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  “You know what they say my dear, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. You just keep getting that handsome kisser of yours on television, the Internet, and in the paper. Later on people won’t remember why they saw you, they’ll just remember that they did.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he replied, his tone telling her he was unconvinced. “But if things go wrong, I’m the man on the front lines. As you can imagine, Gill wants to have as little to do with this as possible.” He shook his head. “Can you believe that’s how a police chief behaves when there’s been a murder committed in his own town?”

  “Gill’s been on the force since I went away to boarding school, and he’s the same candy ass now as he was then. There isn’t a toe in Darien he avoids stepping on. That’s how he’s kept his job all these years.”

  Stratford frowned. “Might be a lesson in that for all of us. Meanwhile, he’s dumped the whole thing on this detective that came up from New York a few years ago.”

  “Lieutenant Walker.”

  “You know him?”

  “I cannot tell a lie Robert, I’ve been following this story, just like the rest of your constituents. Walker is getting more media coverage than you and Gill combined.”

  “I’ve noticed, and it’s amazing to me. Word is that he’s a good cop, and very low-key when it comes to drawing attention to himself.”

  Linda’s eyes narrowed again. “Maybe yes, maybe no. And maybe he’s not as dull-witted as he appears.” When Stratford reacted with a puzzled look, she said, “I’ve seen him on television.”

  “He’s been interviewed?”

  “No, just shots of him leaving headquarters this morning, refusing comment. A stoic type.”

  “If you’re saying our friend Detective Walker is someone we need to keep an eye on, I’m already on it. Meeting him for drinks tomorrow night. Good?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If he solves the case, you’re going to want to stand right beside him in the spotlight. On the other hand,” she said with a wry grin, “if he screws it up, you’ll want to stay as far from him as possible. Might even make sense for us to be out of town.”

  Stratford appeared to be giving that notion serious thought. Then he said, “I wonder if Chief Gill has any travel plans yet.”

  His wife laughed. “Gill is a wimp, but he’s not stupid. I guaranty you he’s figuring this the same way I am. He’ll orchestrate things so success will be a duet, but failure is going to be a solo act starring Detective Walker.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  She paused for a moment, then asked, “What about your friend Randi?”

  “What about her?”

  “The Knoebels were her patients and you’re her lawyer. That puts the two of you right in the middle of all this. Is that going to be an asset or liability for you?”

  “I wish I knew. This is already causing her some serious issues.”

  “And you want to be her knight in shining armor.” When he responded with a disapproving look, she said, “I know that’s who you are, my sweet. But this is one time you need to think about yourself first. To think about us.”

  “Of course.”

  Linda leaned forward and said, “Is that really what has you worried? Is it about her?”

  He sat up and met her intense gaze. “Absolutely not.”

  “So what then?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “I just felt that things were going so well, that we had a real shot at the nomination.”

  She liked his use of the word we. “We still do,” she insisted.

  “Maybe so, but I can’t shake the feeling that a lot is going to depend on how this murder investigation plays out.”

  Linda sat back and offered him a warm smile. “Yes, and I realize how much you absolutely despise not being in control of every situation.”

  Stratford smiled. “You know me too well.”

  “Well enough to know that it’s not just the situation you want to control.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yes. The outcome too.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Prior to his drive into the city, Walker had telephoned from his office, arranging to meet the two doctors Knoebel claimed he had drinks with the night Elizabeth was shot.

  He arrived at the main building of the medical center and was shown to a small conference room and told to wait. The two physicians were paged, but it was more than thirty minutes before they finally walked in.

  Walker ignored their lateness—they were, after all, doctors. But he did not hesitate to express his surprise that they had combined the two appointments into one. It was not Walker’s preferred method of conducting an interview, and he had made it clear they were to be separate discussions.

  “We’re not violating any rules, are we officer?”

  Walker felt at home in New York, but also knew he was way outside his legal jurisdiction. All he could offer in response was a knowing smile. “Not yet, you’re not,” he told them.

  They got down to business, each of the doctors quickly confirming that they had indeed been with Knoebel for drinks on the evening in question.

  “Why are you so sure of the date and the time?” he asked.

  That was easy, they told him. First, each of them carried an iPhone that kept tabs on every minute of their lives, past, present and future. Second, their hospital and office records corroborated the times they made rounds that day, the patients they saw and so forth. They assured him that they had each verified all of that in anticipation of this brief interview—putting special emphasis on the word brief. Finally, each man distinctly recalled hearing the news the following day that Knoebel’s wife had been murdered. Naturally, that fixed the events of the prior evening indelibly in their memories.

  “Naturally,” Walker said.

  They were also certain of how much time they had spent with Knoebel, which matched his recollection to the minute.

