The Wrong Man: A Novel of Suspense by Kate White

out of the way on the same day.
    “I’ve been expecting your call.”
    “Miami-Dade will be investigating the fatality, but we’re trying to offer whatever background we can,” Patchel said. “According to Detective Molinari, Mr. Healy told you that his wallet had been stolen at an apartment in Dumbo. Did he say when exactly?”
    “I spoke to him last Friday and he said it had happened ten days before. He’d been at a party there, and he assumed another guest had taken it.”
    Patchel was momentarily silent. Kit wondered if he was going to insist she come to Brooklyn and talk to him in person.
    “Here’s the problem,” he said finally. “I’ve checked the files. There’s no record of Matt Healy ever reporting a stolen wallet.”

chapter 7
     
    Kit froze in place, trying to process what the cop had told her.
    “Maybe he reported it in Manhattan,” she said. “That’s where he lives—I mean lived.”
    “But that would have turned up in our system, too. There’s nothing on file in the entire city.”
    Her heart skipped. Was Healy a liar, too?
    “Are you saying that he made it up?” she asked. “That he was never pickpocketed?”
    “No, it’s possible that his wallet was stolen, but people don’t always take the time to file reports on crimes like that because, frankly, it’s too much of a hassle, or they don’t see how it’s going to help. They won’t get their cash back and they can just cancel their credit cards and order new ones. You said he thought it was stolen at a private party?”
    “Right. Apparently there were a lot of people there that he didn’t know.”
    “Maybe he didn’t report it because he was afraid it might blow back on the hosts. You know, embarrass them.”
    “Okay, I see what you’re saying.” But still, it seemed weird.
    “Regardless, there’s not anything I can do from my end without a report. Thanks for your cooperation, though.”
    After he signed off, she lingered for a moment in the doorway.The revelation from Patchel gnawed at her. There was something about the situation she wasn’t seeing.
    She thought back to her first conversation with Healy, at the bar of the Italian restaurant. She’d stressed that he needed to call the police in regard to what she’d shared, assuming he’d already informed them about the stolen wallet. She distinctly remembered that Healy said he was planning to contact the police with her news but wanted to check with security first. So maybe he hadn’t called them about the wallet initially. Why not get in touch, though, after she’d dropped the bombshell? