Paris glances at Elsie, who nods.
“I drove up to Vancouver,” Paris answers. “For the International Yoga Convention and Expo.”
“Who went with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Where’d you stay?”
“The Pan Pacific.”
“How long were you there for?”
“Thursday afternoon to last night.”
Kellogg opens the manila folder beside her notepad and thumbs through the documents. “And what time did you leave Vancouver?”
“I got home just after two a.m., maybe closer to two thirty.”
The detective smiles. “That’s not what I asked. I asked you what time you left Vancouver. According to the hotel, you booked the room for three nights. Why did you leave early?”
“There weren’t any more panels I wanted to attend.”
“What does this matter?” Elsie snaps. “I’m sure border patrol can send you pictures of her car the moment she crossed back into the US. Or you could just check the CCTV cameras for the park across the street from their house.”
“The park is more like a lookout, and there are only two cameras nearby. One of them doesn’t work, and the one that does points toward the city, not the houses behind it.”
“You’re kidding,” Paris says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Elsie says to her, but she’s focused on the detective. “This is a pretty clear-cut case of suicide, Detective Kellogg. Jimmy Peralta had a long and well-documented history of addiction and depression, including a suicide attempt years ago.”
“Maybe he did,” Kellogg says. “But here’s what bothers me: Zoe Moffatt, who has her own code to the front door keypad, let herself into the house this morning because she and Jimmy had a meeting scheduled at ten a.m. When Mr. Peralta didn’t come down at the scheduled time, she called up the stairs, and when nobody answered, she checked the garage to see if his car was inside. It was, but it was right beside Mrs. Peralta’s, who was supposed to still be in Canada. Ms. Moffatt called up again, still no answer. Concerned that neither of them were answering, she went upstairs to check, and that’s when she found her boss dead in his own bathtub, with Mrs. Peralta on the floor right next to him, covered in blood, the murder weapon in her hand.”
“Except it’s not the murder weapon, because it’s not murder,” Elsie says. “And it hasn’t been confirmed yet that the straight razor is what actually caused Jimmy’s death. You’re only assuming it was because it was in the bathroom. The medical examiner’s early estimation is that death occurred between nine p.m. and midnight. My client was nowhere near the house at that time. Again, why don’t you just ask border patrol to send you photos of the time she crossed so we can all go home?”
“Apparently, US Border Patrol experienced some kind of technical glitch last night, so they can’t confirm anything just yet.” The detective speaks to Elsie, but she’s observing Paris. “And until they figure it out, we don’t know where your client was at the time her husband was killed.”
“Check her phone records,” Elsie says.
Shit.
“We tried.” Kellogg leans back and addresses Paris directly. “But it appears the whole weekend you were gone, your phone never left your house.”
“I forgot it at home.” Paris works to keep her voice even. When telling a lie, it’s always best not to rush or overexplain. “I was almost at the border by the time I realized I didn’t have it.”
“So you went the whole weekend without a phone?”
“Yes.” Another lie. Paris doesn’t blink.
The detective smiles. “Well, that makes you the unluckiest person in the world.”
“You’re really going to hold her on this?” Elsie’s either a great actor or she truly is flabbergasted. Paris is betting on the former.
“I’ve held murder suspects on a lot less,” Kellogg says. “Because it’s murder, counselor. Your client is almost thirty years younger than her husband, who happened to be a very famous and very wealthy man.”
“And? Jimmy’s will leaves nearly everything to charity. I would know.” Elsie crosses her arms over her chest. “I was the one who drafted it. My client had no motive to kill her husband.”
“That we know of. We’ve only just begun our investigation, and rest assured, we will leave no stone unturned.” Detective Kellogg gives Paris another small smile. “You’re a little mysterious, you know that? It makes me want to … dig.”