“There’s no way to tell if people are lying by their behavior, but you can come close,” Rich said. “There are different theories about which way someone is looking while being interviewed, but I think there are broader signals you can look at during an interrogation that will clearly give you an idea that someone is trying to mislead you.”

“Like what?” I asked, my pen poised above my pad of paper.

“The guilty tend to touch their hair and face. They’ll pick off things like lint from their clothing when they talk.”

“That’s pretty obvious.”

“Innocent people act very differently from guilty suspects. Innocent people sit up straighter. They answer questions eagerly and look at the interrogation as something they can do to clear their name. Guilty people look at an interview situation as something they just need to get through. Innocent people would like to sit and talk and be helpful, to prove they’re innocent.”

“All this you glean from observation, and it doesn’t matter what they’re saying while being questioned?” I asked.

“An experienced investigator can watch a tape of people being interrogated with the sound off and be able to tell seventy-five percent of the time if the person is being honest or not.”

“That’s a crazy number,” I said.

“It’s a high percentage,” he agreed, calm as ever. It was funny, because even while talking to Rich now, I felt closely observed. I wondered if he could see through me and have an idea of what I just orchestrated on the phone for Dave’s Mexico trip, and that with his help, I’d ferreted out the identity of the woman who had ruined my relationship. I was suddenly, self-consciously aware that I was kind of a mess. My hair was piled on top of my head in a sprawling pony-tail, and my morning lipgloss had long been transferred to the recycled paper rim of my latte. Panicked, I wondered if I’d remembered to put on deodorant that morning. Did I smell? I definitely felt like I was perspiring after the excitement of the hotel call and now under Rich’s intent gaze. He was watching me so intently, I knew I’d never be able to sneak a furtive sniff of my armpit.

“So how are you?” he asked.

“I’m doing good, good.” Now I felt compelled to follow up. “And you?”

“I’m fine,” he replied.

“So is fine good? Because when I say I’m fine, it doesn’t mean fine,” I heard myself rambling.

Rich’s eyes were steady on my face. “How’s that thing working out for you?” he asked. “No more follow-homes, I hope.”

At first I thought he knew about my Dave drive-bys, but he wasn’t being snarky. I realized he was asking about the cherry-red Mercedes lie I’d fed him when I’d gotten him to look up the plate number.