Together, they raced down the steps of the duplex. Gretchen held her breath as Richard yanked open the door. Five, maybe six uniformed police officers were clustered in the hallway with Joseph, the young night doorman, at the far back, gesturing helplessly. A tall, slim officer with a wispy mustache was in front. The way he was standing with his thumbs hooked in his belt loops made him look like a male stripper impersonating an officer.
“Richard Falk?”
Richard blinked and shook his head as if waking from a dream while Gretchen left her body entirely. Such a show of force: One of the children was dead—that must be it. If they never said which one, maybe it wouldn’t be real. But she was floating somewhere up near the ceiling now. Too far away to do anything to stop this conversation. Too far away to scream. She opened her mouth twice, but no sound came out.
“Are you Richard Falk?” the officer repeated, louder and more insistent.
“Yes, yes, sorry,” Richard said finally, gripping the back of his neck. “Has something happened to one of our kids?”
The room rocked to the side. Gretchen pressed a hand against the wall to stay upright.
“No, sir. That’s not why we’re here.” The officer held out a piece of paper. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
In the long, confusing moments that followed, Gretchen saw things from a blurry distance, heard them in fits and starts. Richard saying there had to be a mistake, the officers saying he could read for himself. It was all in the warrant.
Richard stared at the paper for the longest time, trying hard to keep his face neutral. Gretchen knew the expression of her husband of thirty-four years trying, for her sake,notto have an expression. It was worse than worry.
Sweat began to bead on Gretchen’s lip. “What is it?”
“Frankie is dead,” Richard said finally. And when he looked at her, the agony in his eyes was overwhelming.
And just like that, Gretchen knew that their life, perfect as it had been, was over.
“Who?” Her heart was a bomb pulsing against her breastbone.
“Frankie Callahan. From the Kilimanjaro trip. Looks like she’s been murdered.” He tried to clear his throat. “That’s what this seems to be suggesting.”
She edged closer to see for herself:Murder in the Second Degree; Evidence of items belonging to Frankie Callahan. “What are they doinghere,though?”
Richard looked dumbfounded. “I have no idea.”
—
As the police officers began their search, Richard called Scotty. Scotty handled white-collar defense, but he was the only criminal lawyer they knew. He had gone to Africa with Richard and the rest of the Dartmouth crew. He had met this woman. Frankie. But Scotty didn’t answer, so Richard tried Bruce Barone instead. Bruce handled the family’s trusts and estates; he was with Wachtell, one of the best firms in the city, and Gretchen had known him for years. He’d done work for her parents—they could trust him, at least—and, most important, he picked up. Richard held the phone slightly away from his ear so Gretchen could listen in.
“If they have a search warrant, they have a right to search,” Bruce instructed. “Have they said why they’re at your apartment?”
“No,” Richard said. “But the warrant says someone was murdered.”
“Cooperate, butdo notmake any statements of any kind, Richard.” Bruce sounded very concerned. “Do not answer a single question.”
Richard handed Gretchen the warrant after he hung up with Bruce. “We probably shouldn’t even talk to each other,” he said. “Not with them…” He gestured toward the officers making their way around the apartment with focused precision.
One of the two detectives, Raul Reyes—short but with very good bone structure, she couldn’t help noticing, and thick eyelashes—asked if Gretchen and Richard might come down to the precinct. You know, just voluntarily, to talk while the officers conducted the search. They were trying to gather as much information as they could about Ms. Callahan, and they had a few questions.
“Either way, we’ll need you to leave until they’re done.”
Gretchen waited for her husband’s polite but firm no, per Bruce’s instructions.
“Yes, of course,” Richard said without missing a beat. “Anything we can do to help.”
Gretchen didn’t say a word as they grabbed their jackets and one set of keys. They were not allowed to take anything else from the house, on account of the search. They could change before leaving the apartment, but only in the presence of a police officer. In Gretchen’s case that meant a glowering tattooed woman who was, quite frankly, physically intimidating. Being in a room alone with her sounded unpleasant enough, but removing her clothing while this womanwatched? Absolutely untenable. She opted for grabbing her fleece instead.
She and Richard didn’t speak again until they were alone together in their car. Well, not alone—Sam was there, driving them downtown to the East Village precinct, which was apparently the one near the…whatever had happened. But Sam had worked for them for fifteen years. He was practically family.
“Bruce said not to answer any questions,” Gretchen said finally, “so why are we going down there?”
“BecauseIhave questions. I want to know why they’re at our house.” Richard sounded more angry than upset, luckily. “Besides, I don’t care what Bruce says. It would seem suspicious to say no. Would you have preferred that?”
