"The undercover work, the trips, the involvement in espionage, the clandestine meetings in the Kasbah . . . you know what I'm talking about?"
She was staring at me as though I, a male, would have a proprietary chromosonal insight into this cryptic accusation. Actually, I did know and replied, "He was seduced by the adventure and excitement."
"Seduced? . . . No--consumed. He changed, became moody, sneaky . . . but also short-fused, testy, self-absorbed, full of himself. You asked about that pistol earlier." She stared into her drink. "When he brought it home and showed it to me . . . I knew then he had lost it."
"Lost what?"
"Interest in the house. In the kids. In me. He was so proud of that damned gun." She looked at Bian and confided, "He came back from trips, and I could tell . . . I could just tell . . ."
"He was having an affair?" Bian suggested.
"An affair? . . ." She laughed bitterly.
I gave her a moment to get it out of her system, then asked, "Would you happen to know the names of the women he slept with?"
"You'll need a thicker notebook." She laughed. "If it couldn't outrun him, he fucked it."
Neither Bian nor I commented on this sordid revelation. Sexual betrayal is, of course, the most ubiquitous cause for divorce, and Theresa had already confided to us that infidelity provided the legal foundation filed by her attorney. There are many reasons husbands cheat on wives, and wives cheat on husbands, nearly all of which boil down to boredom, weak libidos, revenge, or narcissistic lust. Well, unless you're French; then the whole reason for marriage is to have illicit affairs. But in English-speaking lands, we tend to have a lot more hang-ups about sex.
This, however, sounded like something more, something deeper, more twisted. Also, Tim, the forensics examiner, had mentioned hair traces from two or possibly three different females. Added to the overall feng shui at the crime scene, it all hinted at some kind of sexual shenanigans.
I tuned back in, and Theresa was confiding to Bian, "I knew it was happening. I followed him one night to a local motel. I got pictures of him with some woman. You know what really hurt? She wasn't even pretty. In fact, she had a big fat butt."
"I'm sorry," I told her, and I didn't mean about the fat butt.
Not to be uncharitable, but as I looked around--at this suffocating house, at Theresa groping her fifth gin, at the unchanging neighborhood--and added to that mixture a stale and frustrated professional life, I thought Cliff Daniels was an accident waiting to happen. I could see a man trapped in this professional and marital quagmire committing suicide. But I could not see a man who had escaped into a new life--who had put this behind him--taking that drastic step.
To a greater or lesser extent, we all lead lives of quiet desperation; metaphysically and, often in reality,we're all lined up at the convenience store counter, praying for that lucky lottery ticket that will change our lives. Men, of course, will settle for a lovely nymphomaniac who's a football fanatic and owns her own beer company. We're pigs.
I asked Mrs. Daniels, "Incidentally, was Cliff left- or right-handed?"
"Right-handed. Why?"
"Just one of those weird statistics we're required to keep about human proclivities." I smiled. "You know the federal government-- building a great society one statistic at a time." I added, "Maybe you can help with another statistic. It's . . . well . . . a little uncomfortable. Did Cliff ever exhibit any tendency toward homosexuality?"
"Haven't you been listening, Mr. Drummond? The man was a raging heterosexual."
"Of course."
I glanced at Bian. She quietly nodded, and clearly she understood why I asked. Were this murder, the suspect pool had just been cut in half.
After a moment, I again asked Theresa, "Why would Cliff kill himself?"
"You're asking the wrong question." She put her back against the sink and exhaled. "Why wouldn't he kill himself?"
CHAPTER NINE
I went out and started the car while Bian stood by the curb and used her cell phone to call and ask her boss, Oberst Waterbury, to persuade either Hirschfield or Tigerman--or better still, both--to clear a little time on their schedules.
She climbed into the passenger seat and said, "He'll take care of it." She looked at me. "What do you think?"
"I need fresh air."
"Her life needs fresh air." She suggested, "So let's start with her."