  The interview over, Walker visited the administration office. The hospital records, which they pulled for him minus anything that might be a potential violation of HIPAA, also matched Knoebel’s story. He was in surgery until the afternoon, then made his rounds, seeing patients. There was a brief period that was unaccounted for late in the day, before he met the other two doctors for cocktails, but in that window of time it would have been impossible for Knoebel to make the drive home to Connecticut and return to join his colleagues back in New York at the hour they had all confirmed. The only possibility was that he returned to Connecticut afterward, but if that were the case, he would not have gotten home before nine that night.

  Jake had placed the time of death around four and Mrs. Fitzmorris spotted the sedan speeding away from the Knoebel driveway around five.

  Walker completed his disappointing review in the administration office, then telephoned the coroner’s office.

  “Nine o’clock? No way,” Jake told him. “She was dead for hours by nine o’clock.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Any chance Knoebel had time to make a quick run back and forth to his house in between any of his appointments?”

  “No,” Walker told him. “Between his rounds and the operating room records here, Knoebel barely had time to change his mind that day. The only time slot unaccounted for is less than an hour.”

  “Not enough time for a round-trip to Connecticut.”

  “Right.”

  Walker left the hospital and strolled three blocks to the indoor lot where he paid an exorbitant fee for the privilege of parking his car for less than two hours. In the old days he could have ditched his car in the middle of Times Square and not worried about a thing. He would have just snapped down the visor and clipped on his NYPD decal.

  Things change.

  “Autumn in New York,” he said to himself as he slid behind the wheel and prepared to make the drive home. He wished he had the Sinatra disc with that song on it. “Autumn in New York.” Brings back memories. />
  When Walker and his wife first moved to Connecticut they made trips into the city all the time. Visited friends. Went to their favorite restaurants in the old neighborhood. Came into town for movies that were never going to make it to the multiplex in the burbs. After a while, though, the trip seemed to get longer, the friends in New York fewer and the visits less frequent. They had created a new life someplace else.

  He just never anticipated how different that new life would become.

  Walker was surprised at how melancholy that made him feel today. He decided to take a detour, heading slowly down Fifth Avenue along Central Park, then turning left on Seventieth Street and coming back up on Madison, passing the overpriced boutiques and art galleries that line the avenue on both sides.

  He was thinking about those old friends, feeling the urge to visit one of the watering holes where he spent too much time during nights gone by, maybe stop by his old precinct. But he knew it would be a letdown, he knew it for sure. There would be different faces, the roll call at the old station house full of unfamiliar names. He remembered Lieutenant Kenny, the best superior officer he ever served under. Had cancer a few years ago, retired to Arizona or Nevada or something. Walker would love to have a beer with Brian Kenny someday, but he knew it was never going to happen. He figured that was all right, just part of the deal.

  What upset him, what really depressed him, was the sense that every trace of his existence in this city had been completely washed away. He had risked his life, day after day, year after year, chasing down drug dealers and thieves, doing his job like a good cop should, putting the villains away and protecting the public. And now, looking back, what was it all about? As soon as he moved out of New York, the city had forgotten him. He even lost his wife and daughters along the way, and now he was alone.

  What a waste.

  Jesus, he thought, you’re a morbid sonuvabitch. He tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck. He found himself driving even more slowly as he continued north on Madison, looking at the shops and restaurants, new places, names he never saw before. Hell, he thought, if I go downtown I probably won’t even find a bar I would recognize.

  He finally made a right turn, found his way to the East Side Drive, then headed up the interstate for what had now become his home, for the good and bad of all that.

  CHAPTER 31

  By the time Walker arrived back in his office from his visit to New York it was after seven. Sitting at his desk, he pulled out the printed version of Elizabeth Knoebel’s diary. He picked up the pages that had been stored under JWJCR.DOC and read them again.

  SEXUAL RITES

  Notes on the Mechanics of Sexuality

  Like most men, J was inept when it came to solving the sweet mysteries of femininity.

  Bred as egocentrics, men learn early on all there is to know about their own genitalia. Even before puberty, a boy becomes obsessed with his penis, exploring the sensitivity of the underside of the glans, running his fingers along the frenulum, endlessly touching himself and playing with his testicles. His first erections and ejaculations constitute a rite of passage that arm him for a lifelong pursuit of satisfaction, just as the primitive hunter must have felt when he finally honed the tip of his spear to a sharp point and embarked on his search for prey.

  Oddly, there are very few men I have ever known who have the same curiosity about the physiology of the vagina that they have for their own equipment. They tend to view a woman’s pussy as a goal to be achieved rather than part of a process to be enjoyed. The vagina becomes a receptacle for penetration, nothing more. If the pussy is wet, the easier it is to enter. Whether the lubrication comes from within—as an expression of the woman’s arousal—or is abetted by a cream or an oil, does not matter to most men. They believe the point is to find their way in and then employ all the subtlety of a jackhammer in driving home their stiff cock with thrust after thrust until the inevitable conclusion.

  Inevitable, that is, for the man.

  Even men who enjoy fondling, touching or licking a woman’s pussy often fail to understand what pleases and what does not. Rough sex does not mean unpleasant sex. Would a man enjoy a woman painfully squeezing his balls? Or digging into them with her nails? Or scraping his cock with her teeth?

