alone, stays alone, but so far, everything I’ve seen and heard from her seems sincere. As suspects go, she’s not a strong one.
Jeffrey, on the other hand. He checks all the boxes. Every single one.
He clears his throat, folds his hands atop his lap. “Well, let’s see. I landed at just after noon or so—”
I nod. “At 12:05 p.m.”
Surprise flashes across his face, though it shouldn’t. I already told him I looked up his flight number, which means I’ll also know when he landed. I’m not a small-town cop, and I’ve done my homework.
“Your plane arrived at the gate at 12:11,” I say without consulting my notes. “By 12:24, everyone but the crew had deplaned.”
“Okay,” he says, thinking. “But I was all the way in the back, so one of the last people off the plane, and then it took forever to get my bag. The Little Rock Airport is notoriously slow. After that I grabbed some lunch.”
“At the airport?”
“No. At a little Italian place near the airport. I don’t remember the name.”
Ingrid makes a sound: convenient.
“What time was this?” I ask.
“I don’t know. After one, for sure. Maybe closer to one thirty.”
“Did you use a card?”
“I paid cash.”
Ingrid gives up all pretense. She blows out a sigh, long and loud, and sits up straight in her chair. She’s ready for me to arrest him, to slap some cuffs on him and cart him downstairs.
“What time did you get back to Pine Bluff?”
He shrugs. “I think it was around four or so.”
“Your neighbor, a Mrs. Ashby, confirms it to be around four ten. She remembers because she was watching a rerun of Ellen, who’d just finished her dance. Mrs. Ashby was in the kitchen during the commercial break, making herself a snack.”
He makes a noise deep in his throat. “More likely pouring herself a drink. Rita Ashby is a nosy old hag whose face is pressed to the kitchen window more often than not. She’s also a drunk. In all those years we’ve lived there, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her sober.” He’s trying to distract me, buy some time. He knows the question coming next.
“Why so late?” When he doesn’t immediately answer, I add, “I mean, by my math, even accounting for the baggage delay and the lunch stop and afternoon traffic, which we all know can be a real bitch, you should have been home by 2:30 p.m. at the latest. How come you were so late? What were you doing for that hour and a half?”
His shrug is trying too hard, as is his tone, too high and much too smooth. “It was a nice day, and I’d spent all week cooped up inside at a conference. Don’t tell my boss, but I really didn’t want to go back to the office. I stopped off at a park along the river to read.”
“Which park?”
“Tar Camp.”
A forested recreation area popular with families and fishermen, about halfway between Little Rock and Pine Bluff. Emma and I used to go camping there, back when we were newlyweds.
I scribble the name on my pad. “How long did you stay?”
“An hour and a half, maybe longer.”
“What were you reading?”
“The CEO of one of our biggest competitors just came out with a book, Stoking the Fire at Work or some such nonsense. My boss is making everyone at the office read it. Honestly, it’s not very good.”
“Did you see anybody there?”
“It’s a public park,” he says, getting defensive. “I saw lots of people.”
“What I meant was, did any of them notice you? A guy in business attire sitting by himself, on a park bench—”
“It was a picnic table. There’s a cluster of them at the edge of the river.” He pauses to glance at Ingrid, whose brows are bunched in a skeptical frown. “And I was in jeans and a polo. Travel attire.”
“Still. A guy all alone at a picnic table, reading a book. I’d imagine you stood out.”
“I’d imagine so, but tell me this, Detective—how am I supposed to find them?”
I dip my head, ceding the point. Not that it helps him any. Even if he had been at Tar Camp, it’s not like any of the people there would remember him, and they certainly wouldn’t have exchanged names and numbers.
But the bigger point is, he’s lying. All the signs are there. The stare down across my desk, the way his breath comes quicker, the microscopic flashes of panic I keep catching on his face. Something about his story is not