The Innocent Woman

I’m calling this girl, or woman, or whatever, and if she’s still talking to me I’m taking her out on a date and forgetting this whole thing ever happened. Which, considering what you told me, is a concession in itself.”
    “Okay, Mark,” Steve said. “But I should tell you what you’re turning down.”
    “I know what I’m turning down. A chance to get an ulcer or have a heart attack. Not to mention lose my license and go to jail. Thanks all the same.”
    Mark Taylor started for the door.
    “It’s Tracy this time,” Steve said.
    Taylor stopped. Turned back. “What?”
    “Just thought you should know. Tracy saw the body. She’s the one on the hook.”
    Taylor sighed. “Aw, hell.” He rubbed his forehead, walked over and flopped back down in the chair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

16.
    A MY D EARBORN COULDN ’ T BELIEVE how well it was going. She’d told her story and gotten through it without a hitch. The cop seemed to be buying it. He hadn’t interrupted her once. The cop was a stolid, impassive man, didn’t seem particularly bright. Even when she was finished he just sat there, said nothing. As if his mind couldn’t process the information that fast and he was waiting for it all to sink in.
    The interrogation, if one could call it that, was taking place in Marvin Lowery’s office. After she’d shown them the body, the cop had taken her in there and offered her a chair. He’d sat at the desk and said, “Tell me about it.” Since then he had not said a single word.
    Nor did he comment on her statement now. After a few moments he said, “Excuse me,” and got up and walked out the door.
    Amy heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe she was going to get through this after all.
    She’d no sooner thought that, then the cop came back in. Amy involuntarily recoiled at his entrance, but he took no notice, merely sat down and looked at her with the same vacant stare.
    “Miss Dearborn,” he said. “Let me be sure I understand this.”
    Coming from him, the concept struck Amy funny. She almost smiled. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You say you came here tonight to clean out your desk?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You used to work here?”
    “Yes.”
    “But you don’t work here anymore?”
    “No.”
    “When did you leave?”
    “About a month ago.”
    “A month ago? You mean a whole month?”
    “A little over a month.”
    “Really? And you didn’t clean out your desk before now?”
    “No.”
    “That would seem a rather long time. Was there any particular reason for that?”
    “Actually, yes.”
    “And what would that be?”
    “I don’t think it’s really important.”
    “Miss, Dearborn, we’ll be the judge of what’s important. Why don’t you just go ahead and explain.”
    Amy took a breath. “Well, to begin with, I was fired.”
    “Fired?” The cop said. He pointed in the direction of Fletcher’s office. “By the man in there?”
    “Yes. Well, not him specifically. But by the company.”
    “But he was one of the partners in the company?”
    “Yes.”
    “And therefore one of the men who fired you?”
    Amy shifted in her chair. “You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s not like that.”
    “Not like what?”
    “Not like I resented him for firing me, so I killed him.”
    “I never suggested such a thing.”
    “Maybe not,” Amy said. “I just wanted to tell you that’s all wrong.”
    The cop put up his hand. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Miss Dearborn. That’s not what I mean at all. The point is, you were fired, and that’s why you didn’t come back to clean out your desk until tonight. Is that right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Then why tonight? Why after one month would you come back to clean out your desk now?”
    “That’s really beside the point,” Amy said. “Which is why I didn’t want to get into it.” She took a breath. “You see, I was fired for stealing.”
    “Stealing?”
    “Yes, but I didn’t do it. I know that’s what they all say, but the fact is, I didn’t.”
    “Uh huh,” the cop said. “And what were you accused of stealing?”
    “Money.”
    “Money?”
    “Petty cash. From the petty cash drawer.”
    Amy wasn’t sure, but she thought a flicker of expression crossed the cop’s face. It was momentary, however, and he continued his methodical, toneless questioning.
    “The petty cash drawer—would that be the one in your desk? The one you told me about? The one you found open before you went in and