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hesitated. Then, abruptly, I asked, “Do you have any idea why he was killed, Mrs. Hanson?”
    She raised her eyes to mine, looked at me for a long, silent moment and then shook her head.
    “I’ve no idea. Beyond what I read in the papers.”
    “How did it actually happen, that you were the one to discover him?”
    Her answer came almost too quickly, as if she’d been prepared for the question—almost as if her answer might have been overrehearsed.
    “I always met Dominic at the beachhouse Sunday nights, when Johnny was visiting me. Johnny would usually leave about six thirty, for school. As soon as he’d left I’d change my clothes and pack a bag and then drive out to the beachhouse.”
    “Does your son have his own car?”
    “Yes. He—Dom had just bought it for him. A Mustang.”
    “Does your son spend every weekend with you?”
    “No. He—” She bit her lip. “He usually visits me every second or third weekend.”
    “Is he here this weekend?”
    “Yes.”
    “Was he visiting you three weeks ago? When Dominic was killed?”
    “Yes.”
    I nodded. “What time did you actually get to the beachhouse, Mrs. Hanson?”
    “It was quarter after eight. Maybe a little later.”
    “What time did you leave here?”
    “About seven thirty. It’s a forty-five-minute drive on Sunday nights.”
    “And what did you find at the beachhouse? From the outside, was there anything unusual?”
    She shook her head. “Nothing. I parked the car in the carport and took my suitcase and walked around to the front door, just as I always did. It wasn’t until then that I realized anything was wrong.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “The door was standing open.”
    “I see. What happened then?”
    “Well, I—I just went inside. And …” She blinked. Her hands, I noticed, were once more twisting in her lap. Her body was rigid, and her chin was tilted painfully upward.
    “And then I saw him,” she finished. “He was lying in the center of the living room. He was …” Again she blinked, rapidly. “He was staring up at the ceiling. Dead.”
    “Did the police say how long he’d been dead when you found him?”
    “Less than an hour, they said.”
    “He’d been shot, is that right?”
    “Yes. In the—the chest. Three times.”
    “Did all of the bullets strike him? I mean, did the police find any bullets that missed—went wild?”
    “I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    “Did any of the neighbors hear shots?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Have you any idea who called the police?”
    “No. I don’t think the police know, either.”
    “Did Dominic mention any enemies?”
    “No. Never.”
    “Did he seem worried, just before he was murdered?”
    “No. In fact, he’d closed a deal the day before that netted him almost forty thousand dollars. We were going to drive to Malibu that night and celebrate.”
    “And you don’t have any idea who might’ve killed him?”
    She shook her head. “No, Mr. Drake, I don’t.” She was more relaxed now. She’d told her story. Obviously, she had nothing more to tell. And, just as obviously, she was telling the truth, with nothing to hide. She saw herself and her life with a painful clarity—just as she saw Dominic and their affair with the same uncompromising clarity, almost masochistically. Watching her simply sit staring at me, waiting for my next questions, I wondered whether Faith Hanson might enjoy suffering. I wondered how many of her wealthy, successful, aggressive men may have mistreated her, either emotionally or physically.
    I decided to put the theory to the test.
    “Did Dominic ever mention his family to you, Mrs. Hanson?”
    Momentarily she closed her eyes, as if braced for a blow. But her answer was steady.
    “Yes, he did. Several times.”
    “Did he ever tell you that, when his wife moved out, she put away certain letters that might have sent Dominic to prison?”
    She shook her head. “No, he never told me that.”
    “But he did talk to you about his