Private Scandals

the simple intelligence to provide myself with an alibi. However, I had dinner, alone, spent a few hours working on case studies, then went to bed.”
    “Did you speak with anyone? Receive any phone calls?”
    “I let the service take my calls. I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m working—barring emergencies.” He smiled cockily. “Do you advise me to contact my lawyer, Mr. Riley?”
    “If you think you need one.” If he was lying, Finn mused, he was cool about it. “When was the last time you saw Angela?”
    For the first time in the interview there was a flash of genuine pleasure in Marshall’s eyes. “I haven’t seen Angela since she made the move to New York. That would be over two years ago.”
    “Have you had any contact with her since that time?”
    “Why would I? We did not have a love affair, as I explained.”
    “You didn’t have one with Deanna, either,” Finn commented, and had the satisfaction of wiping the smile from Marshall’s face. “But you’ve continued to contact her.”
    “Not for nearly a year. She is not forgiving.”
    “But you have sent notes. Made calls.”
    “No, I haven’t. Not until I heard about this. She hasn’t returned my calls, so I must assume she neither wants nor needs my help.” Assured he’d been more than reasonable, he tapped his cuff again, rose. “As I said, I do have an appointment at seven, and I need to go home and change for the evening. I must say, this was an interesting interlude. Be sure to give Deanna my best.”
    “I don’t think so.” Finn rose as well, but made no move to leave. “I’ve got another question. You can call this one from reporter to psychologist.”
    Marshall’s lips jerked into a sneer. “How could I refuse?”
    “It’s about obsession.” Finn let the word hang a moment, watching for any sign: an avoidance of eye contact, a tic, a change in tone. “If a man, or a woman, was fixed on someone, long-term, say, two or three years, and he had fantasies but he couldn’t bring himself to approach this person, face to face, and in these fantasies he felt he’d been betrayed, what would he be feeling? Love? Or hate?”
    “A difficult question, Mr. Riley, with such little information. I can say that love and hate are as intricately entwined as the poets claim. Either one can take control, and either one, depending on circumstances, can be dangerous. Obsessions are rarely constructive, for either party. Tell me, are you planning a show on the topic?”
    “Could be.” Finn reached for his coat. “As a layman, I wonder if someone who was dealing with that kind of obsession might be able to hide it. Go through the day-to-day motions without letting the mask slip.” He studied Marshall’s face now. “The old John Smith who mows down half a dozen people in a K Mart. The neighbors say what a nice, quiet guy he was.”
    “It happens, doesn’t it? Most people are very clever at allowing others to see only what they wish to be seen. And most people only see what they choose in any case. If the human race were simpler, both of us would be looking for other means of employment.”
    “You have a point. Thanks for your time.”
    As Finn walked out of the office, through the reception area and to the bank of elevators, he wondered if Marshall Pike was the type who could calmly blow a woman’s face off and walk away. There was cold blood there. That much he was sure of.
    Smarm under the polish, Finn mused. It could have been pure animal reaction, he supposed, a territorial instinct. No, Finn concluded, that unease came from the reporter in him. The man was hiding something, and it was up to him to ferret it out.
    It wouldn’t hurt to take a run by the hotel and see if anyone had spotted Marshall in the area on the night of Angela’s death.
     
    In his office, Marshall sat behind his desk. He waited, and waited until he heard the faint rumble of the elevator. And he waited again until he heard nothing at all. Snatching up the phone, he punched in numbers, wiped his damp palm over his face.
    He heard Finn’s voice relay the information he already knew: Deanna wasn’t there. Marshall slammed down the phone and buried his head in his hands.
    Goddamn Finn Riley. Goddamn Angela. And goddamn Deanna. He had to see her. And he had to see her now.
     
    “You shouldn’t have come back yet.” Jeff stood in Deanna’s office, his pleasant, homely face set in stubborn lines of worry. The smell of paint was still