office flew open. Hester Crimstein may have been small of frame but she was large of step. She burst in and stormed over to Fagbenle.
“Are you effing kidding me?”
Fagbenle remained unruffled. He slowly stood, towering over Hester, and stuck out his hand. “Detective Isaac Fagbenle with Homicide. What a pleasure to meet you.”
Hester stared at his face. “Put your hand away before you lose it—like your job.” Then she turned her withering glare toward Simon. “I’m not happy with you either.”
Hester carried on a bit more. She then insisted that they move to a windowless conference room. Change of venue. It had to be a psychological play, but Simon wasn’t sure how. Once they entered the room though, Hester took full control. She had Fagbenle sit on one side of a long conference table. She and Simon took the other.
When they were all settled in, Hester nodded toward Fagbenle and said, “Okay, get to it.”
“Simon—”
“Call him Mr. Greene,” Hester snapped. “He’s not your pal.”
Fagbenle looked as though he were about to argue, but he smiled instead. “Mr. Greene.” He reached into his pocket and took out a photograph. “Do you know this man?”
Hester kept a hand on Simon’s forearm. He was not to answer or react until she said it was okay. The arm was there as a reminder.
Fagbenle slid the photograph across the table.
It was Aaron Corval. The scum was smiling that awful, smug smile, the one he’d had on his face not long before Simon punched it away. He was standing in a field somewhere, trees behind him, and he’d been standing next to someone in the photograph, someone he had his arm around, someone Fagbenle had cropped out—you could see the person’s shoulder on the left—and Simon couldn’t help but wonder whether the cropped-out person was Paige.
“I know him,” Simon said.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Aaron Corval.”
“He’s your daughter’s boyfriend, is that correct?”
Hester squeezed his arm. “It’s not his job to describe the relationship. Move on.”
Fagbenle pointed his finger at Aaron’s smug face. “How do you know Aaron Corval?”
“Seriously?” It was Hester again.
“Is there a problem, Ms. Crimstein?”
“Yes, there’s a problem. You’re wasting our time.”
“I’m asking—”
“Stop.” She held up her palm. “You’re embarrassing yourself. We all know how my client knows Aaron Corval. Let’s pretend you’ve already lulled Mr. Greene and myself into a state of relaxation with your insightful albeit obvious interrogation techniques. We are putty in your hand, Detective, so let’s cut to it, okay?”
“Okay, fair enough.” Fagbenle leaned forward. “Aaron Corval was murdered.”
Simon had been expecting that and yet the weight of the words still sent him reeling. “And my daughter…?”
Hester squeezed his arm.
“We don’t know where she is, Mr. Greene. Do you?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Three months ago.”
“Where?”
“In Central Park.”
“Would that be the day you assaulted Aaron Corval?”
“Wow,” Hester said. “It’s like I’m not even sitting here.”
Fagbenle said, “Again I ask: Is there a problem?”
“And again I answer: Yeah, there’s a problem. I don’t like your characterization.”
“You mean my use of the word ‘assault’ to describe what happened?”
“I mean exactly that.”
He sat back and put his hands on the desk. “I understand the charges in that case were dropped.”
“I don’t care what you understand.”
“Getting off like that. With all that evidence. It’s interesting.”
“I also don’t care what interests you, Detective. I don’t like your characterization of the incident. Please reword.”
“Now who’s wasting time, Counselor?”
“I want the interview done right, hotshot.”
“Fine. The alleged assault. The incident. Whatever. Can your client answer the question now?”
Simon said, “I haven’t seen my daughter since the incident in Central Park, yes.”
“How about Aaron Corval? Have you seen him?”
“No.”
“So over the last three months, you’ve had zero contact with your daughter or Mr. Corval, is that correct?”
“Asked and answered,” Hester snapped.
“Let him answer, please.”
“That’s correct,” Simon said.
Fagbenle flashed a quick smile. “So I guess you and your daughter Paige aren’t very close, huh?”
Hester wasn’t having it. “What are you, a family counselor?”
“Just an observation. How about your daughter Anya?”
“What about his daughter Anya?” Hester countered.
“Earlier Mr. Greene mentioned that he and Anya were home alone all night,” Fagbenle said.
“He what?”
“That’s what your client told me.”
Hester gave Simon another withering glare.
“Mr. Greene, you took your dog for another walk about ten p.m., am I right?”
“You are.”
“Did you or Anya go out after that?”
“Whoa,” Hester said, making her hands into a T. “Time-out.”
Fagbenle looked annoyed. “I’d like to continue my questioning.”
“And I’d like to tongue-bathe Hugh Jackman,” Hester said, “so both of us are going to have to