course not,” he said. “Where was dinner?”
“Oh, a little Italian place on Pacific we’d never tried before, and we’re never going back.” She caught her mistake. “I’ll never go back. No, I won’t.”
His stare bore down on her. “Anything happen at dinner?”
“What do you mean? Happen?”
“Out of the ordinary? I’m just trying to capture what happened before the shooting.”
She stared at him. “Did we argue? Is that what you’re hoping for, Detective?”
Kaminski was taken aback by her sudden shift to an undeniably defensive tone. “No, that’s not what I was inferring, Ms. Connelly.”
“Implying,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“Implying, not inferring.”
“Fine. Okay.”
“I want to know if Alex suffered long, or at all. If he was able to say anything.”
The detective hated this part of his job. More than anything. “I’m sorry, Ms. Connelly, but your husband was dead at the scene. I thought you knew.”
She looked away, toward the window.
“I knew. I just wanted someone to say it to me.” She looked at Kaminski, her hollow eyes now flooded. “I knew when I ran out that door that I’d never see him again. Never again.” The words tumbled out. “I loved Alex so, so much.”
“I know. I need to know what happened,” he said.
Tori looked at him, almost pleadingly.
“I don’t want to relive it.”
“You are the only living witness,” he said. “You want us to catch the killer, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Tell me. I’m here to help you,” he said.
She told him that she was in “another room” when she heard a commotion and the “popping” sound of a gun.
“I mean, I know it was a gun now, but honestly, I thought it was a champagne cork popping. Alex could be like that, you know. Surprising me.”
“I’m sure he was a good man. I’m sorry for your loss. Then what happened?”
“I went into the living room and a man was standing there by Alex. I screamed and he started to run to the door.”
“How’d you get shot?”
She looked at him, irritated and emotional. “I’m getting to that. Do you mind?”
“Not all, please. Just trying to help, Ms. Connelly.”
“Then it was over. He ran out the door and I followed. I went over to Darius’s place and he called for help.”
“What did your assailant look like?”
“It happened so fast,” she’d said. “I think he had dark eyes, but they might have been dark blue or green.”
The response could have not been more ambiguous.
At least she didn’t say “red,” thereby ruling out an albino assailant, he thought.
“Could you determine his ethnicity?”
She looked at the reporting officer, almost blank eyed. “Not really. He had on a mask.”
This was the first time she’d mentioned a mask. Kaminski underlined that.
“Ski mask?” he repeated.
The wheels were turning now. Tori was retrieving some information. A pause, then an answer. “Not sure. More like a panty hose. I could see his face, but his features were smushed by the fabric.”
“Had you seen anyone in the area who matches—to the best of your recollection—what you saw that night?”
The question was bait, and usually good bait. A suspect frequently takes the suggestion and runs with it.
“He looked like a gardener.”
“A man who delivers groceries.”
“A transient I’ve seen a time or two nearby.”
Tori went limp. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“You’re going to have to give me a minute. This is extremely difficult.”
Kaminski waited for her to collect herself. Her eyes were damp with tears, but none flowed down her cheeks. She was a coolheaded woman, a logical woman. She’d expected the worst and had prepared herself for the moment when she’d knew with certainty, with utter conviction, that she was alone in the world.
What came from her lips next would have been stunning to the most veteran detective.
“I’ll need a lawyer,” she said. “Won’t I?”
“Why would that be?” he asked.
“Just call it a hunch,” she said, this time looking directly at him. “You’ll focus the investigation on me. I understand it. I know how things are done. In the end, you’ll have to look elsewhere because I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“No one is looking at you,” Kaminski said.
She looked past him once more, breaking the gaze they’d held. “Not now. But tomorrow somone will. Someone will say the ugliest things and your minions will circle me and my tragedy like a school of sharks. Each after a piece.”
She stopped talking.
Kaminski stood there in uncomfortable silence.
“Detective,” she finally said. “I want to know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How am I supposed to live without him? He was my soul mate. I loved him.”
Tears started rolling down her cheeks.
“Again, I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said, taking a couple of steps backward before turning for the door.
She looked back at the sky through the window, turning to the blush of a new day. “Thank you, Detective,” she said.
The beige Princess phone next to Tori O’Neal Connelly’s bedside rang. She smoothed her covers and disregarded it for a moment. But the ring was persistent and altogether annoying. She reached for it, wincing with the pain that came with stretching skin that had been sutured. She assumed it was a nurse or, as she liked
