The Silent Widow

‘I think Doug looked on Trey as a surrogate son. After Doug— When he died, I tried to keep the connection going. That’s when I offered Trey the job here, in the office. He was good at it,’ she added, with a sad smile.

‘OK,’ said Goodman. ‘Thank you, Dr Roberts. I think that’s all we need for now.’

‘Don’t leave town,’ snarled Johnson, as Nikki slipped on her coat.

She didn’t dignify the comment with a look, let alone a response.

‘One last thing,’ Goodman said casually, walking Nikki to the interview room door. ‘Did you ever treat a client by the name of Brandon Grolsch?’

‘No.’ Nikki looked blank. Not a hint of recognition. ‘I don’t know that name.’

‘OK.’ Goodman smiled, masking his disappointment. Both men were disappointed. A direct link between Nikki Roberts and Brandon Grolsch would have helped a lot right now, especially since Jenny Foyle, the Medical Examiner, had texted Johnson earlier to confirm that two hairs found embedded in one of Trey Raymond’s many wounds was a DNA match for Grolsch. The way Johnson saw it, that meant either the kid was alive after all; or –

more disturbingly, but a closer fit to the evidence – whoever murdered Lisa Flannagan and Trey Raymond had also handled Brandon Grolsch’s corpse.

‘Thank you for your help anyway, Doctor,’ said Goodman. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

Nikki had left the building and was halfway across the parking lot when she heard Detective Johnson call breathlessly after her.

‘Wait!’ he panted.

Nikki stopped and turned, trying to quell the unpleasant pounding sensation in her chest. What now?

‘Your coat.’ Johnson gestured at the classic, sand-colored raincoat Nikki was wearing.

‘What about it?’ Nikki asked.

‘Isn’t that the coat you told us you loaned to Lisa Flannagan?’ Johnson wheezed. ‘The night she was killed?’

Nikki looked at him curiously.

‘You described it exactly in your statement,’ Johnson went on. ‘Full-length raincoat, waterproof canvas, sand-colored, buckled belt. That’s it.’ He nodded at the coat again.

Nikki allowed her gaze to linger for a moment on this obnoxious, rude, sweating, accusatory pig of a man. Clearly he believed he was catching her out at something, that he’d outsmarted her in some way. As if that could ever happen. Smiling, she said simply, ‘That’s right, Mr. Johnson. I have two.’

‘“That’s right, Mr Johnson. I have two.” Patronizing bitch.’

Johnson’s impression of Dr Roberts, complete with exaggerated, hip-swaying walk and nonchalant flick of the hair, had not been improved by his third tequila shot.

He and Goodman were at Rico’s, a dive off Sunset popular with the homicide division. Rico Hernandez, the eponymous owner, was ex LAPD himself and enjoyed hosting his former colleagues for their game nights and late-drinking sessions. Tonight Goodman and Johnson were at a table with two other teams, Hammond and Rae, aka Laurel and Hardy, the division jokers; and Sanchez and Baines, one of the few male–female pairings in the department. Although Johnson questioned whether you could call Anna Baines a woman.

‘I’m telling you, Lou,’ Johnson groused, ‘the good doctor’s in this shit up to her pretty little neck!’

Goodman rolled his eyes. ‘No, she isn’t.’

‘You don’t think the therapist lady could be involved, Lou?’ Bobby Hammond asked, taking a contemplative sip of his Corona. ‘I mean, Mick does have a point.’

‘And what point is that?’ Goodman demanded.

Bobby shrugged. ‘A lot of people close to her do seem to be droppin’ dead.’

‘Starting with her husband,’ Davey Rae chimed in. ‘Let’s not forget him.’

‘That was an accident!’ Goodman almost shouted. What was this, the conspiracy theorists’ association annual drinks party?

The fact was that, ever since the ME found those bizarre ‘dead cells’ under Lisa Flannagan’s fingernails, the entire homicide department had become hooked on the ‘Zombie Killings’. Most of these detectives’ regular cases involved either gang shootings or over-zealous domestic battery, or drug deals turned sour. Few if any had the glamour of this one: a beautiful shrink-to-the-stars, her young black protégé, and her patient – a billionaire’s model mistress. Add to that the mysterious zombie DNA found on the first victim, and you had a full-on thriller on your hands. It wasn’t right for Goodman and Johnson to keep the thing solely for themselves.

‘I hate to be the boring grown-up here and rain on your parade with the cold hard facts,’ Goodman drawled. ‘But the facts are: a) Nikki Roberts had no motive for either murder. None whatsoever. And b) she’s five foot three and can’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. Treyvon Raymond was six two and a hundred eighty-six pounds of solid muscle. You’re telling me she overpowered, kidnapped, stabbed and dumped that boy? I don’t think so.’