The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [60]
Walter nodded stiffly, still not looking at me. The lieutenant cleared his throat and removed a memo pad from his inside jacket pocket, but it was the chief who spoke.
“Mr. Wallace,” he rumbled. I swung my head one hundred eighty degrees, faked out. “Mr. Coleman and his family are in a difficult position here. They’d naturally like to grieve in peace, but, unfortunately, people tend to gossip when there’s any ambiguity surrounding a death.” He massaged a jowl, looking mournful about the base tendencies he’d described. “Our job today is to eliminate that ambiguity, to make things easier for the family. You understand?”
“I think so,” I said, glancing toward Walter again. His eyes were fixed on his hands. Presumably, this was about nudging the coroner toward an accidental-death verdict instead of suicide.
“Let’s find out,” the chief said. “Lieutenant?”
The lieutenant flipped a few pages on his pad.
“You and Alex Coleman had a drink together Monday afternoon at a bar named Pagliacci,” he said, pausing for confirmation.
“Right.”
“The bartender said that Alex seemed upset. Can you tell us why?”
“He’d had a bad day at work.”
The lieutenant pursed his lips and made a note.
“I see. And to the best of your ability to discern, did Alex express any feelings of depression or futility while you were together?”
It was a ludicrously pointed question, the answer he wanted obvious, but I hesitated, recalling Alex’s drunken plea to know how I staved off despair and his flat dismissal of my suggestion that he consider any job other than trading.
“Mr. Wallace,” the chief growled behind me. I turned my head again. “In a situation like this, the medical examiner requires that we ask very specific questions to shed light on the decedent’s state of mind. It’s tough, though, because he’s really looking for a psychological evaluation, and most people aren’t qualified to make those kinds of observations.” He reached forward, laying a nicotine-stained finger on my arm. “You, for example. You’re not a psychologist, are you, Mr. Wallace?”
“No.”
“Then it’s probably best not to speculate too much.” He tipped his chin toward the lieutenant. “Ask the question again.”
“To the best of your ability to discern,” the lieutenant repeated, “did Alex Coleman express any feelings of depression or futility when you had drinks with him at Pagliacci on Monday afternoon?”
“No,” I lied. If Walter and Alex’s mother wanted an accidental-death verdict, I didn’t see that it was my place to oppose them. “He didn’t.”
“You sat beside him the next day at lunch. Did he express any feelings of depression or futility at that time?”
“No.”
“Did he talk about suicide on either occasion, or mention wanting to harm himself?”
“No.”
“Are you aware of any incident that might have triggered suicidal thoughts between the time you last saw Alex Coleman and the time he died?”
I chanced another look at Walter, wishing I’d had time to discuss Alex’s potential involvement with Senator Simpson before talking to the police—although on reflection, I doubted a relationship with the senator had been the precipitant the lieutenant was asking about. Alex died early Wednesday morning, just a few hours before Walter liquidated his positions. I was willing to bet their last conversation had been the night before, and that Walter had told Alex what he’d decided to do. Maybe Walter was just trying to mitigate his own feelings of guilt. He hadn’t set out in life to intimidate Alex, but I wondered how he felt about all his accomplishments now that he’d lost his son.
“No,” I answered softly. “I’m not.”
“Good,” the chief said. “I think we’re about done here—”
“One more thing,” the lieutenant interrupted, flipping another page. “Alex sent you an e-mail earlier this week, suggesting you meet with a woman named Theresa Roxas. Did you?”
“Yes,” I said uncomfortably. It wasn’t a surprise that they’d been able to recover his e-mail—copies of everything were kept on the server.
“We’d like to talk to Ms. Roxas. Do you have a contact number for her?”
“No.”
He raised