Death Before Facebook

want to keep it that way.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    “Of course not. Mr. Terry, you could follow in your car if you like—Mrs. Terry might like a ride home afterwards.” She held her breath. Marguerite could refuse if she chose.
    Cole held both his wife’s shoulders. “Listen to me, darling. It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be fine. Do you believe that?”
    Skip thought he sounded like something in a 1940s movie, but Marguerite seemed to be eating it up. She nodded and curled her body into his. In a peculiar way that had nothing to do with the gesture, it was moving. It had to do with the obvious bond between these two people—one of them was about half-gone on drugs and the other was the classic ne’er-do-well, yet they were obviously unaffected by each other’s faults. Skip wouldn’t want either of them in her life, but she respected their mutual admiration society.
    She kept quiet on the ride back, trying to let tension build, make it clear this wasn’t a tea party.
    When she had Marguerite in an interview room, she looked so small and frail Skip felt her nerve going.
    Get tough, Skip. She’s a manipulator
.
    But she couldn’t help it, she felt sorry for her. She needed reinforcements.
    She went to get Cappello. “Would you mind sitting in on the interview?”
    “Uh-oh. Is she belligerent?”
    “
Au contraire
. She’s a pussycat. A bedraggled little scrawny one.”
    Hearing her across the squad room, O’Rourke hollered, “What’s the matter, Langdon? You developing a heart?”
    Cappello squinted, annoyed at them both. “Let’s go.”
    On the way back, Skip said, “You don’t have to do anything. I just want you there, okay?”
    “I get it. Like a teacher grading a test. If I’m there, you have to make an A. If I’m not, you’re afraid you won’t.”
    “God, I must be crazy. Listen, you don’t have to do this. I just went nuts for a minute.”
    “Shut up, Langdon. You don’t always have to be the lone wolf. Cops work in pairs all the time, you know? It’s an okay concept; maybe you ought to do it more often.”
    Actually, she’d quite enjoyed working with Cappello on this case. The sergeant had seemed less stiff and formal than usual, not so much Little Miss Do-It-by-the-Book. Something was happening between the two of them—or perhaps it was simply that they were both settling in, Cappello to her sergeant’s role, Skip to Homicide. It was altogether a good feeling. Six months, a year ago, she’d never have asked Cappello or anyone else to help her with an interview—she was too afraid of being thought incompetent, young, inexperienced. Her theory was that if she screwed up, she’d rather do it with no one watching. Curiously, she didn’t feel that way now.
    And she was amazed by that.
    Marguerite without her protector seemed smaller and more frail than ever. For once, she wasn’t wearing sweats. She had on khakis and a J. Crew sweater. Her hair, probably cut to be blow-dried, hadn’t been. It hung in lank sections, but at least it was clean, and she had put on a little lipstick. She looked a little better than the first time Skip had seen her, more as if she could function if she really had to; yet there was still something tight and drawn about her. Something that was too thin; stringy in the neck.
    She introduced Cappello, who smiled sweetly; the nice cop.
    But Cappello gave Skip a look as well, one of dismay, Skip thought.
    Skip and Cappello sat down. Cappello read her her rights. Having previously called her “Mrs. Terry,” Skip changed the tone by using her first name: “Marguerite, up till now, I’ve been worried about you, I really have. You had a lot to deal with, losing your son. But now you’ve had a few days to recover, and it’s time we got some answers here.”
    Marguerite was already crying, tears streaming, sobbing, gulping, falling apart before their eyes. She said, “Oh, God, I wish I were dead.”
    Cappello handed her a tissue but kept her face stony.
    “I think you’re protecting a murderer, Marguerite.”
    Marguerite gasped and shrank back as if shocked by the notion. Skip was beginning to feel less sorry for her. “Look, it was common knowledge you and Leighton didn’t get along; you’ve told me that yourself. You went out every chance you could. You were a young, beautiful woman and you were having an affair.”
    Marguerite gasped again, turning fawnlike eyes on Cappello.
    No help there; the sergeant only nodded