“After she ran off with the now-dead doctor, we lost contact until a couple of weeks ago. She had been getting some strange letters. She called to ask if they were from me. I said they weren’t. But the renewed contact allowed us to work out some unresolved issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“Personal issues, Detective.”

“Were you screwing her, Victor?”

“It all comes down to that, doesn’t it?”

“It usually does.”

“The details are none of your damn business.”

“But they are, you see. With a husband dead and the wife in your apartment shortly after the murder, it is definitely our business. Were you screwing her?”

“No.”

“Really? That’s strange, especially with her soaping up in your shower like that.”

“I’m more disappointed than you are.”

“What happened?”

“I was unbuttoning her pants and unhooking her bra the very moment you boys knocked.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Sims. “That’s ripe.”

“‘Ripe’ is not quite the word I’d use.”

“And you’ll sign an affidavit as to all this?”

“Type it up.”

“Okay,” said Sims. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? I’ll leave you in the good graces of my partner while I rustle up a CSI team and have the affidavit prepared.”

As soon as Sims left the room to talk to the assistant district attorney standing behind the mirror, Hanratty walked to the table and leaned over me. I could feel his hulking presence, smell the bad cop coffee on his breath. He placed his hand on the back of my head and pressed gently.

“I think Sims is missing half the story here.”

“Maybe,” I said without turning around, “but I’m not the half he’s missing.”

“I think you been slipping it to her for a good long time. I think, drunk on love, you both decided the easiest way to keep the fireworks going was to kill the husband. I think you and she hatched the whole damn thing.”

“Don’t think so much, Detective, you might strain something.”