White Space Season 1

people her husband shot,” Houser said, afraid Jon was too drunk to see things clearly.
    “And if he is missing?” Jon said. “You wanna sink into the quicksand of another search?”
    Houser sighed. “Worst comes to worst, if he really is missing, I can call one of my detectives in to help out, so I’ll still be free to look into your shit.”
    Jon slurred, “Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m not in a rush. Do what you gotta do, man.”
    “You sure?”
    “Hell, I don’t even know what I wanna do yet.”
    Houser un-muted the phone and said, “Mrs. Heller? Yes, give me your address and I’ll be right over.”
    Houser thanked Jon and then asked, “You wanna go with me?”
    “No, thanks,” Jon said. “I’m thinking Pigtails is waiting for you to leave.”
    Houser looked over to see the waitress smiling at them.
    “OK, just promise me you’ll call a cab or a driver from your brother’s house, eh?”
    “Sure thing,” Jon said looking past Houser and flirting with the waitress.
    “Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll call you when I’m done meeting Mrs. Heller.”

    **

    Houser arrived at Mrs. Heller’s house, immediately spotting the black SUV parked in front — a Paladin security truck keeping guard, just like Mrs. Heller said there would be.
    Houser drove past the SUV, then pulled into the driveway. The moment Houser killed the engine and was out his vehicle, the security guard was approaching him. Houser already had his ID in hand and held it up for the guard.
    “I’m a P.I., Mrs. Heller is expecting me.”
    The guard stood there, hand on his gun, and flashlight swatting a beam on Houser’s face, then his ID. Mrs. Heller called from the porch, “It’s okay. I called him here.”
    “Okay, ma’am,” the guard said, then clicked off his light and nodded to Houser before returning to his SUV.
    Houser went to the porch and shook Mrs. Heller’s hand. Her eyes and nose were red, and she looked exhausted.
    “Thank you for coming,” she said.
    Houser said, “Thank you for calling,” even though he wasn’t actively seeking clients.
    Mrs. Heller welcomed him into her home and he took a seat in the living room. She asked if he wanted a drink. He wasn’t thirsty, but said a glass of water would be great. He wanted a minute to look around her living room without her eyes on top of him.
    As she got the water, he absorbed the vibe beating between the walls of the house. Typical upper middle class home; slightly posh, but comfortable furniture, children’s toys in plastic toy box next to a playpen, and a 64” LiquidTV set into the wall. Family photos from when Liz’s son was younger, and separate studio shots of her young daughter decorated the walls. No time for family photos these days, Houser figured. The living room was warm, nothing like the vibe he expected to feel from the house of a man who snapped.
    Mrs. Heller handed him a purple plastic tumbler with ice water. He took a sip, then started to gulp, surprising himself at his genuine thirst.
    Mrs. Heller sat down and went over some of the same things she’d said on the phone, adding a few more details when Houser asked. She was afraid for her son, that someone had hurt him for what his father had done. Houser asked if they had any enemies on the island before all this began.
    “Nobody. Everybody loved Roger. Though he’d never admit it, he was a pushover when it came to his students, and I can’t think of anytime he’d ever had any problems.”
    “Was your husband, or had he ever, had an affair?”
    “What? Why would you ask that?”
    “It’s a routine question in cases like this. I need to know everyone who might have motive to hurt Alex.”
    “No. He barely had time for me, let alone another woman.”
    Houser scribbled notes in his spiral as he asked a few more general questions, and purposely took a bit of time after Mrs. Heller stopped speaking to give her a minute to stew in her silence. Finally, he came out with the question she probably least wanted to answer.
    “Why did your husband shoot six people?”
    Mrs. Heller seemed surprised by the question, or perhaps the point at the end of it. She stammered for an answer.
    “I d…don’t know. How on Earth could I know something like that?”
    Houser saw something squirreling inside her eyes. She was holding back. Sure, there was guilt, likely mixed with shame, and a fat handful of other ugly emotions. But she was also hiding something else. Something she’d