He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, giving him a contemplative look that somehow appears dangerous. As if he’s plotting. “You know she wasn’t, if you’ve already read the files.”
“Then how did you get in?”
“I knew the gate code,” he replies smoothly. “I opened it and drove up to the front. I also knew the front door code, and I walked inside.”
So they were closer than he’d insinuated. “Then what did you do?”
He shrugs. “I called out for Blythe, realized she wasn’t home yet, and so I went to the kitchen to get myself a drink.”
I pause, waiting. Years ago, I learned a good interviewing technique is to just pause and let people talk. Alexei stares at me, not saying a word. Perhaps he knows the same technique.
“Continue,” I prod curtly.
“Then I found Fairfax stabbed to death on the kitchen floor.” Alexei looks away as if remembering. “There was blood everywhere. So I took a step back, planning to leave, and the housekeeper walked in through the garage door, her arms full of groceries. She screamed, dropped the groceries, and ran back outside before I could stop her.”
I gulp. “What would you have done if you could have stopped her?”
“It doesn’t matter. The front door opened, and Blythe came in, running toward the kitchen after having heard the screams.”
“How do you know she wasn’t there before you?” I ask quickly.
He shrugs. “Her car wasn’t in the drive when I arrived but was when the police escorted me so nicely out.”
“Do you think she could have killed her husband and then cleaned it up?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “It wouldn’t surprise me. She inherited his entire estate upon his death. If I recall, it was fairly lucrative.”
“Yeah, like millions.” I shake my head. “So the housekeeper called the police and what did you and Blythe do?”
“Blythe paled and almost passed out, so I took her into the other room and sat her down. Got us both a bourbon and we drank them quickly as we waited for the police.”
I reach for a file folder and flip it open. “Your fingerprints were found all over the counter and on the fridge.”
“No shit. I was there a lot.”
I turn a page. “The murder weapon was a knife from their utensil drawer. It was found thrown in the pond out back.”
He snorts. “I didn’t touch that knife that day, and I sure as hell didn’t throw it in the pond out back.”
“It has your fingerprints on it,” I say, reading through.
“Rosalie,” he says softly.
I look up at him.
“Do you really think I was stupid enough to leave my prints on a murder weapon and then throw it in a pond located on the estate of the deceased?”
I truly don’t, but maybe there hadn’t been time between the housekeeper calling the police and their arrival. I read through more notes. “Blythe said you left her while she was drinking her bourbon.”
He runs a rough hand through his hair. “I went to check on the housekeeper because she was shrieking at the top of her lungs, still in the garage. The woman had actually grabbed a mop to start cleaning up. I stopped her, I sat her down on the steps in the garage, and then I returned to check on Blythe and wait for the police.”
I read through the notes again. The investigating officer had been a Detective Battlement, and he had precise, neat penmanship. “So there was time for you to take a knife and throw it in the pond.”
“Sure,” Alexei agrees, “but like I said, I wouldn’t do that. That was stupid.”
“Maybe you panicked.”
His chin drops slightly, and he stares at me. “Unlikely.”
