I’m thinking of the best way to argue with Patel when the door opens and Michael Harris strides in. He heads straight for my desk, a desperate gleam in his eye.
“Mr. Harris, thanks for coming in,” Patel says, his long fingers gripping his coffee mug. “What’d you bring us?”
“Proof that Travis killed my wife.”
I shoot Patel a knowing look, but he doesn’t bite.
“Well…” Patel says blandly. “Where is it?”
“Here.” Harris points to his chest. “I’m the proof. I was with Travis and Colleen when he slipped up.”
“Who slipped?” I ask, confused. “Travis?”
“No, a waiter,” Michael insists, his eyes shifting from me to Patel and back again. “We were having lunch in the city together. The waiter thought he recognized Colleen. He thought she was Joanna because they went there together as a couple. Travis and my wife. They were having an affair. He’s your killer.”
“This is the proof?” Patel asks mildly.
“Well, yeah. I thought it’d be more convincing if I came in here and told you myself. So you could look in my eyes and see that I’m not making this up—it’s not in my head.” Harris’s face reddens. “Don’t you see? It’s him.”
“We appreciate your input on the matter, and we’ll look into it.” Careful not to spill his coffee, Patel raps the bottom rim of his mug against the table, as a judge would strike a gavel. “But I’m glad you came in today. Because there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. By now we’re sure you’ve realized that the child your wife was carrying couldn’t have passed the age of viability before she was killed.”
“Yes.” He’s staring at Patel. “I figured that.”
“According to one of our sources,” Patel continues, “Joanna sought services from a women’s clinic in June. Were you aware of that?”
“June? No. I had no idea. Do you know what kind of…service she received?”
“We’re still investigating, Mr. Harris,” I say. “But we’re hopeful that the coroner’s report will shed light on that.”
“When will it come in?” he asks. “When will you know?”
“Soon,” Patel assures him. “You’ll be one of the first people to receive an update on our findings.”
Does Harris have any idea what that means for him?
“Thank you. I appreciate that. But before I go there’s something else—something I’ve been hesitant to show you, but I—I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”
He slides his phone across my desk, and I quickly skim Joanna’s last text message.
“Her sister and I put the timeline together and suspect she lost the baby in May. If that’s true, why’d she send me a text in July saying the baby wasn’t mine? Why’d she tell me that she was leaving to raise the baby with her lover? Why bother if she’d miscarried months before?”
“We’ve already seen this,” I tell him. “And we came up with a few possibilities.”
“She wanted to torture me?”
“If she hated you that much, sure.” I go on, “Or it might’ve been to keep you from trying to win her back. Judging from her actions, Joanna was a woman who, when she made up her mind, didn’t want to hear others’ opinions. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to be with you any longer, and this was the nail in the coffin.”
He massages his temples. “You have no idea.”
“She wanted to end things on her terms. Clean break. No carnage. Maybe she felt you needed that kind of closure to move on.”
“No carnage…” He shakes his head.
“Or, there’s another option,” I offer, watching his expression carefully.
Patel clears this throat loudly, and I know that the sound is meant to silence me. He’s giving a signal that I’m offering too much of my own opinion. If Harris is a possible murder