He told her that it had been found capsized.
“That makes no sense. Why in the world would Elaine get into the dinghy, after dark, in this weather?”
“Questions we’d like answered,” he said.
They seemed to expect her to provide the answers. “There must have been an emergency onboard. Did Elaine call in an SOS or send some kind of distress signal?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That yacht is equipped with state-of-the-art technology. She’s bragged to me about it. At the first sign of trouble, she would have sent out an alert.” Locke just looked back at her, saying nothing. With emphasis, she said, “There must be a mistake. It can’t be her. Who discovered the body?” Locke told her. “Oh. How awful for the little boy.”
“When his dad realized what it was, he made sure the kid didn’t see it.”
She tried to connect Elaine and her effervescent personality to a lifeless body washed ashore. It was impossible. “I don’t believe it’s Elaine.”
Locke gave her a nod that could have been interpreted any number of ways, but she interpreted it to mean that he disagreed.
They all heard the beep signaling that the email had come in. Menundez opened the cover on his iPad, accessed his email, then gave Locke a nod.
Locke turned to her. “Can you give it a look?”
Talia tried to distance herself from the surreal situation, to withdraw emotionally, to become an observer rather than a participant, believing that watching from outside herself was the only way she would get through this.
“Do I need to prepare myself for what I’m about to see?”
“Are you asking if the face is disfigured?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”
“No. No blood, nothing like that.”
She took a deep breath, then nodded, and Menundez held the tablet out to where she could see the screen.
The face as captured by the sketch artist showed no signs of trauma. But it was definitely a rendition of Elaine’s face without her vitality and animation.
The detectives must have known from her reaction what the answer was, but Locke asked quietly, “Is that Elaine Conner?”
Talia nodded, spoke a raspy yes, then said, “Excuse me, please.” She didn’t wait for permission.
She went into the powder room, the nearest bathroom, and bent over the toilet. She retched. Hard. Repeatedly. But she hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so nothing came up. The bout left her feeling wrung out and trembly.
She cupped water from the faucet with her hand and rinsed her mouth out, then used a guest towel to bathe her face with cold water. She raked back her hair with her fingers, then rejoined the detectives.
Locke said, “Can we get you something, Mrs. Ford? A drink of water?”
She understood then that their business with her wasn’t finished. They weren’t offering condolences and bowing out with an apology for having ruined her night. They had come to her with questions that needed answers.
She wanted to cover her head and weep over the loss of her friend with the infectious laugh and joie de vivre. Instead, she wearily offered the detectives coffee.
“Coffee would be good,” Locke said.
“Coffee, thanks,” Menundez said.
She led them into the kitchen, then stood before the elaborate coffeemaker and stared at it, dazed, as though it were the control panel on a NASA spaceship. She couldn’t remember which buttons to push or in what sequence.
Noticing, Menundez stepped in. “I have one like it. Allow me?”
“Thank