“I didn’t do anything, Danny.”
“Liar,” snarls the other one.
“I swear on Katie’s grave.” Christine’s voice is raw and raspy. “I didn’t do anything!”
Like I said, there’s nothing worse than hearing that from an old friend.
Especially when she drags the late, great love of your life into it.
It’s a good thing the McMansion has so many rooms.
It’s time to separate the combatants.
The lady of the house is fuming in one corner of the sunken living room. Christine stands in the other. The boy with the phone is parked near the blizzard colored sofa, shaking his head.
I know how he feels.
“Ma’am?” I say to the woman in the designer tracksuit. “Your name, please?”
“Shona Blumenfeld Oppenheimer. Widow of Arthur Oppenheimer.”
She puts “Arthur” in italics when she says it. I guess I’m supposed to be impressed. I’m not sure why but, then again, I don’t know that many impressive people.
“Mrs. Oppenheimer,” I say, “I need you to wait in another room.”
“Why?”
“He’s separating the parties involved in the altercation,” snaps Santucci, who, I guess, paid attention in cop class that day. “It’s what we do when attempting to ascertain what happened in a dispute such as this one you two got goin’ on here.”
“You’re going to take her statement before mine?” Mrs. Oppenheimer flaps a well-toned arm toward Christine.
“No, ma’am.” I nod toward the boy. “We need to talk to your son first.”
“I’m his mother. I should be there.”
“No, ma’am. You should not.”
“He’s not well. I’m going to call my lawyer.”
I give her a confused look. “Why?”
“To make sure everything is …” I can tell she’s struggling to find the right word. “Legal!”