Codella watched Thomas Merchant fly out of the elevator and beeline into his office as if she weren’t there. Ruffalo followed him in, and the door closed. Codella counted the minutes and imagined the back-and-forth they were having about her. Why is she here? Merchant would demand. And Ruffalo would say, Something about your wife. She wouldn’t tell me. She refused to leave. I tried my best to get her out of here.
When Ruffalo emerged from the inner office, she wore a smile that was only skin-deep. “Mr. Merchant will see you now, Detective,” she announced as if he were a head of state generously granting an audience to a pathetic supplicant.
“Thank you.” Codella played along.
Merchant was tall and thin. He had the good kind of gray hair, the kind that made you look distinguished without looking old. Even from twenty feet away, she could tell his black suit was probably worth more than the entire wardrobe in her bedroom closet. And the instant their eyes met, she realized that she’d never leave here with what she wanted unless she allowed him to feel like the winner of the encounter. She thought of McGowan saying, Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you commit career suicide. She couldn’t let that happen. Somehow she had to make Merchant believe he was in control. But how?
She approached his massive glass desk, held out her hand, and said, “My condolences on your wife’s death.”
“Spare the bullshit, Detective.” He sat in his Herman Miller executive throne. “What’s so important that you had to interrupt my schedule?”
He was hardly a man softened by mourning, she thought. Her instinct was to lash back, but she swallowed the impulse. “I apologize for the interruption. I’ll make this as brief as I can.” She sat across from him, although he had not offered a seat. “Your daughter came to see me yesterday afternoon—”
“My daughter came to you?”
“That’s right. To my office at Manhattan North. She asked specifically for me.”
“Why?”
“She has some concerns about the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Merchant’s death.”
“Let me guess,” he said. “She told you about a videotape.”
“She played it for me, in fact.”
Merchant shook his head and wagged an accusing index finger at her. “You should have called me right then, Detective. You should have picked up the phone and dialed my office then. I could have put things into perspective for you.”
“Why don’t you do that right now.”
“I don’t have time for this, Detective.”
“But your daughter—”
“My daughter is—” He paused to consider his words. “She’s understandably upset by her mother’s death, and quite frankly, she is imagining things.”
Codella crossed her legs and took her time before speaking. “You know, I thought so too at first. But now I’m not so sure.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“There are a few irregular circumstances surrounding Mrs. Merchant’s death. They warrant a closer look.”
“What irregular circumstances?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose those right now.”
“Look, I’m her husband.” His forefinger stabbed his desktop with so much force that the thick glass vibrated. “You have to tell me.”
“I’m sorry.” She watched the anger percolate on his face. “But I can’t. You just have to trust me on this. The evidence is circumstantial, but it’s compelling.”
“What are you suggesting, Detective? That someone killed my wife?”
“I’m not ready to make a definitive statement quite yet,” Codella said.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I need your help.”
“You won’t tell me anything, but you need my help?”
“To put some questions to rest. An autopsy would do that. I’d like you to request one.”
Merchant leaned back and brushed at his lapel. “Absolutely not. Now get out of here.” He pointed to his door.
Codella didn’t move. “A postmortem could put everyone’s mind at ease.”
“Julia’s, perhaps. But not mine. I have enough problems with the press. I don’t need them speculating on whether I killed my wife. I’m not naïve, Detective. I know what’s in your head. You won’t tell me the details because the husband is always the suspect. Right? You know what would put my mind at ease? If the NYPD had the decency to send an experienced detective to see me, not one who swallowed my daughter’s paranoia hook, line, and sinker.”
Codella willed herself not to respond to the insult. Merchant was just one more angry man—like McGowan, like her father—who needed to flaunt his supremacy. But in the aftermath of cancer, she didn’t fear the threats she could see coming at her, and she calmed herself with the comforting reminder of what Dr. Abrams had said this morning. You’re boring. Don’t come back for six months.
“How long have you even been on the job?” Merchant asked.
He leaned over his desk in a way she knew was meant to unnerve her. “How long?” he demanded. “I want to know.”
He wanted her to cower. But she wouldn’t do that. Maybe she was about to commit “career suicide,” but she was suddenly done letting him have the upper hand. She placed her elbows on her side of the desk and leaned toward him instead of away. “If you’re that interested in the trajectory of my career, Mr. Merchant, why don’t you have Ms. Ruffalo Google me. You’ll get all the answers you want. But let me clarify one thing: I don’t swallow people’s stories hook, line, and sinker. I follow a chain of evidence. That’s my job. And I came here because I thought you’d want to know what happened to your wife. I think the press will be more interested in the fact that you don’t want an autopsy than they would be if you did. I think your analysis of the situation is entirely foolhardy. But then, what do I know?”
Merchant leaned back. “I did not kill my wife.”
She thought of Muñoz’s phone call five minutes ago from a street in Pelham Manor. She was tempted to say, And I suppose you didn’t rape Jackie Freimor, either? Instead, she said, “If you didn’t kill your wife, then you have nothing to fear.”
“Bullshit,” he said again. “The media doesn’t care about the truth. They’ll use anything they can to eat me alive.”
“Including the fact that you turned me down.” Codella took an autopsy authorization form out of her jacket pocket and placed it on his desk. “Don’t you want to be on the right side of this investigation?” She stared at him. “I’m going to get an autopsy one way or another. You can sign this form and make it easy or I can go to the DA and show them what I’ve got.” She pitched her bluff with as much casual confidence as she could muster. She felt him watch her closely. She blinked naturally. She didn’t look away. When enough time had passed, she said, “Sign the form, Mr. Merchant. And call the Office of the Medical Examiner. Your wife is an icon of the musical theater world, and you are a man of influence. A call from you would expedite things. And then we could put this issue to rest.”
She slid the paperwork across the glass without looking away from him. He stared at the form for several seconds. Finally the hardness in his eyes gave way. He picked up his pen and scrawled his signature next to the X she’d drawn. “Satisfied?” He pushed the form back. “I didn’t kill my wife.”