is wrong with him? Richard should know better.” That was exactly how her father had talked about Richard. “I mean, there is stupid and then there is—”

“Oh, shut up, Bruce!” It was one thing for her to be upset with her husband, but she wasn’t about to listen to Bruce criticize him.

She suppressed a smile as she registered Bruce’s gasp on the other end of the line. Men always underestimated Gretchen, but she’d learned long ago to use their low expectations to her advantage. When to play demure, and when to bite back.

“Richard and I pay you, remember?” she went on. “A lot over the years, as a matter of fact. And not for your personal opinions.” Shame and love collided in Gretchen’s chest. It was hard to get adequate purchase on the moral high ground while sitting in a police station in your pajamas. “Just get down here. Now, Bruce. And do your job.”