4th of July - James Patterson [77]
“Yes,” I said, “I read that Sandra O’Malley committed suicide. What do you know about it?”
“It was so unexpected,” Rebecca said. “No one knew . . . I didn’t know she was so depressed.”
“So why do you think she took her own life?”
Rebecca forked her Caesar salad around on her plate, finally putting the utensil down without eating a bite.
“I never found out,” she said. “Ben wasn’t talking, but if I had to guess, I’d say that he was abusing her.”
“Abusing her how?”
“Humiliating her. Treating her like she was nothing. When I heard him talk to her, I’d cringe.” She made the gesture now, pulling her shoulders up, lowering her chin.
“Did she complain about it?”
“No. Sandra wouldn’t have done that. She was so compliant, so nice. She didn’t even squawk when he started having an affair.”
The wheels inside my head were sure turning, but they weren’t getting traction yet. Rebecca pursed her lips with distaste.
“He’d been seeing this same woman for years, was still seeing her after he married Lorelei, I’m sure of it. She was calling the office up to the day he died.”
“Rebecca,” I said patiently, although I couldn’t stand the suspense for another second. “Rebecca. What was the other woman’s name?”
Rebecca leaned back in her chair as a couple of men scraped past us on the way to the bathroom. When the bathroom door closed, she leaned forward and whispered.
“Emily Harris,” she said.
I knew that name. I pictured her bright lipsticky mouth. Her pink patterned dress.
“Is she with Pacific Homes Real Estate?”
“That’s the one.”
Chapter 121
EMILY HARRIS WAS SEATED at her desk when I entered the long narrow office with a row of desks along one wall. Her pretty mouth stretched into an automatic smile, which broadened when she recognized me.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “Didn’t I meet you and your husband a couple of weeks ago at the Ocean Colony Road house? You have a beautiful dog.”
“That’s right,” I told her. “I’m Lieutenant Boxer. I’m with the SFPD.” And then I showed her my badge.
The woman’s face stiffened instantly. “I’ve already talked to the police.”
“That’s great. So I’m sure you won’t mind doing it again.”
I pulled out the chair beside her desk and sat right down.
“I understand that you and Dr. O’Malley were close friends,” I said to her.
“I’m not ashamed of what you’re insinuating. The man was miserable at home, but I wasn’t a threat to his marriage and I damned well had nothing to do with his murder.”
As I watched, Ms. Harris squared all the pads, pens, and papers on her desk. Tidying up. Getting everything straight and true. What was running through this neatnik’s mind right now? What did she know about the O’Malleys?
“And you’re the listing broker for his house?”
“That’s not a reason to murder someone, for God’s sake. Are you crazy? I’m one of the top brokers in this area.”
“Take it easy, Ms. Harris. I wasn’t implying that you murdered anyone. I’m just trying to get a handle on the victims because I’m working another unsolved homicide.”
“Okay. I’m still a little raw, you know.”
“Sure. I understand. Have you actually sold the house?”
“Not yet, but I have an offer pending.”
“Good. How about showing the house to me, Ms. Harris? I have a couple of questions that I hope you can answer. Maybe you can help solve Ben O’Malley’s murder.”
Chapter 122
PACIFIC HOMES FLYERS WERE fanned out on a table in the foyer, and the flowers had been changed since Joe and I had taken our self-guided tour of this pretty house on Ocean Colony Road.
“Mind coming upstairs with me?” I asked the Realtor.
Ms. Harris shrugged, tossed the keys down next to the lilies, and started up the stairs ahead of me.
When we got to the entrance of the master bedroom, she hung back.
“I don’t like to go into this room,” she said, casting her gaze around the pale green bedroom with its brand-new green carpet.
I could imagine the murder scene almost as well as she could. Only three weeks before, the body of Lorelei O’Malley had lain gutted about ten feet from where we stood.
Emily Harris swallowed hard, then joined