“SO THE WAY I get it,” Farnsworth said, “she left here about ten o’clock Sunday night, two weeks ago. And that’s the last you saw of her or heard of her. Is that about it?”
“That’s about it.” As he said it, Daniels could critique the nuances of his own response, an essential executive’s knack. And he was satisfied. He wasn’t patronizing Farnsworth, but neither was he deferring to him, as a guilty man might.
Standing together beside Farnsworth’s white police car, both of them faced out toward the ocean. For this boon—for the vital minutes that allowed him to intercept Farnsworth in the driveway, well away from the beach house, Daniels knew he must give thanks to Kane. Had it gone the other way—if Farnsworth had reached the door and rung the bell, and if Millicent had answered, Farnsworth might have—
“Did you lend Miss Estes a car, Mr. Daniels?”
“No. We—ah—” He dropped his voice to a confidential note, man to man: “No. The—ah—fact is, Carolyn and I had an argument. So …” He smiled, shrugged, let the Daniels charm come through. “So she just picked up her suitcase and took off.”
Skeptically, Farnsworth frowned. “Walking?”
“Walking,” Daniels answered firmly.
“At ten o’clock at night?”
Indifferently, Daniels shrugged. “You asked me what happened. I’m telling you.”
“Didn’t you go after her? Make sure she was all right, at least?”
“No, I didn’t. She had money—a lot of money—with her. That, I knew. So I assumed she hired a cab, drove to Falmouth. Whatever.” He smiled again. As he kept the smile in place he calculated the variables, the options. How could he suggest to this fat, country-bumpkin policeman that, if he cooperated, he would be rewarded? To make bribery work, though, an intermediary was necessary. But, aside from Kane, none was available. And Kane already knew enough.
“Where does she—did Miss Estes live?” Farnsworth asked.
“In New York City,” he answered. “The Village.” Yes, his voice was calm, controlled. It was, after all, the mismatch of the century: Preston Daniels versus Constable Joe Farnsworth.
“Does she work?”
“Yes. She works in advertising.”
“Did you phone her on Monday? To make sure she was okay?”
“Constable—” He allowed mild vexation to shade the single word. Then, a tactical shift, he spoke affably, one good old boy to another: “Come on. You know what we’re talking about here. I’m a married man. A happily married man. But my wife and I—” Once more, the smile, the full, direct eye contact. “We have a deal. An arrangement. Both of us, well, we get a little on the side … that’s the expression, I believe. And Carolyn, well, she was my summertime playmate, let’s say, while my wife was in Europe. But that’s all it was. Call it recreation. Okay?” As if he considered their conversation ended, Daniels moved a step toward the house. Repeating: “Okay?”
Farnsworth lifted his beefy shoulders, shrugging. Reluctantly agreeing: “Yeah. Fine. For now, anyhow. Fine.”
Encouragingly, Daniels nodded. “Good. I appreciate that.” A momentary, meaningful pause. Then, significantly: “I appreciate that very much.”