The Husband

violence against someone they loved.
    Although irrational, his animosity had a certain value. It distracted him from his fear for Holly, as did his continuous fretful analysis of the detectives' actions.
    If he dared to give himself entirely to worry about his wife, he would go to pieces. This was no exaggeration. He was surprised at how fragile he felt, as he never had felt previously.
    Each time her face rose in his mind, he had to banish it because his eyes grew hot, his vision blurred. His heart fell into an ominous heavy rhythm.
    An emotional display, so out of proportion even to the shock of seeing a man shot, would require an explanation. He dared not reveal the truth, and he didn't trust himself to invent an explanation that would convince the cops.
    One of the homicide detectives—Mortonson—wore dress shoes, black slacks, and a pale-blue shirt. He was tall, solid, and all business.
    The other—Lieutenant Taggart—wore white sneakers, chinos, and a red-and-tan Hawaiian shirt. He was less physically intimidating than Mortonson, less formal in his style.
    Mitch's wariness of Taggart exceeded his concern about the more imposing Mortonson. The lieutenant's precisely trimmed hair, his glass-smooth shave, his perfect veneered teeth, his spotless white sneakers suggested that he adopted casual dress and a relaxed demeanor to mislead and to put at ease the suspects unfortunate enough to come under his scrutiny.
    The detectives first interviewed Mitch in tandem. Later, Taggart had returned alone, supposedly to have Mitch "refine" something he had said earlier. In fact, the lieutenant repeated every question he and Mortonson had asked before, perhaps anticipating contradictions between Mitch's answers and those that he had given previously.
    Ostensibly, Mitch was a witness. To a cop, however, when no killer had been identified, every witness also counted as a suspect.
    He had no reason to kill a stranger walking a dog. Even if they were crazy enough to think he might have done so, they would have to believe that Iggy was his accomplice; clearly Iggy did not interest them.
    More likely, though they knew he'd had no role in the shooting, their instinct told them that he was concealing something.
    Now here came Taggart yet again, his sneakers so white that they appeared to be radiant.
    As the lieutenant approached, Mitch rose to his feet, wary and sick with worry, but trying to appear merely weary and impatient.

Chapter 4

     
    Detective Taggart sported an island tan to match his Hawaiian shirt. By contrast with his bronze face, his teeth were as white as an arctic landscape.
    "I'm sorry for all this inconvenience, Mr. Rafferty. But I have just a couple more questions, and then you're free to go."
    Mitch could have replied with a shrug, a nod. But he thought that silence might seem peculiar, that a man with nothing to hide would be forthcoming.
    Following an unfortunate hesitation long enough to suggest calculation, he said, "I'm not complaining, Lieutenant. It could just as easily have been me who was shot. I'm thankful to be alive."
    The detective strove for a casual demeanor, but he had eyes like those of a predatory bird, hawk-sharp and eagle-bold. "Why do you say that?"
    "Well, if it was a random shooting..."
    "We don't know that it was," said Taggart. "In fact, the evidence points to cold calculation. One shot, perfectly placed."
    "Can't a crazy with a gun be a skilled shooter?"
    "Absolutely. But crazies usually want to rack up as big a score as possible. A psychopath with a rifle would have popped you, too. This guy knew exactly who he wanted to shoot."
    Irrationally, Mitch felt some responsibility for the death. This murder had been committed to ensure that he would take the kidnapper seriously and would not seek police assistance.
    Perhaps the detective had caught the scent of this unearned but persistent guilt.
    Glancing toward the cadaver across the street, around which the CSI team still worked, Mitch said, "Who's the victim?"
    "We don't know yet. No ID on him. No wallet. Don't you think that's peculiar?"
    "Going out just to walk the dog, you don't need a wallet."
    "It's a habit with the average guy," Taggart said. "Even if he's washing the car in the driveway, he has his wallet."
    "How will you identify him?"
    "There's no license on the dog's collar. But that's almost a show-quality golden, so she might have a microchip ID implant. As soon as we get a scanner, we'll check."
    Having been moved to this