“They’re still looking.”
“He’s had plenty of time to dispose of those by now,” she replied, and she was right.
Marino had discovered that Spurrier worked out at a gym not far from where he lived. The police had searched his rented locker, which not only locked with a key but had had a padlock on it. The locker was empty.
The blue athletic bag Spurrier had been seen carrying around the gym had never been found, and never would be, I felt sure.
“What do you need from me, Mrs. Harvey?”
“I want you to answer my questions.”
“Which questions?”
“If there is evidence I don’t know about, I think you’d be wise to tell me.”
“The investigation is not over. The police, the FBI are working very hard on your daughter’s case.”
She stared across the kitchen. “Are they talking to you?”
Instantly, I understood. No one directly involved in the investigation was giving Pat Harvey the time of day.
She had become a pariah, perhaps even a joke. She was not going to admit this to me, but that’s why she had appeared at my door.
“Do you believe Steven Spurrier murdered my daughter?”
“Why does my opinion matter?” I asked.
“It matters a great deal.”
“Why?”
I asked again.
“You don’t form opinions lightly. I don’t think you jump to conclusions or believe something just because you wish to. You’re familiar with the evidence” – her voice trembled – “and you took care of Debbie.”
I could not think of what to say.
“So I’ll ask you again. Do you believe Steven Spurrier murdered them, murdered her?”
I hesitated, just for an instant, but it was enough. When I told her that I could not possibly answer such a question, and indeed, did not know the answer, she did not listen.
She got up from the table.
I watched her dissolve in the night, her profile briefly illuminated by the interior light of her Jaguar as she got in and drove away.
Abby did not come in until after I had given up waiting for her and had gone to bed. I slept fitfully and opened any eyes when I heard water running downstairs. I squinted at the clock. It was almost midnight. I got up and slipped into my robe.
She must have heard me in the hall, for when I reached her bedroom she was standing in the doorway, her pajamas a sweat suit, feet bare.
“You’re up late,” she said.
“So are you.”
“Well, I . . .”
She didn’t finish her sentence as I walked inside her room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What’s up?”
she asked uneasily.
“Pat Harvey came to see me earlier this evening, that’s what’s up. You’ve been talking to her.”
“I’ve been talking to a lot of people.”
“I know you want to help her,” I said. “I know you’ve been outraged by the way her daughter’s death has been used to hurt her. Mrs. Harvey’s a fine woman, and I think you genuinely care about her. But she needs to stay out of the investigation, Abby.”
She looked at me without speaking.
“For her own good,” I added empathically.
Abby sat down on the rug, crossing her legs Indian style, and leaned against the wall.
“What did she say to you?” she asked.
“She’s convinced Spurrier murdered her daughter and will never be punished for it.”
“I certainly had nothing to do with her reaching such a conclusion,” she said. “Pat has a mind of her own.”
“Spurrier’s arraignment is Friday. Does she plan to be there?”
“It’s just a petit larceny charge. But if you’re asking if I’m worried Pat might appear and make a scene ….”
She shook her head. “No way. It would serve no purpose for her to show up. She’s not an idiot, Kay.”
“And you?”
“What? Am I an idiot?” She evaded me again.
“Will you be at the arraignment?”
“Sure. And I’ll tell you exactly how it will go. He’ll be in and out, will plead guilty to petit larceny and get slapped with a fifteen-hundred-dollar fine. And he’s going to spend a little time in jail, maybe a month at most. The cops want him to sweat behind bars for a while, break him down so he’ll talk.”