Chapters (72)
The cop, Haggerty, turns off the tape recorder, looks into my eyes. “Do you need to take a break, Ms. Quinn? We’ve been talking for”—he glances at his watch—“two hours already.”
“Call me Cassie. And no break. We had a deal: one interview.” Scrambling, I gulp water. “I’m just a little flustered; talking to you seems to get me all hot and bothered.”
My joke falls flat. Haggerty’s eyes are blank.
“We should stop for a few minutes,” he says. “Don’t underestimate what we’re doing. Telling a stranger about your most intimate relationships is—”
“What do you mean by intimate?”
“It’s just a word. Doesn’t mean anything. Look, I can see you’re tired. Let’s pick this up another time.”
“Don’t tell me I’m tired,” I say wearily. “It’s patronizing.”
“Not intentional, Ms. Quinn. I’m just asking if you prefer I come back.”
“I didn’t want you here in the first fucking place, Officer.”
“Detective.”
“Detective. Can I call you Greg?”
“Detective works, thanks.”
Detective Gregory Haggerty is skinny and angular with an oversized Adam’s apple and hawkish nose; a long, lean Ichabod Crane wearing filmy glasses and yesterday’s suit. His rumpled shirt and muddy shoes make him look inept. But his eyes give him away. Hard, black, and set deep in his skull, they drill into me, make me sweat and squirm in my chair.
“You win.” Exhaling, Haggerty feigns relief. “It’s me. I’m the one who needs a break.”
“That’s just as patronizing,” I tell him.
“Again, not intentional, Ms. Quinn.”
I feel a spike of rage that blooms into revulsion. I hate Gregory Haggerty, I think. I want him out of my apartment. Asserting these simple, declarative statements boosts my confidence, returns me to solid ground. “Again, call me Cassie.” I smile big. “We’re friends now, right?”
He’s not charmed in the slightest. Men with no sense of humor are exhausting; this guy is soul-killing.
“Can I get you more water?” he asks, as if our roles have reversed, and we’re in his apartment, not mine.
I lift my glass, which is empty. I’m so thirsty I can hear my lips pull apart when I speak. “All set,” I say. To accept anything from him is to show weakness.
“Why don’t you relax while I step out and make a few calls?” Haggerty tilts forward, speaks into his phone. “It’s ten a.m. on Wednesday, June fourteenth. This concludes Part One of my interview with Cassandra Elisabeth Forrester-Quinn.”
He clicks a button, closes a folder, and stands up, all in one motion. He seems pleased with himself. This is a bad sign. Haggerty’s confidence can mean only one thing: at some point during my epic story, I gave myself away.