“You cried for twenty minutes?”
“No. Of course not. I’m really not the crying type. I mean, I don’t fall apart easily.”
“How long did it take you to get control of yourself?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Not that long.”
“Ten minutes?”
“Maybe five.”
“When you regained control of yourself, why didn’t you call us then? You were sitting right there by the phone.”
“I went upstairs to wash my face and change my clothes,” she said. “I’ve already told you about that.”
“I know,” he said. “I remember. Primping yourself for the press.”
“No,” she said, beginning to get angry with him. “I wasn’t ‘primping’ myself. I just thought I should–”
“That’s the fourth thing that makes me wonder about your story,” Howard said, interrupting her. “It absolutely amazes me. I mean, after you were almost raped and murdered, after you broke down and wept, while you were still afraid that Frye might come back here and try to finish the job he started, you nevertheless took time out to make yourself look presentable. Amazing.”
“Excuse me,” Lieutenant Clemenza said, leaning forward in the brown armchair. “Frank, I know you’ve got something, and I know you’re leading up to it. I don’t want to spoil your rhythm or anything. But I don’t think we can make assumptions about Miss Thomas’s honesty and integrity based on how long she took to call in the complaint. We both know that people sometimes go into a kind of shock after an experience like this. They don’t always do the rational thing. Miss Thomas’s behavior isn’t all that peculiar.”
She almost thanked Lieutenant Clemenza for what he had said, but she sensed a low-grade antagonism between the two detectives, and she did not want to fan that smoldering fire.
“Are you telling me to get on with it?” Howard asked Clemenza.
“All I’m saying is, it’s getting late, and we’re all very tired,” Clemenza told him.
“You admit her story’s riddled with holes?”
“I don’t know that I’d put it quite like that,” said Clemenza.
“How would you put it?” Howard asked.
“Let’s just say there are some parts of it that don’t make sense yet.”
Howard scowled at him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Good enough. I was only trying to establish that there are at least four big problems with her story. If you agree, then I’ll get on with the rest of it.” He turned to Hilary. “Miss Thomas, I’d like to hear your description of the assailant just once more.”
“Why? You’ve got his name.”
“Indulge me.”
She couldn’t understand where he was going with his questioning. She knew he was trying to set a trap for her, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what sort of trap or what it would do to her if she got caught in it. “All right. Just once more. Bruno Frye is tall, about six-four–”
“No names, please.”
“What?”
“Describe the assailant without using any names.”
“But I know his name,” she said slowly, patiently.
“Humor me,” he said humorlessly.
She sighed and settled back against the sofa, feigning boredom. She didn’t want him to know that he was rattling her. What the hell was he after? “The man who attacked me,” she said, “was about six-feet-four, and he weighed maybe two hundred and forty pounds. Very muscular.”
“Race?” Howard asked.
“He was white.”
“Complexion?”
“Fair.”
“Any scars or moles?”
“No.”
“Tattoos?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Tattoos?”
“No.”
“Any other identifying marks?”
“No.”
“Was he crippled or deformed in any way?”
“He’s a big healthy son of a bitch,” she said crossly.
“Color of hair?”
“Dirty blond.”
“Long or short?”
“Medium length.”
“Eyes?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, he had eyes.”
“Miss Thomas–”
“Okay, okay.”
“This is serious.”
“He had blue eyes. An unusual shade of blue-gray.”
“Age?”
“Around forty.”
“Any distinguishing characteristics?”
“Like what?”
“You mentioned something about his voice.”
“That’s right. He had a deep voice. It rumbled. A gravelly voice. Deep and gruff and scratchy.”
“All right,” Lieutenant Howard said, rocking slightly on his heels, evidently pleased with himself. “We have a good description of the assailant. Now, describe Bruno Frye for me.”
“I just did.”
“No, no. We’re pretending that you didn’t know the man who attacked you. We’re playing this little game to humor me. Remember? You just described your assailant, a man without a name. Now, I want you to describe Bruno Frye for me.”