“The news said it was a suicide.”
“NYPD may be rethinking that,” noted Devine.
“Was that NYPD outside talking to you? I was looking out my window. He seemed like a cop.” She seemed more intent and into this than was warranted. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
“Yes, he is.”
“What did he want with you?”
“Asking questions, just like they’re doing with everybody else.”
She folded her arms over her chest and looked alarmingly judicial. “Do you need a lawyer, Travis? I know some good ones.”
“I had nothing to do with her death.”
“Doesn’t matter. Innocent people get sent to prison all the time.”
This set him back on his heels, although Devine knew what she said was true. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for the offer. Hey, you remember me being here Thursday night, right?”
“Why? Am I your alibi?” she quickly added.
“You can call it that if you want.”
“I think so. But then again, I got in late. I remember seeing you last night for sure. I was doing yoga in the dining room.”
“Last night is irrelevant to the police investigation.”
“I get that. Let me think about it.”
“Thanks. How’s your studying going for the bar?”
“New York’s is really hard, but I feel good about it.”
“What kind of law are you going to practice?”
“Criminal.”
“Which side?”
She gave him a look that he couldn’t readily interpret. “The side that needs me the most, of course.”
She walked off downstairs and he heard the front door open and close. He crossed the hall and knocked on Tapshaw’s door, after he heard her tapping away inside.
She opened the door and stood there in what looked to be her pajamas.
“Yeah?” she said brightly. She had dirty blond hair that spooled around her narrow shoulders. Her face was button cute and her eyes danced with both focus and merriment. She was in her late twenties, she had told him, but sometimes, like now, the woman still looked to be in her teens. She was too skinny, but otherwise appeared healthy to his eye. She had bunny slippers on her feet. Her room was a wreck. Devine had seen more orderly spaces after he’d tossed a grenade inside them.
The walls were covered in yellow and green Post-it notes. She had three large computer screens on her desk. There was a white-board that had revenue and profit projections, and a business flow chart along with a corporate organizational schematic.
He knew that Tapshaw had gone to MIT. Her undergrad degree had been in computer science. He’d also learned that she was a world-class gamer; in fact, she had used her winnings to start her company, she’d told him. She’d also won some prestigious international awards for her out-of-this-world computer skills and overall brilliance. Then she’d tacked on a fast-tracked MBA from Harvard. The burly, beer-chugging Russian downstairs knew his way around computers, Devine knew, but this shiny-faced skinny young woman trying to build an empire in the love and dating space might be in a totally different league.
“How you doing, Jill? Ever come up for air, or food?”
He really liked her. She was ambitious, but nice, and didn’t think too highly of herself. He didn’t run into too many people like that. And she had a tender smile and a kind, if naïve, manner.
“Oh yeah, I had . . . breakfast, I think.” She looked unsure, and gazed back into her room, as though searching for evidence to back up her statement.
“It’s dinnertime.”