Silent Victim - C. E. Lawrence [31]
“I’m so sorry—” Lee began, but Santiago grabbed him by the shoulders, looked deeply into his eyes, and said, “No, don’t. Just shut up—please?”
“Mr. Santiago—” Butts said, but Santiago waved him off.
“No, no, no! Stop it, please, just don’t do this.”
He looked as if he was about to crumple to the floor, so Lee grasped him firmly by the elbow and guided him through the foyer and into the empty restaurant. Butts trudged along behind, muttering to himself. Lee knew the detective hated delivering bad news. He didn’t care much for it himself. He escorted Santiago to the nearest chair and gently sat him down. Santiago began to rock, hugging himself and whimpering softly.
“What happened?” he whispered. “How did she—I mean, was it—did she—?”
“No, she didn’t take her own life,” Lee said. “We think she was murdered.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Santiago said, and began rocking again. “Who would—she didn’t have any enemies, for Christ’s sake! Who on earth—do you know who did it?” he asked imploringly.
“No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Butts said.
He looked as if he was about to lay a hand on Santiago’s shoulder, then checked the impulse, and stared down miserably at his shoes, waiting for him to snap out of it. Both he and Lee seemed to sense that the moment couldn’t be rushed, so Lee took a look around the restaurant while they waited, inhaling the familiar old building smell of moldering ancient secrets.
Little had changed since he was a boy. The dining area was surprisingly airy after the cramped entrance hall, with wooden tables and chairs scattered sparingly around a single large room. Tables lined the far wall of the restaurant, which was dominated by a row of windows overlooking the river. The oak tables and chairs were of eighteenth-century design, and the dark wood had been chosen to match the wide burnished floorboards, which were original. He remembered as a boy how he imagined centuries of feet treading those boards, the soft click and shuffle of shoe leather back and forth as people came and went. This building had been standing for over thirty years when the revolution began, and had sheltered Tories and patriots within its walls—brigands and bandits, lovers and murderers alike.
Santiago had stopped rocking and was staring off into space, a dazed expression on his handsome face. He exchanged a look with Butts, who frowned and raised his shaggy eyebrows.
“Mr. Santiago?” Lee said tentatively. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but we’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Santiago looked at up them with childlike vulnerability. His dark eyes were free of tears, but they were wild with grief. He gazed at Lee searchingly, as if he somehow held the power to release Santiago from this pain. Lee knew exactly how he felt and knew there was no release but time itself.
“Is that okay with you?” Butts said, and Santiago nodded. Lee wondered if they would get much out of him—he was still in a state of shock.
“How did she die?” he said, his voice trembling.
“She was drowned.”
Santiago shivered. “She hated the water.” “When’s the last time you saw her?” Butts asked. “Friday. We had a fight, see, about this fear she had that she was being followed. I told her it was all in her head, and she got angry at me and stormed out.” His voice was a shaky monotone, as if the power of his grief was blocking any expression of emotion. “She was always doing things like that—she was a real drama queen, you know. So when she didn’t call over the weekend I figured she was just sulking and thought I’d let her chill out for a while. Her moods never lasted more than a couple of days. I called her this morning before I left for work and got her voice mail. I thought maybe she was studying. She is—was—taking a class at Rutgers.”
Lee’s calls to her had also bounced to her voice mail