“And angered you?”
Vivian looked right at Bree. “Of course.”
“Enough to kill him?” Muller asked.
“Never. We used to watch those television shows like Forty-Eight Hours and Dateline where there’s always one spouse killing another. We always said we couldn’t understand that; if the marriage wasn’t working, you left. Found a way to be friends or not and just moved on.”
“How did your marriage work financially?” Bree asked.
“There was a prenup, if that’s what you’re asking,” Vivian said. “The day we married, seventeen years ago, Tom knew he’d get nothing if we divorced.”
“He angry about that?” Muller asked.
Vivian snorted. “Quite the opposite. Tommy was fine with the agreement—proud of it, in fact. He said it proved he’d married me for…”
Tears welled in her eyes again. She took a deep breath. “He liked the personal independence it represented, and the self-reliance.”
“How did your lives mix?” Bree asked. “I mean, you’re out here, leading a country-club life, while Tom was in the city doing a dangerous job.”
Vivian’s face went through a slow flurry of emotions—resistance, then consideration, and finally acceptance. Her shoulders slumped.
“The more I think about it, Detective Stone, the more I see that Tom and I did live in separate worlds, right from the beginning. Here we had a safe, fairy-tale life, but out there in DC, on the streets—well, Tom liked to fight dragons. Being a cop made him feel alive, and all I could feel when I went into the city with him was fear.”
Muller said, “He was killed with a younger woman.”
“I heard that,” she said. “Who was she?”
“Edita Kravic, early thirties, studying law at American University, damned attractive.”
Vivian took the news that the woman her estranged husband had died with was in her early thirties and damned attractive like a one-two punch.
“Was she his mistress?” she asked in a strained voice.
“We don’t know,” Bree said. “He ever mention that name to you?”
“Never.”
“Just for the record, Mrs. McGrath,” Bree said, “where were you at seven twenty this morning?”
Vivian looked at her incredulously. “You honestly think I could kill Tom?”
“We have to ask, Viv,” Muller said. “It’s part of the job. You know the drill.”
“I was probably taking a shower.”
“Anyone see you?”
“I should hope not. I’ve been living alone.”
“Who was the first person you saw this morning?”
“Catalina Monroe. My massage therapist. I had an eight o’clock.”
“You have a way we can contact her?”
McGrath’s widow rattled off a phone number, then said, “You know who you should be looking at?”
“Tell us,” Bree said.