Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [84]
B.
Mike Donnato’s wife, Rochelle, was a very efficient person who used hot rollers and who, God knows, could track the roasts in the freezer and the kids’ activities, both of which she penciled in on a calendar that hung in a nook completely devoted to scheduling. She was a good lady, a scuba instructor, who besides holding down a full-time job in a management firm, which she got after going back to law school, volunteered with a program to teach underprivileged kids to scuba dive. She had been an FBI wife for seventeen years, during the days when postings changed year to year. Their oldest boy had gone to four different schools.
“What happened?” she asked one night in the kitchen.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“I understand, but this is family.”
“My lawyer would kill me. You know lawyers.”
“If we’re not family,” squirting pink dishwashing liquid into a baking pan, “who is?”
Devon had been adamant. “Don’t talk to anybody. If someone contacts you claiming to be a private detective, you say, Call my attorney. If it’s 60 Minutes on the phone, hang up. I’ve seen it time and time again. Many cases are won by the prosecution, not because of evidence they have at the beginning, but by what the defendant says to so-called friends and family.”
A natural athlete, Rochelle looked great in nothing but sweat shorts and a little tank top. Her arms were shapely, and she liked her tight gold bracelets. She had an ankle tattoo from surfing days and was fussy about her long red nails—would never pry open a lid without using a gizmo, or wash the pots without big blue rubber gloves.
“You know I’m grateful to be here.” I touched her hard freckled shoulder. “If you guys didn’t take me in, I don’t know where I’d be.”
“Mike thinks the world of you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“He has total faith.”
Bubbles were rising in the pan. The kitchen smelled like gardenias on a sugar high.
“I’m glad, because it’s going to be a battle,” I said. “Being a woman FBI agent is bad news.”
“You’d think it would be just the opposite.”
“You and I would,” trying to seal a very watery bond. “But females on the jury will resent the fact that I’m—relatively—young and free, and sleeping with this hunky cop, and males will think I’m a ball buster.”
Rochelle turned with an indignant pout. “He came after you.”
“That’s true. I can say that much. Where does the spaghetti pot go?”
She pointed with a dripping rubber finger. “Underneath.” Then, “I don’t see why women have to be so jealous of each other.”
“Laws of the jungle.”
“Look how many hours you and Mike spent together when you were partners—I didn’t have a problem with that.”
There was an earsplitting crash as all the metal lids in the cabinet where I had been fumbling with the pot fell down, scattering like cymbals.
“Sorry.”
“And I work with men,” Rochelle went on. “My boss is a man, we’re together all day and after work for drinks with clients—I mean, get a grip.”
“Well,” I said, on my knees, trying to fit the lids back into a special rack, “usually these jurors are older. Another generation.”
“You may not even go to trial.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Berringer is a big strong guy. You’re pleading self-defense?”
“I’ve got to go into Devon’s office and work that out.”
“They would drop the charges if your boyfriend said forget it.”
“Not with Mark Rauch running for mayor.”
“Still.” Rochelle pulled off the gloves and slapped them in the dish drainer where the baking pan lay, gleaming and steaming. “What if Berringer stated it was a lovers’ quarrel, none of your business, over and out? Do you even know what your boyfriend thinks?”
I closed the cabinet and stood. “I don’t know anything.”
She was already making the boys’ lunches for the following day. A whole new meal had appeared on the counter: cheese, bologna, iceberg lettuce, plastic bags.
“Can I help?”
“I’ve got it. Years of practice,” she added, which made me feel annoyed.
“Well, anyway”—I smiled—“it’s been great to hang out with you. Except for the circumstances.”