working day of my life was spent with the distraught, the agitated, the grieving, the indifferent. And so I knew that something wasn't right about Bonnie Spencer. First of all, her "I'm so sorry" was overly personal; it's hard to explain, but even the world's most extroverted person doesn't respond to a cop with that kind of familiarity.
And another thing: just standing there in the doorway, she kept changing her mood. Not in the usual way, like a dazed person trying to come to grips with a too-terrible reality, but as though she were searching for the perfect, appropriate emotion to show off to me.
How did I know all this? Any decent detective knows when to turn off his mind and tune in his gut. And my gut was saying: Something's going on with this woman.
So all of a sudden, instead of a routine interview with a dead hotshot's ex-wife to see if I could come up with any leads, I was on the alert.
"Would you like to come in?" she was asking.
"Thanks."
It was a good-size, solid house, built for a farm family. I followed her—and the dog—into a roomy kitchen and, naturally, said "Yeah, great" when she offered to make me coffee. (Saying yes to coffee during an investigation makes people feel you've accepted them; it makes them relax, open up. Unfortunately, half the time you wind up drinking stuff that tastes like lukewarm liquid shit, but in the long run it's probably worth it.)
She cleared the morning's papers—the Times, Newsday , the Daily News—aft with their stories about Sy's murder, off the table. She must have gone out for them when the coffee shop opened, at six; they'd all been read. I tipped the chair back and sat quietly, the way I usually do. I wanted to see what Bonnie Spencer would reveal. But she turned away to put the water up to boil and measure out coffee, so for a few seconds the only thing she revealed was nice thighs—a little overdeveloped, but muscular, tight. Meanwhile, the dog put its head on my lap and gazed up into my eyes—the soulful look a dumb girl who wants to be taken seriously would give in a bar.
Bonnie turned around. "Moose," she ordered, "go to place!" She pointed toward one of those small, oval braided rugs. The dog ignored her. Bonnie shrugged, half to herself, half in apology: "The dog has the IQ of a cockroach." Then she opened a cabinet and took out a little white pitcher shaped like a cow. She was waiting for me to begin questioning her. I didn't. She asked: "Did Sy..." She stopped and started over. "The TV said he was shot." I nodded. She held open the refrigerator with her hip while she poured milk into the pitcher. I glanced inside: no chilling white wine or goat cheese in there. God knows over the years I'd made it with enough summer women to recognize that, at least in the food department, Bonnie was not a typical
New York
woman. She was either on a budget, on a diet, or had given up all hope of visitors; she had a pint container of milk, whole wheat bread and a big, Saran-wrapped glass bowl that looked like she'd gotten overenthusiastic about broccoli. "Was his death instantaneous?" Her voice was high, hopeful.
"We'll know more after the autopsy." Just then, Moose gave a deep, lovelorn sigh and lay down at my feet. On my feet, actually.
"Everything I can think of to say is a cliche—but I hope he didn't suffer."
"I hope not."
"Well," she said, "I guess you weren't just cruising the neighborhood and felt like a cup of coffee."
"I guess not." All of a sudden I realized I had seen her before. Probably at the post office, getting her mail.
"I guess you have some questions," she said.
"Yes."
But I didn't ask any. I got busy pretending to formulate a question while studying her cow pitcher. What I was actually doing was checking out if Bonnie had a body worth writing home about under that big T-shirt. Naturally, when I caught myself doing it, I got pissed because I'd always made it a point never to think about sex during work hours (which is generally a snap,
And another thing: just standing there in the doorway, she kept changing her mood. Not in the usual way, like a dazed person trying to come to grips with a too-terrible reality, but as though she were searching for the perfect, appropriate emotion to show off to me.
How did I know all this? Any decent detective knows when to turn off his mind and tune in his gut. And my gut was saying: Something's going on with this woman.
So all of a sudden, instead of a routine interview with a dead hotshot's ex-wife to see if I could come up with any leads, I was on the alert.
"Would you like to come in?" she was asking.
"Thanks."
It was a good-size, solid house, built for a farm family. I followed her—and the dog—into a roomy kitchen and, naturally, said "Yeah, great" when she offered to make me coffee. (Saying yes to coffee during an investigation makes people feel you've accepted them; it makes them relax, open up. Unfortunately, half the time you wind up drinking stuff that tastes like lukewarm liquid shit, but in the long run it's probably worth it.)
She cleared the morning's papers—the Times, Newsday , the Daily News—aft with their stories about Sy's murder, off the table. She must have gone out for them when the coffee shop opened, at six; they'd all been read. I tipped the chair back and sat quietly, the way I usually do. I wanted to see what Bonnie Spencer would reveal. But she turned away to put the water up to boil and measure out coffee, so for a few seconds the only thing she revealed was nice thighs—a little overdeveloped, but muscular, tight. Meanwhile, the dog put its head on my lap and gazed up into my eyes—the soulful look a dumb girl who wants to be taken seriously would give in a bar.
Bonnie turned around. "Moose," she ordered, "go to place!" She pointed toward one of those small, oval braided rugs. The dog ignored her. Bonnie shrugged, half to herself, half in apology: "The dog has the IQ of a cockroach." Then she opened a cabinet and took out a little white pitcher shaped like a cow. She was waiting for me to begin questioning her. I didn't. She asked: "Did Sy..." She stopped and started over. "The TV said he was shot." I nodded. She held open the refrigerator with her hip while she poured milk into the pitcher. I glanced inside: no chilling white wine or goat cheese in there. God knows over the years I'd made it with enough summer women to recognize that, at least in the food department, Bonnie was not a typical
New York
woman. She was either on a budget, on a diet, or had given up all hope of visitors; she had a pint container of milk, whole wheat bread and a big, Saran-wrapped glass bowl that looked like she'd gotten overenthusiastic about broccoli. "Was his death instantaneous?" Her voice was high, hopeful.
"We'll know more after the autopsy." Just then, Moose gave a deep, lovelorn sigh and lay down at my feet. On my feet, actually.
"Everything I can think of to say is a cliche—but I hope he didn't suffer."
"I hope not."
"Well," she said, "I guess you weren't just cruising the neighborhood and felt like a cup of coffee."
"I guess not." All of a sudden I realized I had seen her before. Probably at the post office, getting her mail.
"I guess you have some questions," she said.
"Yes."
But I didn't ask any. I got busy pretending to formulate a question while studying her cow pitcher. What I was actually doing was checking out if Bonnie had a body worth writing home about under that big T-shirt. Naturally, when I caught myself doing it, I got pissed because I'd always made it a point never to think about sex during work hours (which is generally a snap,
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