didn’t get much farther than that before he became aware, in his peripheral vision, that Cathy had put down her reader and was staring at him. Peter looked at her expectantly.
“That detective Philo came to see me at work again,” she said, pushing her black hair back over her ear.
Peter closed the book and put it on the end table. “I wish she’d leave you alone.”
Cathy nodded. “So do I—I can’t say she’s a bad sort; she seems courteous enough. But she thinks there’s some connection between my father’s death and Hans’s death.”
Peter shook his head in wonder. “Your father’s death was just an aneurysm or something like that.”
“That’s what I thought. But that detective says he may have been killed deliberately. He was on an antidepressant drug called phenelzine, and—”
“Rod? On an antidepressant?”
Cathy nodded. “I was surprised, too. The detective says he ate some food he shouldn’t have and that caused his blood pressure to shoot way up. With his medical history, that was enough to kill him.”
“Surely that was an accident,” said Peter. “He failed to pay attention to, or maybe just misunderstood, his doctor’s orders.”
“My father was very meticulous, you know that. Detective Philo thinks his food order was tampered with.”
Peter was incredulous. “Really?”
“That’s what she says.” A beat. “Do you remember Jean-Louis Desalle?”
“Jean-Louis … you mean Stroke?”
“Stroke?”
“That was his nickname at university. He had these veins that bulged out of his forehead. We always thought he was about to have a stroke.” Peter looked out the living-room window. “Stroke Desalle. God, I haven’t thought about him for years. I wonder what became of him?”
“He’s a doctor, apparently. His account may have been used to access my father’s medical records.”
“What could Stroke possibly have against your father? I mean, heck, presumably they’d never even met.”
“The detective thinks someone else was using Desalle’s account.”
“Oh.”
“And,” said Cathy, “that detective knows about me and Hans.”
“You told her?”
“No, of course not. It’s none of her business. But somebody did.”
Peter exhaled noisily. “I knew everyone at your company must have known about it.” He slapped his palm against the couch’s armrest. “Damn!”
“Believe me,” said Cathy, “I’m as embarrassed as you are.”
Peter nodded. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Cathy’s voice was cautious, as if testing the waters. “I keep trying to think about who might have had it in for both Hans and dad.”
“Any ideas?”
She looked at him for a long moment. Finally, simply, she said, “Did you do it, Peter?”
“What?”
Cathy swallowed hard. “Did you arrange for Hans and my father to be killed?”
“I don’t fucking believe this,” said Peter.
Cathy looked at him, saying nothing.
“How can you ask me something like that?”
She shook her head slightly. Emotions played across her face—trepidation at having to ask the question, more fear about what the answer might be, a touch of shame over even contemplating the issue, anger simmering. “I don’t know,” she said, her tone not quite under control. “It’s just that—well, you do have a motive, sort of.”
“Maybe for Hans, but for your father?” Peter spread his arms. “If I killed everyone I thought was an idiot, we’d have bodies stacked up to the rafters.”
Cathy said nothing.
“Besides,” said Peter, feeling a need to fill the silence, “there were probably lots of angry husbands who would have liked to have seen Hans killed.”
Cathy looked directly at him. “But even if what you say about other angry husbands is true, none of them would also want my father dead.”
“That stupid detective is making you paranoid. I swear to you, I didn’t kill your father or”—he spoke the name through clenched jaws—“Hans.”
“But, if the detective is right, these were arranged deaths …”
“I didn’t arrange for them, either. Jesus Christ, what do you think I am?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that. It’s just that, well, it seems like something that someone in your position might have done … if that someone hadn’t been you, that is.”
“And I tell you—oh, Christ!”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, something’s wrong. Tell me.”
Peter was already on his feet. “Later. I’ve got to talk to Sarkar.”
“Sarkar? You don’t think he’s responsible?”
“Christ, no. It’s not like Hans wrote The Satanic Verses.”
“But—”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll be back late.” Peter grabbed his coat and headed out the front door.
PETER WAS DRIVING along Post Road toward Bayview. He activated the car phone and hit the speed-dial key for Sarkar’s house. His wife answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Raheema. It’s Peter.”
“Peter! How good to hear from you!”
“Thanks. Is Sarkar home?”
“He’s downstairs watching the hockey game.”
“Can I talk to him, please?