  The first thing a man should realize is that the vagina is as sensitive for a woman as the underside of a man’s scrotum is to him. The interior membranes are incredibly thin. The clitoris is something to be worshipped with tenderness, not chafed or bitten or lapped at like a thirsty dog drinking water from a bowl.

  There can also be too much of a good thing. Constant rubbing or touching or licking in the same area can become more irritating than exciting. A woman has innumerable erogenous zones, all of which should be investigated and caressed before zeroing in on the ultimate target. A woman’s neck, her nipples, her ears, her ass, and—that most overlooked source of pleasure—her skin itself, when properly approached and stroked and caressed, can leave her pussy dripping wet even before the man arrives there.

  When it is time for the vagina to be fondled or kissed, it should not be attacked. Care must be taken. The outer lips should be gently parted, not shoved aside. The inner skin should be treated with delicacy, not assaulted with a stiff finger jammed inside. The clitoris should be lovingly embraced, not chewed or jabbed at.

  This should all be obvious to any man who has ever left a woman unsatisfied, which includes virtually every man engaged in the journey of sexual discovery. Yet so many of them fail to see what is apparent, ignoring the needs of the vagina, even as they ignore the emotional needs of the woman herself. They should learn to enjoy the complete experience, they should understand that the pleasure they give will only enhance the pleasure they receive.

  J neither understood nor seemed to have any interest in learning.

  Unfortunately, as we have seen, most men are fools.

  Walker could not help but smile as he put the pages down. Whoever and whatever this woman was, it would have been interesting to meet her.

  He shook off the thought when he saw a note on his desk to call town counsel, Ben Youngman. The message said that Chief Gill had spoken with Youngman about Dr. Knoebel and his attorney, so Walker picked up the phone and made the call.

  “I’m walking out the door,” the lawyer told him.

  “Okay. Just wanted to know if you had a chance to think it over yet.”

  “Yes, actually.” There was a pause. “Legally, I don’t see why we have to give any of it back. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor’s office. Cohen feels the same way.”

  Walker nodded to himself. “But?” He knew that any time a lawyer gives an answer with his voice rising at the end of the statement, there was always a but.

  “An hour ago I got a call from Knoebel’s lawyer.”

  “Mr. Bennett is really getting around.”

  “He threatened a suit against everybody—you, the department, the town.”

  “Did the chief tell you what we found on her computer?”

  “He gave me a general idea.”

  “Then why don’t you tell Attorney Bennett how pleased we’d be to fight this out in court? I’m not so sure Dr. Knoebel will see that as such a terrific idea, having a battle over a diary that says his wife was humping half of Fairfield County.”

  “TMI, Walker. I told you, Gill only gave me a vague description of what you found.”

  “And I’m telling you they won’t fight us.”

  “Maybe not. I want you to return it anyway.”

  “What?”

  “That’s our position.”

  “Your position? What the hell sense does your position make? What if we need this as evidence?”

  Youngman hesitated again. There was nothing he liked about this discussion, and he obviously considered Walker a nuisance. “Is Knoebel a suspect? A target?”

  “Probably not. I verified his alibi in New York today.”

  “And you’ve been through the woman’s files, right?”
r />   “Yes.”

  “Have you found anything in the computer that’s material to your investigation?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s not good enough, Detective. The man’s wife is dead. If you don’t think he’s the one who killed her, and you’ve discovered no material evidence in her laptop, why give him a hard time?”

  “There’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”

  “Could it be the bully-boy tactics coming from the lawyer in New York?”

  “I’m used to that crap. It’s just a feeling I have, that’s all.”

  “A feeling?”

  “The stuff in her files is about people she knew. You said Gill gave you the Reader’s Digest version?”

  “I got the summary.”

  “Then you understand the situation. At the very least one of these stories might help us prove a motive if we ever finger the murderer.”

  Youngman hesitated. “All right. Get me the computer. I won’t give it up until I speak with Cohen again.”

  “Okay,” Walker agreed. Cohen was a hard-nosed prosecutor, and he would take a tougher line than Youngman. Walker was going to call him first thing in the morning and offer his version of the facts.

  “You know,” Youngman said, “the guy was an idiot not to demand her computer back in the first place.”

  “Except this guy is no idiot,” Walker said. “So why did he do it? That’s what I can’t figure. At first I thought he was trying to help the investigation, a natural instinct to help us find his wife’s murderer, right? Then I read the stuff.” Walker shook his head. “What’s he up to, Ben? Did he know what was in there or not? Is he trying to implicate other people to cover his own tracks? Did he just want someone to see what his wife was all about?”

  “Easy there, cowboy. I’m not a detective or a psychiatrist, I’m just a lawyer. You say his alibi checks out. If that’s true he’s not a suspect, he’s just the grieving widower. Get me the laptop in the morning and I’ll speak with David.”