BACK AT THE PRECINCT, Gabby provides an update:
“Marcus Livingstone doesn’t seem cut-up that Miranda is dead. Doesn’t pretend to be sorry. No sad face, no grief, no regret. He acts like I’m talking about a stranger, which, to Marcus, I suppose Miranda is. Claims not to have seen her for years. Not shocked at how she died, either. Like Mrs. Walker, he’s expected it, to get a call one day from the likes of us to say Miranda is gone: suicide, overdose, a victim of foul play? Pick a door.
“It will be hard on the children,” I say. “What will you tell them?”
“Nothing,” he says. “For the children, Miranda is a photo in an album.”
“They don’t remember their mother?”
“It’s a narrative, Detective. Stella, Johnny, and I agreed on it when Miranda moved away for the last time. She’d been given more than enough second chances. When it became obvious, she wouldn’t, or couldn’t change, we decided it was best for the children to believe she was dead, that she’d died in an automobile accident when they were very young.”
“In your world, this is a good idea?”
“You didn’t know Miranda, did you?” I didn’t. “The woman was toxic. A menace to herself—which we could live with—and a menace to the children, which none of us could.”
“You say Mr. and Mrs. Walker agreed to this?”
“Johnny was reluctant at first, but eventually he came around. It was Stella’s idea. Miranda had already left for New York City. Eventually, she resurfaced to harass her parents for money, started badgering me for support, arguing to see the children, which, in her condition, was never going to happen.”
“How did you keep her away?”
Livingstone is a good-looking dude, partner. Under his two thousand dollar Armani suit, he’s buff. He has diplomas, plaques, civil citations on the wall of his office. There’s a Bentley with personalized plates in his parking slot. He speaks calmly; everything he says comes out seeming reasonable. When he says he paid Miranda off with a hundred thousand dollar deposit to her bank account, I believe him.
“The children have no memory of their mother?”
“Bits and gaps that fade as time passes.”
“You’re the therapist here, doc, but to me, this seems a truly bizarre strategy.”
“Never had reason to second-guess the decision.”
“And this was how long ago?”
He’s uncertain, but puts it at five, maybe six years.
“And Miranda? She hasn’t tried to make contact since?”
“Not with me.”
“No mail, email, text, phone call, not in person, through an intermediary, through an attorney?”
“I haven’t communicated with my ex-wife since I handed over the hundred-grand. Last I knew, she’d moved to New York. That’s the extent of it. I wasn’t interested, didn’t care. She was gone; good riddance for my family and me.”
“Harsh.”
“Harsh? You think? A family court judge made the decision to deny Miranda access to her own children, declared her an unfit mother. She was driving drunk, and in possession of cocaine with children in the car. If she were a man, she’d have got jail time.”
It gets me thinking. “So,” I say. “Hypothetically, if Miranda had wanted back in, to the family, what would you have done to protect them? What would you do to prevent it?”
As if he’s given it some thought, he says, “I’d kill her myself.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“An admission of guilt?” I say though I’m not convinced. “Witnesses suggest Miranda may have been on the mend, on a mission to reclaim her children. That’s motive. We have means. Opportunity? Can Livingstone account for his whereabouts on and about the time of her death?”
Gabby says, “In the morning, he attended church with the kids from ten to noon. The rest of the day, he spent running errands with the children, dropping them here and there, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera; typical family stuff. Claims he had no specific set engagements, nor did he offer any individual names or places to alibi-him-out, if you don’t consider the kids. He says, if necessary, he probably can. He has not remarried, but has a girlfriend currently traveling in California on assignment, whatever that means.
“Sunday evening, Livingstone claims he attended a Cystic Fibrosis fundraiser at the Ramsey Golf and Country Club. It’s a twenty-eight mile, one hour drive from Ramsey, New Jersey, to the crime scene in Manhattan. On a good day. The event was attended by over two hundred supposedly reputable, stand-up-as-witnesses-in-court dignitaries, many who Livingstone knows personally, many with whom he spoke, many who are prominent law enforcement officials, including judges and a Chief of Police.
“He claims to have arrived home, alone, by eleven. Paid the sitter, sent her home in a cab, in bed by midnight, alone. He’s offered to provide home security video to verify he didn’t leave the property till the following morning.”
“He did say he would kill her if she came back.”
“People feel it, say it, never do, Dex,” Gabby says, as if trying to discourage a dog with a bone. “Sometimes, I want to kill you, yet here you sit. And unless you make Livingstone for Manischewitz and Mancinelli, too, it does not compute.”
“The children? If he knows she wants back in, it may have pushed him over the edge.”
“Miranda was a boozer and abuser. She was nowhere near to visitation let alone regaining custody of those kids.”
“A financial shakedown?”
Gabby shifts in her chair. “You forget the no small matter: Manischewitz and Mancinelli. Move on, Dex.”
Deflated, I say, “Let’s go to the movies.”