So maybe she really did sit around the apartment looking like this. I knew a little bit about that. David had had expectations of his wife, and probably of his mistress, too.
Mendoza cleared his throat and brought me back to the present. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Demetros,” he said formally, “but Dominic Costanza was found dead at his residence this morning.”
For a moment, she just stared at him. Then?—
“No.” Her carefully made-up face crumpled. “No, that’s—that can’t be right. I just talked to him yesterday. He was fine. He was?—”
Her legs gave out, and she dropped onto the sofa, one hand pressed to her mouth.
I’d seen Jacquie cry before—at David’s funeral, when she’d stood up in front of everyone with her wide-brimmed hat and black-edged handkerchief, making a spectacle of herself. Those had been beautiful tears, the kind that ran in perfect single-tear tracks down her dewy cheeks, accompanied by delicate sniffles and graceful dabs at her eyes.
This was nothing like that.
This was ugly crying—the kind that came with gulping sobs and a runny nose and no concern whatsoever for how she looked. Her shoulders shook, and when she tried to speak, all that came out were incoherent sounds of grief and denial.
I found myself sitting down next to her, one hand awkwardly patting her shoulder. It didn’t matter that she’d stolen my husband and that I didn’t much like her. Watching someone fall apart like this triggered something instinctive, something that overrode my personal feelings.
Mendoza remained standing, his expression professionally sympathetic but his eyes watchful. If this had triggered anything in him, it was suspicion. Or at least the need to look for any sign that this was an act.
“How?” Jacquie finally managed to choke out. “How did he—you said he was at home? Was it an accident? Did the house catch fire, or something? I always worried that one of those awful cats next door would chew a hole in the wiring…”
“We’re still investigating the circumstances,” Mendoza said. “I need to ask you some questions.”
Jacquie sniffed piteously, and he added, “I know this is difficult, but the sooner we can establish a timeline, the better our chances of finding out what happened.”
She nodded, running her palms across her cheeks. It didn’t work very well, and I started to look around for a box of tissues. Jacquie, meanwhile, wiped her hands on her thighs. “Yes. OK.”
“When was the last time you saw Nick?”
“Thursday.” She sniffled again. I got to my feet to go farther afield for the tissues, since I figured we were in for another bout of tears. Maybe in the bedroom? Or if nothing else, I could get a roll of toilet paper out of the bathroom—or a roll of paper towels out of the kitchen—and present her with that. It was better than nothing.
Mendoza shot me a look, but he didn’t say anything. Jacquie’s voice continued behind me as I walked away. “We had dinner together at that Thai place on West End. He seemed…”
She hesitated. “He was quiet. Distracted. But that’s how he’s been for weeks.”
Still talking about him in the present tense, I noted, as I ducked through the door at the far end of the living room and into the bedroom.
“And you spoke to him yesterday?” Mendoza asked.
The bedroom was also beautifully and opulently outfitted, with a massive king-sized bed with a crisp comforter and lots and lots of pillows. The rug must have fibers at least three inches long. I couldn’t feel them right now, but even through the soles of my boots it was a little bit like standing on a cloud.
She had shared that bed with my husband, and I waited for the anger at that to rise. When it didn’t, I gave a shrug and headed for the door to the bathroom.
“On the phone,” Jacquie’s voice said from the living room, “yes. Around noon, maybe? He called to say he couldn’t see me last night because he was going somewhere with Sal. His boss. Sal Gomorra. He owns the Body Shop.”
The bathroom was as opulent as the rest of the place, with marble on the floor—tile this time, not actual slabs; a much more recent renovation that David had no doubt paid for. It had included a massive shower—big enough for two people—along with a clawfoot tub and a double vanity with a marble top. Slab, not tile. A cardboard box of tissues looked cheap and out of place on top of the toilet tank.
I grabbed it and headed back out. On my second trip through the bedroom (from the other angle) I noticed the picture frame on the side table, and the photo showing two people smiling at the camera with their arms around each other. For a second, the thought crossed my mind that it might be Jacquie and David, and I braced myself for a gut punch. But when I got closer, I saw that it was just Nick. And then I felt that jab anyway, when my mind threw up a picture of him, dead in his bed, eyes open and staring up at the ceiling.
Outside in the living room Mendoza had asked whether there was a reason why Nick and Sal had gotten together last night. “Was there something specific they needed to discuss?”
Jacquie shook her head. “Not that I know about. He didn’t say, and I didn’t push—I figured it was work stuff.”
“How did he sound when you talked to him? Nervous? Upset?”
“Normal. Well, normal for how he’s been lately.”
Again with the present tense. I put the box of tissues on the cushion beside her, and went to sit down next to Mendoza.
