Death Before Facebook

when she was thoroughly incapacitated, you drowned her and posted her ‘suicide’ note. Not a bad plan at all, except—”
    “Bullshit! Why would I come to you in that case? If I was that cagey, why didn’t I just go home?”
    “The tipster’s usually the guilty one. Didn’t you know that?”
    “Of course. You’re dealing with a journalist here—do you really think I wouldn’t know that? So I would only have done it if I was innocent—and a good citizen, I might add.”
    “You’d have only done it if you had to—which you did. Because you screwed up, Pearce. Quite literally, I’d say.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “You realized later you’d made the mistake of having sex with her. It suddenly occurred to you you could be nailed by a semen test. So you’d better damn well have a good excuse for being over that evening, even if it meant making up a cock-and-bull story no child would believe.”
    “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a bully, Ms. Langdon?”
    “Mind calling me ‘Officer,’ Pearce?” She was in such a good mood, she smiled at him.
    “Look, if you don’t believe me, go search my house. You’re not going to find any journal.”
    Her coffee high vanished.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
     
    SHE CONDUCTED THE search as a formality only—he’d signed the consent forms for both his home and car far too willingly for a man who had something to hide. She knew she wouldn’t find anything and she didn’t.
    Further making her day was an invitation to meet with her lieutenant, Joe Tarantino, and Cappello. Joe was a hands-on kind of lieutenant who liked working closely with his detectives. But he hadn’t involved himself with this case; the fact that he wanted to meet with her meant he was getting impatient. So what was normally a pleasure—trading ideas with Joe and Cappello—would have a whiff of shame attached.
    Joe was holding the lab report on the grandmother. “I don’t believe it, Skip. This started out as a simple little—”
    “Accident,” said Cappello. “Skip figured out it was a murder.”
    Joe arranged his hands in the “please-back-off” position. “I’m not blaming Skip.” He turned to her. “You know that, don’t you? It’s just that—” He threw the report down in a gesture of pure disgust. “How did someone else get dead, dammit? There’s a one-man crime wave out there.”
    “Or one-woman.”
    “I’m going to tell you something right now. Woman is right. The key to this is a woman, and that woman is Marguerite Terry. Either she did it or she knows who did.
Cherchez la femme,
Officers. I mean it—get her in here and lean on her like she was a fence post.”
    Skip knew he was right; Marguerite had to know more. Skip was dying to bring her in and lean on her—why hadn’t she done it before?
    Pity, she realized.
    I felt sorry for poor, frail Marguerite. And I discounted her.
    Why was that, I wonder?
    She just doesn’t seem all there
.
    Skip was surprised at the realization.
    What is it exactly? Doesn’t she have her faculties?
    But she does. She doesn’t seem slow or anything.
    What is it then?
    By the time she arrived at Octavia Street, she still hadn’t put her finger on it. Marguerite was her usual woozy kind of half-there self, and Cole hovered in the background.
    Drugs!
she realized. She seems out of it because she is.
    “Mrs. Terry, I’m going to have to ask you to come to the police station with me.”
    “Am I under arrest?”
    “No, ma’am. Not at this time.”
God. I sound like an automaton. What’s wrong with me?
    But she knew. She’d unconsciously adopted a robot voice to get some distance. She felt sorry for Marguerite, and she could keep her at bay by modeling a ’droid. Nobody would bother having a breakdown in front of a ’droid—it has no feelings and therefore wouldn’t be affected.
    Ah. There’s information in that. I guess I think she’s manipulative
.
    Marguerite wanted to change clothes, but Skip was insistent—this was urgent; they were going now.
    Marguerite looked at Cole with big brimming eyes. He put an arm around her. “Of course I’ll go with you.”
    Skip said, “That won’t be necessary.”
    And Marguerite—fragile, pathetic Marguerite—replied, “I beg your pardon. It’s not up to you to tell us what will or won’t be necessary.”
    “I beg yours, Mrs. Terry. You are not the queen and I am not your footman. I am a police officer and you are my invited guest. If I were you, I’d certainly