Someone Else's Husband(53)

Q. So you’re saying that you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Ms. Callahan?

A. Of course not.

Q. And you were asleep in your office at the time of her murder?

A. What time was that?

Q. 11:00 p.m. on the 10th of September.

A. If you’re asking was I asleep at around 11:00 p.m. on the 10th? Then, yes. But I don’t know when any murder happened other than what you’re telling me.

Q. Is there anyone who can verify this?

A. I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone that I can recall. Maybe the office has video. We also have key cards that I think track us checking in and checking out, elevator rides, that kind of thing. You can ask Goldman. I’m sure they’d require a warrant or subpoena or whatever. They are very protective of their information. I don’t have any control over that, obviously.

Q. Okay, great. Thanks. Good idea. And did you text Frankie Callahan at all the night of September 10th?

A. What do you mean?

Q. Exactly what I just said. Did you text with Frankie the night of September 10th?

A. I don’t remember exactly. I might have. As I said, I was working and I— Q. Why don’t you check?

A. What?

Q. You have your phone. Why don’t you check?

A. Okay.

Q. Your phone is right there, Mr. Falk.

A. I don’t need to check.

Q. I’m sorry?

A. I texted her.

Q. Oh, what did that text say?

A. Sounds like you already know that, right? So why don’t we just cut to the chase?

Q. Okay. Well, there was more than one text, wasn’t there?





After


Gretchen

September 14

The café on Great Jones Street across from the Pearson Gallery was small and had no table service; customers were required to order at the counter and bring a little numbered flag to their table. But it was sophisticated in a downtown way, Gretchen supposed. That was obvious from the artful way the pricey, modern pastries were displayed and the high-tech barista machines. It was early still as Hilary and Gretchen sipped their cappuccinos.

Hilary had tracked down a decent amount of information about Frankie Callahan, thanks to her Instagram and her upcoming show. Some of it Gretchen already knew, of course. But the gallery’s website included a lengthy bio with information about where Frankie had grown up (Colorado) and where she’d attended college (NYU) and graduate school (The New School). From Frankie’s Instagram, Hilary thought she’d figured out who her closest group of friends were and had surmised she didn’t have a boyfriend. And there had been those small photos of her work. But now they were here to see her new paintings in person. The show was available to “registered users” for online viewing, but leaving that kind of digital footprint seemed unwise. So Hilary had suggested a field trip to the gallery.

As much as Gretchen wanted to mine Frankie’s paintings for some insight into the woman who had swung like a wrecking ball into her life and—let’s be honest—to find them lacking, she couldn’t shake a sense of unease. What if the reverse turned out to be true? What if they proved she was brilliant, insightful, kind? Gretchen reminded herself for the hundredth time that it didn’t matter who Frankie had been. As dark as the thought was, she wasn’t competition for anyone anymore.

For nearly an hour, Gretchen and Hilary nibbled croissants and nursed their coffees, waiting for the gallery to reopen. There had been one of those We Will Return Shortly signs in the window when they arrived—elegantly old-school. But the gallery was open on a Sunday, which felt lucky.

“Would you ever live in a five-million-dollar apartment that didn’t have a doorman?” Hilary asked. She gestured with her phone to a rather unassuming door and row of buzzers, tucked a few doors down from the gallery.

“Who says that’s how much an apartment there costs?”

“Zillow,” Hilary said with a shrug. Gretchen had no idea what Zillow was and no interest in finding out. It was terrifying to her how much information was available publicly these days. How connected everyone was in all the wrong ways—too much intimacy with complete strangers. “I mean, what is the point of paying all that money if you’re not going to get a little service along with it?”

“Maybe it’s exciting to live downtown,” Gretchen offered. She tried not to wonder if Richard thought so, too. If that was one of the things he’d seen in this woman—an opportunity for a different, more interesting life. For a life full of art.

“Well, I think it’s exciting to have dry cleaning dropped off with my doorman,” Hilary said.

“I mean the whole life that comes with it,” Gretchen said. “It’s…edgy.”

“Ha. Edgy. Gretchen, stop sounding so rich,” Hilary said. “Only rich people pay to be made uncomfortable in the name of style.”

For not the first time this morning, Gretchen wondered if she should have come on her own. There was something reassuring about Hilary’s matter-of-fact judgment of anything and everything, but her endless chattering was grating on Gretchen’s nerves.

“Would you ever go on a trip like that?” Gretchen asked. “With a bunch of men you don’t know?”

It did seem maddeningly brave. No matter how Gretchen looked at it.

“I might,” Hilary snorted lightly, “if I could leave Scotty here.”