before I met him, and he doesn’t like talking about it.
“Sorry,” I say.
“That’s okay.” But the playful mood is gone.
After a moment I wonder aloud where Marti’s funeral will be and who will arrange it.
“She didn’t have family?” Ben asks.
“A brother, as I remember. They weren’t close.”
The phone rings next to the bed. Ben lets it ring, but then the machine comes on and a male voice says tersely, “Ben, it’s Arnie. It’s important. Pick up.”
Ben groans and reaches for the receiver. Grunting a hello, he listens. At one point he frowns and looks over at me.
“What is it?” I ask when he hangs up. Arnie, I know, is a fellow cop on the Carmel P.D., and a friend.
He hesitates.
“Ben?”
“Uh, Arnie talked to Sheriff MacElroy. He says it looks like Marti was dragged from a car to that place where they found her. There are signs of a struggle in the brush off to the side. Marti—or someone—scrawled a name in the dirt there.”
I sit up, and for some reason I can’t explain except that I feel suddenly exposed, I hold the sheet against me, covering my nakedness. “Really? What name?”
Instead of answering, he gives me a funny look. “Abby, when was the last time you saw Marti?”
“I don’t know, months ago.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Sure. Around three months ago. August, I think.”
“She lived in New York City, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why she was here?”
I shake my head, perplexed. “She was doing a magazine piece about the homeless, and I think she was talking to people at the rape crisis center in Seaside. Why?”
“You saw her frequently when she was here?”
“A few times.”
“Did you and she have an argument?”
I stare at him, turning cold. “Ben, what the hell is going on?”
He slides out of bed and begins to dress. A wall seems to build itself between us. “I tried to reach you several times early this morning before I finally got hold of you, Abby. Where were you?”
“Out walking Murphy along Scenic,” I say, becoming angry now at his tone. “Why?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Ben, why are you suddenly sounding like a cop?”
Dragging a dark green blazer out of the closet, he puts it on over khaki pants, then a tie. When he stands before me again he is all-business. The wall is complete. “Abby, I’ve been working Homicide fifteen years. There are certain patterns you come to look for. And when someone who’s being murdered scrawls a name in the dirt…Look, I’m not saying it’s always the case. But one thing we’re taught as cops is that it’s most likely to be the name of her killer.”
There is a small silence, during which I wait for the other shoe to drop. Still, I’m no dummy. I already know what the shoe is. “So Marti wrote my name…Abby. Right?”
“Better get dressed,” my lover says. The one who would not betray me. Ever.
He doesn’t take me to the station on Junipero in handcuffs, but he does take me there. He has to, he explains as I dress. Somebody there wants to talk to me, he explains further in the car.
He won’t tell me who that somebody is. But Ben, in the blink of an eye, has changed. I feel somehow I’ve lost two people this day.
Which is ridiculous, I tell myself. Ben is still with me. He helps me out of the car, as my knees are weak. He sits me in a quiet back office of the small station and asks me if I’d like coffee. I nod, and he goes to get it for me, setting the cup before me with one sugar and plenty of cream, the way he knows I like it.
If a man cares enough to remember the way you take your coffee, it’s not all bad, I think.
Meanwhile, my mind races. Why would Marti have written my name in the dirt? Who wants to question me about it? The sheriff? I know the Carmel P.D. facilities are often used by the sheriff’s department, as well as other investigative agencies. And, though Ben will be part of the task force that investigates Marti’s death, the sheriff’s department has jurisdiction over the area where she was found.
Ben has placed me on one side of a long table, halfway down it in the middle. He takes a seat at a far end, along with Arnie Lehman. Both men sit silently, their arms folded, faces wooden masks. This frightens me more than if they’d put me under a bright light and tortured me with thumbscrews.
I wonder aloud if I should call a lawyer. Ben gives me a quizzical look but doesn’t say a word. Arnie assures me quietly that I haven’t been charged with anything. He looks at the closed door, then raises a skinny arm to check his watch. He sighs, stretches. Ben rubs his face with his palms.
Just when I think I can’t stand another moment of this, two men in dark business suits walk in. One is taller than the other, with sandy hair. The second man is older, his face lined, hair gray. Rimless glasses hide his eyes, and both men’s expressions are bland, giving up nothing.
“Ms. Northrup?” the taller man asks as my eyes turn his way. I nod.
“Special Agent Mauro,” he says quietly, extending a hand that holds a thin leather wallet with a badge affixed to it. As he flips it open I see the words Secret Service on a card, with Special Agent Stephen Mauro’s name and likeness beneath them, along with a seal.
“This is Special Agent Hillars,” he says.
The older man nods. They take seats directly across from me, and I’m almost relieved. Thank God it’s only the Secret Service, I think, for surely this has nothing to do with me, after all. So far as I know, I haven’t been passing counterfeit money, nor have I plotted against the president of the United States.
At the same time, part of me is certain I’m about to be arrested for some horrible crime I cannot remember committing. It is a schizophrenic moment: What did the other Abby do that this one has blocked?
“First, we would like to thank you for coming here today to talk with us,” Agent Mauro says politely. “We understand this is a difficult time for you.”
I’m tempted to point out that I didn’t have a choice, but a warning glance from Ben makes me opt for keeping my mouth shut.
“I…your welcome,” is about all I can manage.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Marti Bright,” Agent Mauro continues, taking a small pad and black pen from an inner pocket. “Ms. Northrup, I understand you and Ms. Bright were
