like he couldn’t afford it. Still, I did see a little more of him than usual.”
“Where?”
“His place, mostly. Mine, once or twice. Out, a couple of times. I don’t know.”
“And how did the two of you get along on those occasions?”
Two shrugs.
“What does that mean?” Jaywalker asked.
“We got along the same as always,” she said. “When we were apart, fine. When we were together, Barry always found a way to pick a fight.”
“A fight?”
“An argument. Jesus, you’re as bad as the cops.”
“Sorry,” said Jaywalker. “Tell me about the evening before you found out Barry had been killed. Your statement says you first denied seeing him, then admitted you’d gone to his place. Is that true?”
“Is what true?”
Objection sustained. Jaywalker gave Samara a smile, then broke it down to a series of single questions. “Did you go there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you deny it to the detectives at first?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t think it was any of their goddamned business.”
That was a pretty good answer, actually, if you took away the goddamned part. If believed, it showed that Samara hadn’t known about Barry’s murder. If believed. He made a note of it on his yellow pad.
“What caused you to change your story,” he asked, “and admit you’d been there?”
“They said they already knew. The old bat next door heard us arguing.”
“Were you?”
“Yeah.”
“What about?”
“Who remembers? Barry was still pissed off that I’d walked out of some opera a few nights earlier, leaving him sitting there. Maybe that was it.”
“Why had you done that?”
“Why? Why? Have you ever sat through five hours of some three-hundred-pound woman wearing a helmet, sweating like a pig and singing in German? Next to someone with the flu?”
“No,” Jaywalker had to admit.
“Try it sometime.”
“Tell me everything you remember about that last evening at Barry’s,” said Jaywalker. “What prompted you to go there in the first place?”
“Barry asked me to,” Samara said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have. He said he wanted to talk to me about something, but it turned out to be some bullshit, something about how much I’d spent at Bloomingdale’s or something like that. Who remembers?”
“What else?”
“Nothing much. He’d ordered Chinese food, and we ate. I ate, anyway. He said he couldn’t taste anything, on account of being all clogged up, so he barely touched it. I remember that,’ cause I asked him if he was poisoning me.”
Jaywalker raised an eyebrow.
“It was a joke,” said Samara. “You know, like if I pour us each a glass of wine and tell you to drink up, but meanwhile I don’t touch mine?”
“What did Barry say to that?”
“He laughed. He knew it was a joke.”
“What else happened?”
“I don’t know,” Samara said. “He asked me if I wanted to make love. It was his expression for fucking. I said no, I didn’t want to catch whatever he had, thank you very much. I said I was tired and was leaving. He said, ‘Just like the other night at the opera?’ And that did it. I told him what he could with his fucking opera, and he told me I was a dumb something-or-other, and we went at it pretty good.”
“But just words?”
“Yeah, just words. Loud ones, but just words.”
“And then?”
“And then I left.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What time was it?”
“Who knows?” said Samara. “Eight? Eight-thirty?”
“Where’d you go?”
“Home.”
“Straight home?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“Cab.”
Jaywalker made a note to subpoena the Taxi and Limousine Commission records, see if they could come up with the cabdriver. If they found him and he remembered the fare, he might be able to remember whether Samara had seemed agitated or acted normally.
“Did anyone see you?” he asked. “Other than the doorman and the cabby?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What did you do when you got home?”
“You really want to know?”
Jaywalker nodded. His guess would’ve been that she’d run a load of laundry and taken a shower. You stabbed somebody in the heart, chances were you were going to get some blood on you.
“I really need to know,” he said.
“Fine,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. “I jerked off.”
Okay, not exactly what he’d expected to hear. Then again, the literature was full of accounts of serial killers describing how their crimes aroused them sexually and prompted them to masturbate, either right there at the scene or at home, shortly afterward. True, all of them were men, as far as Jaywalker could recall. But, hey, this was the twenty-first century, and having long held himself out as a supporter of equal rights for women, who was he to renege now?
“Do you have any idea,” he asked Samara, “who killed your husband?”
“No.”
“Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted him out of the way?” As soon as he’d said the words, he regretted them. They sounded like something out of an old black-and-white
