to work on an investigation that she had expected to take the lead on.
I chose not to respond to her comment. Instead I looked back at her steadily, wanting to make it clear early on that I would not be bullied.
“I heard you’re some sort of a writer,” Oliver said, folding her arms over her chest.
I nodded. “I’m the author of a series of books of logic puzzles for children.”
“How’d you come up with that idea?”
“It’s my background. I was an associate professor in the mathematics department at the University of Miami.”
The sergeant’s eyebrows arched.
“But you’re not a professor now?” she asked.
“No.”
“Did you, like, get fired or something?” She gave a contemptuous snort. I knew she was purposely trying to needle me, but I didn’t know why. Either she was just an unpleasant person or she wanted to see how I’d react to her barbs.
I smiled without warmth. “I stopped teaching after my daughter was born.”
“And why was that?” Oliver leaned forward, her elbows braced on the table.
“Personal choice.” There hadn’t actually been much of a choice, but I wasn’t about to get into that now.
The door opened and Demer came in. He glanced from Oliver to me and back again.
“Everything okay in here?”
“Sergeant Oliver has been asking me about my work experience,” I said. “But I assume that’s not what you wanted to talk to me about.”
“No, it’s not,” Demer agreed. He handed me a bottle of water and sat down next to Oliver. The detective placed a folder on the table and flipped it open. “Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to come talk with us.”
“Of course. Although I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
“Why don’t you let us worry about that?” Oliver interjected.
I pressed my lips together and folded my hands in my lap. Demer’s eyes flitted in the direction of his partner. I sensed that he wasn’t on board with her interview technique. Maybe he didn’t like the good cop–bad cop dynamic any more than I did. Or maybe this was part of their act, too.
“As you know, we’re investigating the death of Howard Grant...” Demer began.
I nodded.
“As I’m sure you know, the cause of his death was unusual,” the detective continued. He glanced up at me. “I’m assuming you know how he died.”
“Yes.” I couldn’t help but shiver. “It was pretty awful.”
“How well did you know Mr. Grant?” Demer asked.
I paused, not quite sure how to answer this. I had actually spent very little time with Howard over the years. But Kat had confided so much to me about her husband and their marriage that in some ways I knew him intimately.
“I knew Howard, of course, and we would occasionally be at social events together,” I said carefully. “But Kat was the one I was friends with—is the one I’m friends with. I knew Howard only because he was married to Kat.”
“So you consider yourself and Mr. Grant to be, what—social acquaintances?” Demer asked.
I nodded. “I suppose that’s the best description.”
“Were you ever alone with him?” Demer continued.
“No.” Then I hesitated, realizing this wasn’t quite true. “I mean, there were a few times when I was at their house and Kat would leave the room for one reason or another. But we never spent any significant time alone together.”
“Would you say that Howard Grant was a heavy drinker?” the detective asked.
“Yes.”
“How would you define that? What a heavy drinker is, I mean,” he qualified.
“I’m not an expert on the subject, but from what I observed, I’d say that Howard was an alcoholic,” I told the detective. “Almost every time I saw him, he was drinking.”
“But you just said that you saw Mr. Grant only at social events,” Oliver cut in. “Times when drinking alcoholic beverages wouldn’t be unusual.”
“That’s true. But even then, he drank quite a bit more than I would consider a normal amount. And Kat and I are close. She was concerned about how much he drank.” It felt odd disclosing this confidence—Kat and I had always guarded each other’s secrets—but I didn’t see any way around it. “Wasn’t he drinking the night he died?”
“At the time of his death, Mr. Grant had a blood alcohol level of .30. Do you know what that means?” Demer folded his hands on the table and looked steadily at me.
“That sounds high.”
“It is. For a man his height and weight, he would have consumed around eleven drinks in a three-hour period. Most people would have passed out by that point.”
I nodded. “I guess that’s how he fell off the balcony.”
“But, see, that’s the thing we keep going back to. Why was he even out on his balcony? If he’d had that much to drink, so much that he should have passed out, why was he outside in the first place? Did he suddenly get the urge to go look at the stars?” Demer said.
“And more to the point, how did he fall over the railing?” Oliver chimed in.
I frowned. “You just said he was so drunk, it was surprising he was even conscious. Maybe he leaned over the railing and blacked out.”
I shifted in my seat. I might not have liked Howard, or been close to him, but I certainly didn’t enjoy conjuring up the gruesome image of him toppling off the second-story balcony of his and Kat’s lavish Mediterranean-style house. The thought of his body falling heavily to the patio below, smashing against the Italian travertine, and the ambient lights around the pool illuminating his blood as it spread outward from his broken body made me queasy.
“Have you ever leaned over a railing?” Oliver stood. “The automatic tendency would be to brace yourself like this.” She demonstrated falling forward and splayed her hands out in front of her, catching them on the table. “It would actually take some effort to go over the railing. Even if you were drunk.” She shrugged. “Especially if you were drunk, since your coordination would be impaired.”
“So, what...you think Howard jumped?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “You think he committed suicide?”
“No.” Demer leaned forward slightly, his brown bloodshot eyes fixed on me more intensely than I was comfortable with. “We definitely don’t think Howard Grant committed suicide.”
This stark statement
