VICKY SPOTTED T.J. waiting outside the glass doors of her apartment building as she drove around the corner. He had the look of a man who had stepped outside a bank after being turned down for a loan—slim and medium height, black hair combed back, hunching over the cigarette held close to his lips, taking quick puffs and staring into the vacant street. He had on blue jeans and the plaid jacket unzipped over a blue shirt. As she pulled up to the curb, he flicked the cigarette onto the sidewalk, got in beside her, and slammed the door hard into the silence.
He didn’t say anything. The Jeep filled with the odors of aftershave and tobacco smoke.
Vicky made a U-turn and headed toward Main Street. “I hope you got some rest,” she said.
“Listen, Vicky . . .” T.J. paused and made a sucking noise, as if he were taking another draw on the cigarette. “Forget what happened at your place, okay? I don’t know what came over me. It’s like the world is breaking off into little pieces. Denise shooting herself! Jesus . . .”
Vicky glanced over. He was shaking his head, running his eyes over the windshield in search of an explanation.
“I mean, Jesus, she was my wife, and she went and blew a hole in her head. I shouldn’t have made a pass at you.”
“It’s forgotten, T.J.” Vicky heard the sound of her own voice, tight and controlled. She’d been trying to forget all afternoon, but the image of T.J. pulling her into his chest rubbed in her mind like glass in an open wound. She’d trusted T.J. since they were kids. There had been times when she’d felt he was the only person on her side, the only one who faced the truth about Ben, about her crumbling marriage. T.J. who had said, “Leave him, Vicky. I’ll help you.”
She maneuvered the Jeep into a parking space in front of a row of flat-faced brick buildings with shops displaying an array of books, clothing, and gifts behind plate-glass windows. T.J. kept up a running explanation directed at the windshield: The truth was . . . Did she want the truth? The truth was he’d always found her very attractive. That was a fact. No way would he have gotten out of line if it hadn’t been for the shock . . .
“I said, forget it.” Vicky felt a prick of surprise at the sharpness in her voice. She turned off the engine and got out, grateful for the cold air washing over her, providing an invisible barrier between her and the man crawling out of the passenger seat.
“How long’s this gonna take?” he asked as they started across the sidewalk, dodging a red leash that connected a black spaniel to a large, thick-waisted woman with a knit hat pulled down over her ears.
“Not long.” Vicky opened the door wedged between two plate-glass windows and started up the narrow steps covered in black vinyl. There was a sense of the past in the building—the dim lights hanging from the high ceiling, the sheen on the brass hand rail, and the slight grooves worn into the center of the steps by decades of boots. T.J.’s boots scraped behind her.
“Gianelli’s probably trying to figure out why Denise would want to end her life so he can tie this up.” Vicky tossed the words over her shoulder as she reached the second floor. Several pebble-glass doors circled the wide hallway.
“She shot herself,” T.J. spit out the words. “She had no cause.”
“Take it easy.” Vicky placed a hand on the man’s arm. She could feel the tightness in the muscles beneath his jacket sleeve. He was still in shock. What took place earlier in her apartment was caused by shock. T.J. was an old friend, and she was beginning to regret bringing him for an interview this afternoon. She should have asked Gianelli to put the interview off until T.J. had the chance to recover his equilibrium. And yet, the family wanted to hold the funeral within three days.
Vicky guided the man to the door on the right and pressed the intercom on the wall. “Vicky Holden,” she said, leaning into the speaker. “With T.J. Painted Horse.”
Several seconds passed. T.J. was taking in gulps of air, like a runner getting ready for a sprint. Finally the door swung inward and Ted Gianelli—two hundred and fifty pounds, dressed in dark trousers and a light blue shirt opened at the collar—stood in the opening. He surveyed the hall a moment before nodding them inside.
“This way,” he said, leading them down a hallway toward a pair of windows that overlooked the street. In front of the windows was a large wooden desk covered with folders arranged in orderly stacks. A computer stood on a table next to the desk, a scene of blue-and-white mountains fixed like a photograph on the monitor.
The fed walked over and picked up a file folder. “Have a seat,” he said, pointing the folder toward two chairs on the other side of the desk.
Vicky took one of the chairs. T.J. didn’t move, and for a moment she was afraid that he might whirl about and head back down the hall. The fed must have had the same thought because he waited until T.J. dropped into the other chair before he sat down behind the desk.
