The far end was to be the Investigators’ Section, alongside the CEO’s office. The plan was for that department to have two lawyers, since the job was ostensibly to evaluate lawsuits, two PIs, two assistants, two secretaries, even a couple of interns. Plus, one person in charge. I was the current nominee. I’d have my own space. I would even have a window. A big one. Wowzer. So far it had walls and a door, one office chair, one plain chair, a cast-off from somewhere unknown, and a piece of plywood across sawhorses where a desk might go. That’s where the two of us were.

Madelaine was in the rickety chair. I was standing.

The only light was natural light. It was afternoon. We were facing west. It was coming in strong and bright. I had Madelaine facing the window. The light was in her eyes. If I stood in front of her, I was a dark presence. When I circled around behind her, she had to twist to see me, while her eyes worked to adjust. It was excellent as an impromptu interrogation room.

“Tell me about your deal with Winston Walker.” Before she could deny it, I said, “I know you had a deal with him.” I could tell from the way she moved her mouth, she was still going to waffle and weasel. I had to narrow it down, make it specific. “Who found him?”

“I did. I did.”

“How?”

“I told you.”

“No.”

“I told you.”

“Now tell me again.”

“Beinhart,” she said.

“You asked Beinhart how to find a contract killer?” That was ridiculous. But maybe he’d surprise me.

“No. His screenplay. I told you about it. He said it was all true. Only the names were changed to protect the guilty. In it, the Winston character—person—had killed people for money.”

Oh, Winston. I knew he’d been, well, a cop in the crack-crazy eighties, in Spanish Harlem. I knew he’d killed people but thought he’d restricted himself to the standard kill-or-be-killed situations. Well, well, Winston. “Who? Who did he kill?”

“I don’t know. Some drug dealer types. They weren’t real names anyway and I don’t remember. Except Winston’s.”

“Beinhart used Winston’s real name?”

“Not in the screenplay. But he told us, because that was part of the pitch. ‘Based on a true story’ was supposed to be the hook. Hollywood likes that.”

“Who approached Winston?”

“I did. I mean to start.”

“About killing your husband?”

She twisted away, squirming from the light. “Don’t say that.”

“Who? You? Liz? Or someone else?”

“Liz,” she said, eager to lay it off on someone else. “She did it.”

“Alone?”

“No. I…I was there.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know. It came apart.”

“How? Why?”

“I don’t know. Ask Liz.”

“I will. How did Owen Cohen get involved?”

“Owen Cohen?” Like she’d never heard the name.