didn’t know her client had once had another name and a juvenile criminal record.
I felt the others step onto the small porch behind me, and the lawyer, who regrouped quickly, said, “I’m Dominique Goode, Mrs. Merriweather’s attorney. I understand that you do not have a warrant?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, still churchy. “We’d rather not intrude too much on Mrs. Merriweather’s life, and acquiring a warrant would make this public record instead of a nice private chat. She has a new name and a new reputation to uphold, after all.”
The lawyer’s expression didn’t change at all this time, but I knew, just knew, that she hadn’t known, still didn’t know, about her client’s past. I resisted looking at Margot to see if she had picked up on anything.
Goode said, “I advised my client against this interview, but you may come in. You may have half an hour of her time. You may ask questions. She may or may not respond. In most circumstances, I will be speaking for my client. There may be questions she does not wish to answer, and she will not do so. Is all this understood?”
“Pretty much,” I said, stepping over the threshold. The client was standing in the hallway in a dim corner, a curvy, more mature version of the out-of-focus girl from the poly wedding and the photos of group sex. Her face looked fierce and tense and . . . guilty. No one had said I was lead on this interview, but I continued anyway. “But honestly, how can you answer any questions when you got no earthly idea about her name change and her juvenile criminal record?”
Racine/Cadence Merriweather went pale at my words and backed into the far room before she turned and ran down a hallway.
Ms. Goode stared me down. I smiled sweetly back at her. She pointed down the wide foyer hallway and said, “Sit. Do not roam.” She followed her client.
I went down the hallway and into the main room. While the three other special agents gathered together and spoke in low voices, I looked around. The main room had ten-foot-tall ceilings with crisscrossed moldings all over, what they called coffered ceilings. The ceilings, moldings, and walls were painted in three warm neutral tones that were reflected in the couches and the chairs. There were hardwood floors everywhere I could see and fancy rugs. The décor was kept from being boring by a threadbare Persian-type rug that was probably ancient and expensive. To me it just looked as if it needed to be replaced. Despite its age, it was a pretty shade of faded fuchsia pink with mint green and pale blue, the deep pink tint picked up by throw pillows and two small chairs.
There were family photographs on the walls in groupings, a big painting of sunflowers, wild roses, and honeysuckle on the wall over a fireplace, and antique vases on the shelves of built-ins. The neutral couches were darker than the trim, and the back of the room was mostly windows that looked out on the water and a pool, which had to be new because it hadn’t been in the satellite photos. Instead of sitting, as the lawyer instructed, I walked around the main room, taking in everything that could be taken in without touching anything. Taking surreptitious photos of the art and vases, the antique ones in particular. One of those voice-activated security systems was sitting on a table, so I didn’t say anything aloud. There were no visible cameras, but security could be monitoring our every move, so no one overstepped a legal code of behavior and I kept my back to the security device while taking pictures of everything on the shelves and on the walls, thinking—knowing—they were important but unable to tell the others.
Sotto voce, FireWind said, “Ingram.” When I got to the group he said, “Jones informs me that Mrs. Merriweather’s personal checking account shows she wrote a ten-thousand-dollar check to a private security firm, the kind that does background checks and divorce investigations. On the same day, she wrote a similar check to Ms. Goode. This took place eight weeks past.”
Before he could continue, Merriweather and Goode reappeared; they sat on the sofa that faced the room, and the lawyer pointed again at the sofa she wanted us to stuff ourselves on. It was too short, so I sat on a small pink chair, running my hand over the fancy upholstery. It was amazingly soft. I wondered how much it would