Q.Because she turned you down?
A.No. That’s not what happened.
Q.So she said yes, but then something went wrong? Did she change her mind? You lost your temper.
A.That never happened. None of it.
Q.I’m just confused, I guess. I mean, given that text you sent, the fact that we know you were at her apartment when she was killed—
A.That’s not true. I wasn’t at her apartment.
Q.Maybe—then why don’t you tell me how you did feel about Frankie Callahan?
A.“Feel”? I thought she was a very good artist. An excellent hiker. She was attractive, too, of course. But more than anything, I admired her bravery. She was a very brave person. And I liked how I felt around her.
Q.Which was how?
A.Young, wise. Alive. I liked her point of view. I enjoyed seeing the world through her eyes.
After
Gretchen
September 15
It was past 3:00 p.m. when Gretchen breezed into the Fifth Avenue Cartier store. How one entered a space like that was critical: Confidence was key to conveying a sense of belonging. Belonging was, of course, something Gretchen did not have to fake. But on this particular day, she still felt uncomfortable. To be selling a watch and underthesecircumstances? It had an unseemly air about it. Especially because it wasthistacky watch, of all things. But sell it she would to extract herself from that other situation. Five p.m. in the park. Bills that were untraceable by the police. Once she had the cash in hand, she could make the payment and then put this ill-fated detour behind her forever.
Gretchen strode toward the watches along the wall—she was in head-to-toe Chanel, even her clutch. Overkill, perhaps, but if ever there was a day. The man behind the counter had the smooth face of a child, along with perfectly manicured hands. She smiled at him warmly, then laid her arm casually on the counter.
“Could you help me with something?”
“Of course, madam,” he said, which Gretchen found irritating. Because they weren’t in London, and it wasn’t the 1800s. Nor was she eighty.
“My husband bought a watch for me at your store in Paris, and I need to know how much it cost,” she said. “I just don’t feel comfortable wearing it, with the city being what it is these days. He keeps telling me that it’s not as expensive as it looks, but I don’t believe him. He tends to be too extravagant.” She rolledher eyes—a woman accustomed to the burdens of great wealth. Which she was.
Gretchen had checked the Cartier website—she wasn’t an idiot—but there were several different versions of the same watch that varied wildly in price. This was typical, so the company could produce lower-priced alternatives to the most expensive pieces, with fewer stones or more affordable metal. If she was going to sell the watch, she needed to know precisely how much Richard had paid for it. She might be in a bind, but she had no intention of being fleeced.
“I understand completely,” the young man said. “Do you have the item with you?”
Gretchen pulled back her sleeve. “Yes, I’m wearing it right now.”
“Oh,” he said, and it came out somewhere between a word and a gasp. “Would it be okay if…Maybe you could take it off?” He placed a small velvet tray on top of the display case. “I can run the serial number on the inside. That’s really the best way to know for sure.”
“Of course,” Gretchen said, slipping it off her wrist and setting it down in the tray.
“I’ll be right back.”
He retreated to a computer two glass cases away. Gretchen watched him inspecting the back of the watch as an older colleague came over. The two exchanged words, then the older man returned with the younger. Gretchen wondered for a moment if Richard had purchased a counterfeit in Paris and they were bracing to tell her the bad news. She was very glad she’d opted for the Chanel.
“Okay,” the younger man said, his face tight. “Let’s have you put it back on.”
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“No, no,” the younger man said. “I just want to be sure you have it secured on your person, given the watch’s value.”
“Which is what?”
“One hundred and sixty-seven thousand dollars.”
