we were friends.”
He nods. “We need you to tell us everything you know about Marti Bright. How you came to know her and for how long you knew her, how often she came to the Monterey Peninsula, the last time you saw her, who her other friends were, who she might have been involved with over the years—intimately, that is—and—”
“Wait a minute.” I can’t help interrupting, as my mind is reeling. I wet my lips. “Some of your questions I can answer. Others, I don’t know.”
“I’m certain you’ll do your best,” Agent Mauro says blandly. Agent Hillars leans forward slightly. His voice surprises me. He is thin, ascetic-looking, and I’d expected the tone to be clipped. Instead, it is soft and full, a Southern marshmallow.
“We are very sorry to trouble you at this time, Ms. Northrup. We understand you have suffered a loss. We felt, therefore, that the kindest way to do this would be to question you here. If you would prefer, however, we can talk in a more official setting.”
The subtle threat in his words shakes me a bit. “I…no, it’s not that I don’t want to cooperate, it’s just…”
I’m beginning to feel again that I need a lawyer. Not only that, but my gut says I need to protect Marti. I decide to tell them only the things they probably already know, or can find out through public records.
“Let’s see…” I say thoughtfully. “Where did I meet Marti?”
I tell them how we met in high school at Mary Star of the Sea in Santa Rosa, and how we then entered the convent together at Joseph and Mary Motherhouse. Basically the same things I told Ben earlier, though leaving out the kind of relationship Marti and I had all those years ago. This I keep to myself, glossing over it under Ben’s watchful, knowing eye. He doesn’t contradict me, and that, at least, is a relief.
Agent Hillars moves restlessly, and Agent Mauro frowns as I’m telling them how Marti and I left the convent together and then went our separate ways to college. “She was always the more earnest student,” I babble, “winning the best scholarships, getting the better grades, while I just sort of muddled through—”
“Might we move ahead, please?” Agent Mauro interrupts. “Ms. Northrup, I would like you to tell us about the time when Ms. Bright first began to come to the Monterey Peninsula.” Beginning to write on his notepad, he adds, “That would be fifteen years ago, correct?”
“More like fourteen,” I lie.
He stops writing and looks at me.
“Up till then,” I add quickly, “we had only telephone contact and an occasional meeting in New York City, when she would fly in for a few days on business. If I could take the time, I would meet her in New York for a day or so of shopping and shows.”
“And you never saw her here until fourteen years ago?”
“Never,” I say firmly.
Agent Mauro studies me a long moment. I stare back, unflinching. He looks down at his notes, and when he lifts his eyes I get that deer-in-a-gunsight feeling again.
“Ms. Northrup, you and Ms. Bright had a relationship at one time that was closer than simple friendship, I understand.”
My face turns hot, and my glance flicks to Ben. “Where—”
“Did I learn that? Let me put my cards on the table, Ms. Northrup. We know quite a lot about you. Where you went to school, what your grades were from kindergarten on, and the fact that you have a genius IQ you’ve seldom bothered to use.”
“I—” Stunned, I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to hide their slight shaking as Mauro continues. Out of the corner of my eye I see Ben watching me, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“We have names of your friends through high school,” Mauro continues, “the fact that you were class president not once but three times despite being somewhat of a rebel, the unfortunate state of your marriage at the current time…” He pauses. “And, of course, your relationship with Marti Bright.”
I am speechless. Appalled. I have heard about the long arm of the law, of course, and how thorough it can be. But that they have this kind of information on me is unthinkable. Who have they talked to?
My anger grows, and I no longer think to be careful. “If you know all this, why the hell are you here asking me questions? Why don’t you go back to your informants and ask them?”
“Ms. Northrup,” Agent Mauro says calmly. “There are certain…shall we say, ‘holes’ in the information we have been given.”
“Imagine that.” My voice is icy. “Something the Secret Service can’t find out about someone.”
“For instance,” the unflappable Mauro continues, “who did Ms. Bright see when she was here on the Monterey Peninsula?”
“See?”
“Friends, associates. She must have had a reason for coming here.”
The older man, Hillars, leans forward slightly again. I am alerted to the fact that my answer to this is important. They are setting a trap. But for who?
“Mr. Mauro, pardon me, but you’ve obviously done your homework. You must know Marti wrote and photographed several stories here and in Santa Cruz about the homeless. She won awards for those stories—they weren’t exactly hidden in a drawer somewhere. Again, why are you asking me things you already know?”
He smiles, though there is no warmth in those gray eyes. In fact, they are so flat and cold they remind me of a pit bull sizing up its next meal. “I suppose you might say I’m more interested in why Ms. Bright came here so often over the years, not that she did. Why here, when there are so many other cities with these problems? In fact, bigger cities with bigger problems?”
“Maybe she liked the weather,” I snap.
“Or maybe she was having an ongoing liaison here with someone,” Mauro says smoothly, not skipping a beat.
“A what?” I am momentarily startled. Then I can’t help laughing. “A liaison? You mean an affair? Good God. You don’t know as much about Marti as I thought.”
Mauro narrows his eyes. “Why do you say that, Ms. Northrup?”
“Because Marti was all-business. She didn’t have time for liaisons, she didn’t care about anything but her work.”
“Are you speaking of just lately, Ms. Northrup?
Or was she that way when she was here fifteen years ago, as well?”
I have purposely told him Marti did not come here until fourteen years ago. Did he forget—or is this part of the trap?
The only thing I’m sure of now is that it’s time I took a stand. Rising, I say firmly, “Agent Mauro, I need to go home and feed my dog. If you don’t have some sort of subpoena in your back pocket, I’m not answering any more questions—until, that is, you tell me what this is about.”
Mauro looks at Hillars, and a question seems to pass between the two men. Hillars gives a microscopic shrug. Mauro
