One Cold Night

brought Dave back to the nagging suspicion that Adkins wasn’t the groom. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped it was true; whereas the groom had always been elusive, Peter Adkins now seemed eminently decodable — and catchable. And if Dave could find Adkins, chances were he’d find Lisa, too.
    Dave and Bruno entered the house behind Andrews, who took long strides with a heavy step. Braithwaite hung back, coming in silently after them, holding open the door, which squealed on rusty hinges. They walked directly into a spacious living room filled with furniture Dave guessed had once been nice but now looked forlorn. The windows were open and there was a long gash in one of the screens, revealing a slice of the chilly late afternoon. Andrews stood in the living room, nodding, saying, “So this is it.”
    It was Braithwaite who headed directly for the stairs. Evidence had been found in a bedroom and it was the silent subordinate who knew where it was. Dave got it: Andrews had passed the call on to Braithwaite, figuring it would pan out to nothing, and now he wanted in on the action. Dave wondered if Andrews had enough seniority over Braithwaite to merit the younger man’s passivity or if something else was at play here. He began to worry that Andrews’s arrogance and Braithwaite’s silence could slow down the hunt.
    Braithwaite led the three men down a long hallway, past seven doors — bedrooms, closets, a bathroom — to what appeared to be the master bedroom. It was large, with a dusty antique dresser and a four-poster bed whose blankets and sheets were rumpled. A forensics tech worked quietly at the foot of the bed where Lisa’s socks lay collapsed on the floor. Dave recognized them: white with a band of silver glitter. He could see those socks on her feet, and the frayed hem of her bell-bottom jeans. He saw their kitchen floor at home and realized he was remembering yesterday morning, though it felt like years ago.
    His eyes moved up from the floor and along thebed. The details of ropes and blood hit Dave viscerally now that he was seeing them in person; the ropes had tied Lisa, and the blood presumably was hers. He forced his eyes to stay open; he would see and feel whatever the room could tell him, regardless of how badly it pained him. He scanned the bed, inch by inch. The wall behind it: yellow-and-red floral paper, possibly concealing blood spatter that the techs would pick up if it was there. Lisa had been here, in this room, on this bed, today. He could smell traces of Susan’s perfume; Lisa must have borrowed some again. He had never thought to ask either of them what it was called.
    Bruno left the room and Dave could hear him walking down the hall, going in and out of other rooms. Dave’s eyes continued to negotiate this one. Red-and-yellow-plaid curtains framed an eight-pane window of old, wavy glass; the view was of the lawn leading into the woods. An oval hooked rug seemed to have been displaced and floated crooked toward the center of the room. A bare bulb swung from a cord hanging from the ceiling. Dave then noticed that on top of the dresser there was a mostly full bottle of soda, and next to it a half-filled glass. The soda in the glass was still carbonated: Peter and Lisa had not been gone long.

Chapter 24
    Wednesday, 5:15 p.m.
    Officer Zeb Johnson appeared at Susan’s side in the crowd of reporters and onlookers outside Seventy-seven Water Street and immediately took charge of a situation that had quickly gotten out of hand. Susan had not realized how much resistance and curiosity her desire to see that third-floor apartment would cause.
    “Detective Ramos told me to escort Mrs. Strauss upstairs,” he said. “Move aside, please, Officer Sullivan.”
    Johnson was three times the size of the cop who had been shouting at Susan that she would not be allowed inside the scene of an investigation under any circumstances, and spoke with a tone of authority free of the kind of condescension the dwarf probably faced all the time. Johnson then smiled brightly enough to melt even the belligerence of Officer Sullivan.
    Sullivan heaved a long breath and stepped aside.
    As soon as they were in the quiet of the front hallway, Susan turned to Johnson. In the dim light of the narrow hall, he looked even larger than he had out on the street.
    “Thank you, Officer,” she said. “I just wanted to—”
    He lifted an extended finger to his lips, shook his head and turned down the hall. She