Page 27 of The Wife

But later that night, once we were in bed, I had that feeling in the pit of my stomach again. I couldn’t sleep. I wrapped Jason’s hand in mine and took a deep breath.

He could tell I was anxious. He told me everything was fine. He asked me if I wanted to play the alphabet game. “We can do vacation,” he offered. He knows it’s my favorite.

I found myself smiling and started with A:Anguilla.He addedbeach. I followed withcolada.The last word I remembered that night wasiguana. I fell asleep with my mind in the Caribbean.

But by the time I woke up the next morning, I realized what should have been obvious all along: police don’t block a family’s driveway with an unmarked car on a fishing expedition for witnesses to a random assault.

After Spencer left for school, I walked down to the pay phone at the corner of Eighth Street and University, called the Sixth Precinct, and said I was wondering whether they’d identified the culprits involved in the assault on our block the previous night. “I’m a mom. I want to make sure my kids are safe,” I added for good measure. When they asked for my address, I gave them the apartment building two doors down from our carriage house.

“You said this was last night?” the woman asked.

“Yes, all the neighbors were talking about it. The police were going door to door a little before eight, looking for witnesses.”

“Nope, I’m not seeing anything in your area last night. Sounds like someone on your block started a rumor. People will do anything for attention these days.”

I replaced the phone in its cradle, knowing for the first time in my marriage that Jason had lied to me, right to my face, as if it were nothing.

19

The young woman at the concierge desk was race-ambiguous, with close-cropped bleached hair, deep-set eyes, and light brown skin. The black collared shirt of her uniform was buttoned all the way up, but Corrine could see the curve of a tattoo peeking from the side of her neck. Corrine gave a quick flash of her badge and said she was there to see the head of security.

She noticed an older couple at the reception counter next to her exchange a nervous look. “Nothing to worry about,” she assured them. “Welcome to New York.”

The hotel in question was the W in midtown. Kerry Lynch’s company was based in Nassau County on Long Island, but she frequently stayed in the city overnight when she came in for meetings. In response to a subpoena, the hotel’s general counsel had asked the security department to pull surveillance videos from the night Kerry said she was attacked by Jason Powell.

Corrine was a big fan of surveillance cameras, but she could do without the private security guards who tended to come as part of the package. She was anticipating the inevitable questions. How long had she been on the job? What did she do before she was a cop? She told herself that it was the usual banter between wannabe cops and the real thing. But part of her always felt like she was being quizzed for another reason, as if it were her obligation to prove that this black woman deserved to have a detective’s badge and gun instead of the polyester uniform of an unarmed security guard.

She heard a booming voice behind her. “I think I recognize that Duncan Donut.” Her last name always had provided a convenient nickname for a police officer.

Corrine turned to see a familiar face, slightly rounder and older than the last time she’d seen it. Shane Fletcher had been her sergeant when she first moved into the detective squad. “Well, oh my goodness. We are seriously dragging down the coolness factor in this lobby right here.”

“Tell me about it. The concierges tease me because they’d never seen a man wear pleated slacks before.”

“Hate to break it to you, but they probably make fun of you for using the wordslacks, too. What are you doing working at a snazzy hotel?”

“Turns out retirement is boring as a bag of rocks. The wife’s the one who figured out a hotel gig comes with major travel perks. Went to Vieques last month, heading to Indonesia in August.” Fletcher pulled a folded sheet of paper from his suit pocket. “I almost called you when I saw your name on the subpoena. Figured I’d surprise you instead. You ready to watch some movies?”

The surveillance video was slightly better quality than average, but not the best, meaning that the two figures they were tracking were somewhere between gray blobs and a blurry home movie.

Fletcher had already explained the process he’d used to narrow down the footage. He started by looking for people going in or out of the room registered to Kerry Lynch on April 10, the night in question. Once he had eyes on Kerry, he looked for any other appearances between check-in and checkout by her or anyone else she was seen with. Usually Corrine wouldn’t trust a private security guard to select which clips she needed to see, but Fletcher was a good cop.

As it turned out, the only person Kerry was filmed with was a man Corrine recognized as Jason Powell. According to Fletcher, Kerry checked in alone shortly after 4:30 p.m., left alone shortly after 7:15, and then returned with Jason at 10:12 p.m. “And go,” he announced, hitting the play button.

The two figures moved through the lobby, both in business attire—open collar and a sports coat for him; blouse, blazer, and knee-length skirt for her. After a shift in the camera perspective, they rode the elevator together side by respectable distance by side. After another skip, they were in the hallway of the eleventh floor.

Nothing unusual yet, but Corrine flashed Fletcher a thumbs-up. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty, editing the footage into one smooth scene.

He nudged her, indicating that something good was about to happen.

As Kerry fished what Corrine assumed to be a hotel key from her purse, Jason Powell placed the palm of his hand against her lower back and then followed her into the room as the door opened.

Without prompting, Fletcher hit pause.

“That was her back, right?” he asked. “Not her butt?”

“That’s what I saw.”

Fletcher raised his eyebrows. The gesture, combined with walking up to her hotel room for a private conversation, seemed more intimate than professional, but the moment moved quickly. It may have been a friendly after-you gesture.

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