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whole sob story,” he said, taking another swig of beer, almost finishing it. Bea got up and took another bottle from the refrigerator; Crawford spied a freshly baked apple pie on the counter next to the refrigerator. “But he’s a junkie. And he left a seventy-year-old woman with a black eye and a broken nose. I don’t want to hear the backstory.”
    She smiled. “My Bobby used to say the same thing.”
    Crawford chuckled. “That’s probably where I got the expression.”
    Bea jumped up suddenly. “Oh, I have rolls, too.” She opened the toaster oven and pulled out a couple of hot rolls. She didn’t ask if he’d like one; she was sure that he would. She put them on a plate and brought them to the table.
    Crawford tore one open and slathered butter on it from the butter dish that was perpetually on the table, regardless of the season. He didn’t want to think about the bacteria that resided in a butter dish that sat out in the heat and ate his half of the roll, parasites be damned. “Thanks, Bea. This is great.”
    She folded her hands on the table. “I’ll feed you any night of the week, Bobby. You just have to show up.”
    He finished his first beer and opened the second.
    â€œI’m a little worried about you,” she said, after a few minutes of watching him eat in silence.
    He looked up from his potatoes. “I’m okay.”
    She leaned in. “Are you sure?”
    He nodded and studied the remaining food on his plate.
    â€œWhat’s going on with that woman you met?” Bea searched her memory. “Alison?” Crawford’s personal life was of great interest to his mother—a woman in whom he confided nothing lest the entire Eastern seaboard get an update—so Bea was their go-between. Marie (née McDonald) Crawford wanted nothing more than for her son, estranged from his wife for six years, to get on with his life, and have it move beyond the police department.
    CIA interrogators had nothing on Bea. A little pot roast, a couple of beers, an apple pie—he’d give it all up for those few comforts. But he tried to keep his mouth shut. There was nothing—and everything—to tell.
    Crawford tensed. “Nothing’s going on. We’re trying to work things out.”
    â€œIs she nice?”
    His nerves were frayed and he was exhausted, so his overreaction was understandable, if not justified. Crawford dropped his fork onto his plate, making a racket. “Of course she’s nice,” he barked. “Would I be going ahead with my divorce and that goddamned annulment unless she was nice?” It was out of his mouth before he could think and he looked at Bea. He pointed a finger in her direction. “That is between you and me.”
    Bea smiled; her job here was done. “Of course it is.”

Chapter 6
    I had finally managed to get rid of Terri an hour and a box of tissues after she had arrived, hearing all of the sordid details of her five-year marriage to Jackson, recovering drug addict and alcoholic. To me, he seemed like an affable, rather innocuous, suburban guy, albeit with the pompous-jerk side. To hear Terri tell it, I was living next door to Sid Vicious.
    When she finally blurted out everything, it became clear to me that she had one thing on her mind and one thing only: she thought that Jackson was responsible for Ray’s death. She told me that they were in counseling and that Jackson had been diagnosed with “anger management” issues. Who doesn’t have anger management issues? I certainly did, but I attributed them to my husband and his roving penis.
    I wasn’t sure how seriously to take her concerns—she was a bit of a drama queen—but I counseled her to go to the Dobbs Ferry police, who would know what to do with this information. She claimed that on the night Ray had been murdered, Jackson hadn’t been home. And that when he came