Simple by Kathleen George Page A

soon—
    Oh, they talked. They talked all the time. He knew things about her. He knew she’d had an abusive uncle who’d assaulted her and tried to rape her. He knew she had never confronted her flaky parents about the time they left her and her brother with the horrible uncle. The confrontation was always just around the corner. She avoided it. She knew things about him, too, how confused he’d been when his marriage crumbled.
    They’d saved Parkview for last. It was where Cassie Price lived and where they hoped to get something meaty their boss would like.
    They stopped in front of Cassie’s house. It was a plain place, well kept, but you had to look past the police tape and the bouquets of flowers and the notes and the children’s toys people had placed in front.
    â€œA little something to take across the River Styx,” said Potocki.
    â€œI suppose we should read the notes,” she grumbled.
    â€œOn our exit from the street? In case something new arrives?”
    â€œFine. I always think it seems wasteful. Give the money to a women’s shelter or something. Okay, now, this Iris Mender,” Colleen said, reading her notes. “Two down from this place. It’d be that one with the crowded porch. Mender employed Cal, and she talked to the police that day. Let’s see her.”
    They parked and approached a modest house that looked pretty much like all the others. They knocked on the door and woke Iris Mender, who was sleeping on the sofa.
    *   *   *
    CHRISTIE STRUGGLED with it—how to meddle. He was still officially on vacation. Coleson and McGranahan were sleeping or out in their yards or playing golf. He decided on phrasing—he would say he was cleaning up a few rough edges. He’d call a squad meeting either tomorrow or Monday. Monday was cleaner. He’d be officially back, Coleson and McGranahan would be on duty, autopsy report would be complete and forensics report begun. Still it made him nervous, working in a kind of limbo. No, he decided suddenly, tomorrow. Get it over with.
    He and Dolan went to the Allegheny County Jail while Greer and Potocki talked to Cassie Price’s neighbors.
    Dolan was his usual chipper self. Today he wasn’t dressed formally, just a crisp white polo shirt and sporty pants, not jeans. He carried his dignity in his walk. He said, and it wasn’t much of a joke, “Fifty percent of these guys are going to know us. Watch out for projectiles.”
    They explained their business to a sallow guy at the desk who did nothing to disguise a mood both sluggish and grim. He called for an escort to take them to the interview room on Cal Hathaway’s pod and for the escort on that pod to bring Cal to them.
    A murmur that was surely the beginning of some idle speculative gossip started up as soon as they came in sight of a few cells.
    Christie wondered all over again if he could have the strength of mind to make a life out of a prison sentence or if he would simply go mad.
    Dolan said, as if hearing him, “Unfortunately it’s the ones who don’t know how to spend a day who end up here.”
    Christie had to laugh at their like-mindedness. They entered the interview room and sat at the small metal table that was bolted to the floor.
    Soon Cal came in. He was shaking, clearly terrified. He dropped into a chair.
    Christie began carefully, “I know you went through all this yesterday, but we need to keep very good records. Let’s try to get comfortable and take our time. I’m Commander Christie. This is Detective Dolan. We’re part of the same squad as the guys who talked to you. Understand? We need to ask you some questions.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œFirst of all, are you doing all right?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    â€œPeople here want to talk. I don’t get into that.”
    â€œI don’t blame you,” Christie said.
    Dolan added,