Suspects by Thomas Berger Page B

involved with Lawrence Howland?”
    Her smile took on a very sweet character, perhaps near the edge of the cloying. “Okay. I guess you could say that.”
    â€œWould you say it?”
    â€œI’d say I go to bed with him from time to time.”
    â€œAlways at the Starry Night Motel?”
    She looked at the silent Moody. “Once we tried another place along the road there, but it wasn’t nearly so vulgar, and I hated it.”
    Dennis frowned. He probably was genuinely puzzled here. “Vulgar? You like vulgar?”
    Mrs. Bissonette raised her fine eyebrows. “I mean the appointments of the room: the pink bathroom fixtures, the heart-shaped headboard, et cetera. The videos!”
    â€œYou like those things?” It was a flat question of the kind that expects no answer, and insofar as it was, it was unprofessional in Moody’s opinion: LeBeau was at a disadvantage with a woman of this sort.
    â€œI love ‘em,” said she, smiling graciously.
    Moody spoke at last. It was only respectful to ask a series of questions as to the time she and Howland reached the motel and when he subsequendy left it.
    She said they arrived independently, she not till about 1:30 P . M . Howland was already there, in room 122, their usual. He handled all such arrangements, though she insisted on paying her half of the charges.
    â€œDid Howland leave the room at any time?”
    â€œHe went to the outside pay phone to call his wife sometime in the late afternoon, maybe four, four-thirty.”
    â€œHow long was he gone from the room?”
    â€œThree-four minutes.”
    â€œHe came back immediately? Did he say anything about the call?”
    â€œNo. It wouldn’t have had anything to do with me anyway.”
    â€œNothing to do with you?” asked LeBeau, one eyebrow rising.
    â€œI’ve been trying to suggest, without being nasty about it, that our only connection was sex. I have no interest in anything else about Larry Howland. I mean, I don’t dislike him. I simply don’t find him very interesting.”
    It was hard for Moody to hear that Howland would be considered erotically desirable by any woman, let alone this one, but no doubt that was another example of how little he understood the opposite sex. He asked, “How long has this connection been going on?”
    â€œWith Larry?” Mrs. Bissonette counted on her delicate, ringless fingers, the nails of which were either painted in the most subtle of polishes or with nothing at all, but they gleamed. “Two months, give or take. And while I’m at it, you’ll probably want to know where and how we first met: the office parking lot, when I went there to deliver some presumably important papers one morning when my husband left home without them. Larry was just coming out the door. He—”
    LeBeau interrupted. She was taking too much of the initiative. And unlike his partner, he was not impressed by the woman: that was obvious to Moody, who could not help feeling superior to Dennis, for once, in the emotional realm. “Tell me this: did Howland ever do or say anything that had to do with his wife, or make any phone calls when in your company that might have had to do with her?”
    The elegant woman stared sharply at him and then turned to do the same with Moody. “Oh, no, you can’t be!” she wailed. “You can’t really think that Larry had anything to do with—and his poor little girl! For God’s sake.”
    Moody’s question was put mostly for the pleasure of witnessing her response. “You yourself had nothing to do with these matters, Mrs. Bissonette? You didn’t want to get rid of Howland’s wife so you two could get married?”
    â€œYou just had to ask that, didn’t you? Is it some kind of regulation?”
    He smirked. “You see, Mrs. Bissonette, we take a while in dealing with exceptions. Even in this day and age, the