Someone Else's Husband(89)

“Call whoever you like, then.” She sizes me up for a beat, then hands over her phone. “I still think it should be the police. We pay their salaries. The least they can do is show up at a time like this. Instead of harassing innocent citizens.”

I call Thalia first. She doesn’t live far, and she has a set of keys. But it just rings and rings, then finally goes to voicemail. I send a few quick texts, too—nothing. It is only six-thirty in the morning, and Thalia often doesn’t get home from work until past three. She’s out cold. There’s Noah, but he’s not talking to me, and asking for his help at this hour seems unwise.

The woman is staring at me harder now. I can feel it. She wants her phone back. New Yorker solidarity goes only so far. I have Richard’s number memorized. In my defense, it’s one of those that’s easy to recall—1333 are the last four digits.

My first message explains that it’s me texting from a stranger’s phone. Can I ask a favor? I then write. As soon as I hit send, I want to claw the message back.

But ellipses appear instantly, and I smile despite myself. I need to tell him about the new photo the Senator sent, anyway. The threat is escalating.

Of course. Anything. What’s going on?





Richard Falk Police Interview


5:54 a.m., September 12


Q. Your wife must have been angry about Frankie.

A. My wife?

Q. Yeah, Gretchen. Been waiting out there for hours. Loyal woman. She’s freezing to death, teeth chattering, the whole bit. But she’s not going to budge. She’s that devoted to you.

A. She is an incredible woman.

Q. But someone like that—I’d imagine she’d get pretty angry if she found out she’d been betrayed. Maybe she took matters into her own hands.

A. What are you talking about?

Q. We’re looking into Gretchen, too. I mean, if what you’re saying is true and you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Frankie—my next stop would be your wife.

A. That’s ridiculous.

Q. It’s common sense.

A. Leave her alone.

Q. Tell me what really happened, Mr. Falk, and I will.

A. I don’t even want you talking to her—do you hear me?

Q. You seem very angry, Mr. Falk.

A. I am angry. Gretchen doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this.

Q. Maybe you should have thought about that before you had an affair with Frankie Callahan.

A. I did not have an affair with Frankie Callahan!

Q. Late-night texts? She was at your apartment, Mr. Falk. In her pajamas.

A. I did not hurt Frankie. I did not have an affair with Frankie.

Q. But maybe your wife thought you did. Maybe she went to confront Frankie Callahan based on the way things looked. Things got out of hand. It won’t take us much to get to probable cause. I bet she’ll cave pretty fast under intense questioning.

A. Then arrest me.

Q. You did kill Frankie Callahan?

A. Sure. Whatever you say. Just leave Gretchen alone.





After


Gretchen

September 16

In the car home, Gretchen called Hilary. “Could you do something for me?”

“Anything,” Hilary answered without hesitation. Gretchen heard the din of the city in the background, followed by an odd whistling, as if Hilary were blowing into the phone.

“Are you smoking?” Gretchen asked. That was new. Or maybe not. With Hilary, one never really knew.

“I plead the Fifth,” she said. “What do you need?”

“Can you track down someone named Noah using Frankie’s Instagram? I need to talk to him.”

“Noah. No last name?”

“No, but I think they were close friends, and they went to college together. Does that help?”

“Maybe. That’s not the most common name. But then again, she does have a lot of followers.” There was admiration in Hilary’s tone—and Hilary didn’t admire anyone.

“How many is a lot?” Gretchen felt petty for caring. And yet she did. Gretchen cared about this online world her husband was a part of, a world in which she had no currency.

“Close to a hundred K.”

A hundred thousand people cared about Frankie. They wanted to look at her photos. Stare at her face. She was attractive, of course, but this was a whole different level of attention. What if Thalia was right? What if Richard had been stalking Frankie? And what if that had led to…

Hilary jumped in to fill the silence. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. They’re probably all bots.” But it was obvious she didn’t really think that. “What is Richard saying?”

“Saying?” Gretchen asked as the car pulled up in front of her building.

“Oh, I thought you would have at least talked on the phone by now…I was just wondering if he had any theories about who might be responsible.”

Ever since they’d seen Frankie’s paintings, Hilary hadn’t uttered a word about a possible affair. It was an act of charity, Gretchen suspected. It made her feel like a terminal case.

“I don’t know what theories Richard might have,” Gretchen said to Hilary, picking up the pace as she headed into the lobby. Perhaps she could outrun the idea of ever speaking to her husband again. “I haven’t actually talked to him yet.”