“Well, that’s the forty-six-million-dollar question. You were supposed to be in Vancouver the whole weekend, right?” Sonny asks Paris, and she nods. “Jimmy died Saturday night. No matter what caused his death, you were not expected by anybody to be back in the country until Sunday afternoon. The only reason Zoe would have to wipe the data is to hide something pertaining to herself. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Zoe drove Jimmy home after the charity event,” Paris says. “And then said she went right home afterward. She would have left around nine thirty, maybe nine forty-five.”
“That’s within the window,” Sonny says. “The police have CCTV pictures of her car on the next street over around that time, but she could have driven him home, stabbed him, and left.”
“Are we actually going to suggest to the jury that Zoe killed Jimmy?” Paris looks back and forth between the lawyers. “Even though we’re pretty sure she didn’t?”
“It’s either her, or you,” Sonny says with a shrug. “If Zoe could have done it, then there’s your reasonable doubt. After that, it would be up to Salazar to build a case against her.”
He leans back and appraises the two women. “But let me ask you this.Why are you both so sure it’s suicide? Why aren’t either of you willing to consider that maybe someone did murder him?”
It’s a fair question. The best Paris can answer is that it feels like Jimmy took his own life. He had a lot going on. The pressure of performing. The memory loss. The slip back into drugs. And a wife who missed every single one of the signs because she was completely focused on her own goddamned problems.
“Because we knew him,” Elsie says quietly, answering for them both. “It just … fits.”
All Paris can do is nod.
“Moving on,” Sonny says. “Let’s talk about Vancouver. There are some holes during your time there that need to be filled.”
Paris’s heartbeat quickens. “What holes? I kept all the receipts, and I’ve already provided those to Detective Mini Wheats.”
Elsie snorts. Sonny looks confused, but neither woman offers to explain.
“Walk me through it.” He closes the folder with the crime scene photos and opens a different one. “I can see your registration for the … International Yoga Convention and Expo? That’s seriously a thing? What do you do, go to panels that discuss different variations of child’s pose?”
She doesn’t bother to respond to that.
“Okay, I can see a copy of your check-in at the hotel with your signature on Thursday. And here’s a copy of your valet card, which confirms you parked in the hotel garage for three days and never left. I can see you signed into the event, received your attendee badge, had dinner at the hotel that night, and again on Saturday, because you signed those two meals to your room.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is, nobody saw you at all on Friday,” Sonny says. “None of the convention organizers can remember seeing you at any point that day. You didn’t provide any other meal receipts—”
“I ate outside the hotel and paid cash,” Paris says. “It’s better than using my credit cards, because the exchange fees are always high.”
“And one of the hotel employees thinks he saw you catch a taxi early Friday morning. He recognized you as Jimmy Peralta’s wife because apparently word had gotten out that you were attending the convention. The cab company confirmed there was a fare from the Pan Pacific hotel at the time the employee says he saw you. The requested destination was the airport. At the time, the cabdriver didn’t recognize you as a famous comedian’s wife, but when asked to describe his passenger after the fact, he described you. So why did you go to the airport, Paris?”
“I didn’t go to the airport, Sonny.” Paris speaks evenly, not too fast, not too slow, not too emotional, and she doesn’t add anything more. When lying, volunteering too much information is a dead giveaway. “Whoever that was, it wasn’t me.”
“This is easily disputed,” Elsie says to Sonny. “Is there hotel security footage from that specific entrance? Was there a camera in the taxi with a time stamp? There were apparently eighteen hundred registered attendees that weekend. Paris not being seen is not the same thing as her not being remembered.”
“You seem to think I flew somewhere,” Paris says to her lawyer. “You can check with the airport for that information, can’t you?”