Gianelli opened the file folder and thumbed through the thin stack of papers inside, giving them his full attention. He seemed older all of a sudden, Vicky thought—brow more furrowed, squint lines cut more deeply, black hair streaked with gray. He was about her age, forty-five. He’d been assigned to the area for five years now, and in that time, there had been more homicides, burglaries, and rapes than she wanted to think about. They’d been on opposing sides most of the time: She, trying to protect a client’s rights, and Gianelli, not letting go until he had the answers.
He swiveled toward her and pulled a yellow notepad from a drawer in the middle of the desk. “I’m going to be interviewing you about the death of your wife, T.J.,” he said.
Vicky glanced between the agent and T.J. She could sense the charge of electricity in the air. This was not a routine follow-up interview after a suicide.
“What are you looking for, Ted?”
Gianelli ignored the question, fastening his gaze on T.J. “What we have is a possible homicide. Let’s go over again what you did last evening.”
“Homicide!” Vicky heard the shock in her voice. She hurried on. “My client was at the office yesterday evening.” Stalling, trying to get a grip on what was happening. God, suppose the coroner had determined somehow that Denise couldn’t have shot herself—maybe by the entrance and trajectory of the bullet. Or the coroner didn’t find her fingerprints on the gun, or any gunpowder residue on her hands. If Denise didn’t kill herself, the first person Gianelli would suspect was T.J. This was the start of a murder investigation. “T.J. told you everything last night,” she said. “There’s no reason to go over it again.”
T.J. sank against the back of his chair and spread his hands over his thighs. His fingers were twitching. “I knew it was gonna happen sooner or later.”
“You knew your wife was going to be murdered?” Gianelli leaned over the desk.
“Hold on.” Vicky shot a glance at T.J. “You don’t have to say anything.” Turning back to the agent, she said, “I want to see the coroner’s report.”
Gianelli shook his head. “Sorry, Vicky. I respect your request, but we’re going to have to play by my rules. This is a criminal investigation.”
T.J. threw out both hands, as he were fending off a blow.
“You think I don’t want the fed . . . ” he nodded toward the man on the other side of the desk, “to find the bastards who killed my wife? I got a whole hell of a lot I want to say.” He scooted forward until he was perched on the edge of the seat. “They were coming after me. I wasn’t home, so they shot Denise as a warning. I’m gonna be next.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Phone calls in the middle of the night. Some hang ups; some just saying I’d better get off the rez. Letters with no names, saying they’re gonna sic the dogs on me and burn down my house if I don’t stop holding up the drilling out at the coal beds. One of those bastards finally came looking for me last night and found Denise.”
T.J. dropped his face into his hands. A low noise, like a growl, erupted from his throat. His shoulders were shaking. “I’m the one supposed to be dead.” The words were muffled against his fingers. “Denise was supposed to be in Casper for a couple of days. She wasn’t supposed to be home. She must’ve changed the mind and decided not to go.” He let a moment pass before he ran his jacket sleeve over his eyes, shifted back in the seat, and leaned his head against the wall.
“Let’s go over this again,” Gianelli said. “You said last night that you stayed at the office until about eight-thirty, then drove home. Is that right?”
Vicky got to her feet. “Nothing’s changed, Ted. I think we’re done here. T.J. needs to get some rest.”
“You think I shot my wife, don’t you?” T.J. was still reclining in the chair, and his voice came from some place deep in his chest.
“Nobody’s ruled out yet,” Gianelli said.
“Let’s go, T.J.” Vicky tried to wave the man out of the chair. She hadn’t had the chance to talk to him, not as a lawyer to a client. They walked in here thinking Denise had taken her own life. Now they were dealing with homicide and T.J. was a suspect. And he was innocent. She couldn’t imagine T.J. Painted Horse shooting anyone. She had to caution him, warn him against saying anything that might incriminate him or cause Gianelli to limit the investigation to him.
“I’m not afraid.” T.J. was looking past her toward the agent. “You want me to take a lie detector test? Name the time. Ask me anything you want. Go ahead and ask me.”
“Did you murder your wife?” Gianelli asked.
T.J. didn’t move for a moment, then he bolted to his feet. His breath came in quick, loud jabs.
“Don’t say anything,” Vicky said.
“I loved Denise,” T.J. said.
Vicky stepped in front of the man. “As your lawyer, I’m telling you this meeting is over. We’re leaving now.” Vicky took hold of the man’s arm and steered him into the hallway.
“Your client wants to cooperate,” Gianelli said from behind them. “Why won’t you let him?”
“If you have evidence that my client had anything to do with his wife’s death, then get a warrant,” Vicky said, throwing a glance back at the large, dark figure standing behind the desk, backlit by the light shining through the window.