isn’t it?”
Everything blurred as her eyes filled with tears. In silence she bowed her head. The glasses slipped off her nose and fell to her lap. Blindly she hunted in her purse for a tissue, only to find that Nick O’Hara had somehow produced a whole box of Kleenex out of thin air.
“Take what you need,” he said softly.
He watched as she wiped away her tears and tried, somehow, to blow her nose gracefully. Under his scrutiny she felt so clumsy and stupid. Even her fingers refused to work properly. Her glasses slid from her lap to the floor. Her purse wouldn’t snap shut. Desperate to leave, she fumbled for her things and rose from the chair.
“Please, Mrs. Fontaine, sit down. I’m not quite finished,” he said.
As if she were an obedient child, Sarah returned to her seat and stared at the floor. “If it’s about the burial arrangements…”
“No, you can take care of that later, after we fly the body back. There’s something else I need to ask you. It’s about your husband’s trip. Why was he in Europe?”
“Business.”
“What kind of business?”
“He was a—a representative for the Bank of London.”
“So he traveled a lot?”
“Yes. Every month or so he was in London.”
“Only London?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me why he was in Germany, Mrs. Fontaine.”
“I don’t know.”
“You must have an idea.”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it his habit not to tell you where he was going?”
“No.”
“Then why was he in Germany? There must have been a reason. Other business, perhaps? Other…”
She looked up sharply. “Other women? That’s what you want to ask, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s a reasonable suspicion.”
“Not about Geoffrey!”
“About anyone.” His eyes met hers head-on. She refused to turn away. “You were married a total of two months,” he said. “How well did you know your husband?”
“Know him? I loved him, Mr. O’Hara.”
“I’m not talking about love, whatever that means. I’m asking how well you knew the man. Who he was, what he did. How long ago did you meet?”
“It was…I guess six months ago. I met him at a coffee shop, near where I work.”
“Where do you work?”
“NIH. I’m a research microbiologist.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of research?”
“Bacterial genomes…. We splice DNA…. Why are you asking these questions?”
“Is it classified research?”
“I still don’t understand why—”
“Is it classified, Mrs. Fontaine?”
She stared at him, shocked into silence by the sharp tone of his voice. Softly she said, “Yes. Some of it.”
He nodded and pulled another sheet from the folder. Calmly he continued. “I had Mr. Corrigan in Berlin check your husband’s passport. Whenever you fly into a new country, a page is stamped with an entry date. Your husband’s passport had several stamps. London. Schiphol, near Amsterdam. And last, Berlin. All were dated within the last week. Any explanation why he’d visit those particular cities?”
She shook her head, bewildered.
“When did he call you last?”
“A week ago. From London.”
“Can you be sure he was in London?”
“No. It was direct dial. There was no operator involved.”
“Did your husband have a life-insurance policy?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. He never mentioned it.”
“Did anyone stand to benefit from his death? Financially, I mean.”
“I don’t think so.”
He took this in with a frown. Settling back onto the desk, he crossed his arms and looked away for a moment. She could almost see his mind churning over the facts, juggling the puzzle pieces. She was just as confused as he was. None of this made sense; none of it seemed possible. Geoffrey had been her husband, and now she was beginning to wonder if Nick O’Hara was right. That she’d never really known him. That all she and Geoffrey had shared was a bed and a home, but never their hearts.
No, this was all wrong; it was a betrayal of his memory. She believed in Geoffrey. Why should she believe this stranger? Why was this man telling her these things? Was there another purpose to all this? Suddenly she disliked Nick O’Hara. Intensely. He was flinging these questions at her for some unspoken reason.
“If you’re finished…” she said, starting to rise again.
He glanced at her with a start, as if he’d forgotten she was still there. “No. I’m not.”
“I’m not feeling well. I’d like to go home.”
“Do you have a picture of your husband?” he asked abruptly.
Taken aback by his sudden request, Sarah opened her purse and pulled a photograph from her wallet. It was a good likeness of Geoffrey, taken on a Florida beach during their three-day honeymoon. His brilliant blue eyes stared directly at the camera. His hair was bright gold, and the sunlight fell at an angle across his face, throwing shadows on his uncommonly handsome features. He was smiling. From the start she’d been drawn to that face—not by just the good looks, but by the strength and intelligence she’d seen in the eyes.
Nick O’Hara took the picture and studied it without comment. Watching him, she thought, He’s so unlike Geoffrey. Not golden haired but dark, not smiling but very, very sober. A troubled cloud seemed to hang over Nick O’Hara, a cloud of unhappiness. She wondered what he was thinking as he gazed at the picture. He showed little emotion, and except for the lines of fatigue, Sarah could read very little in his face. His eyes were a flat, impenetrable gray. He passed the photo briefly to Mr. Greenstein, then silently handed Geoffrey’s picture back to her.
She closed her purse and looked at him. “Why are you asking all these
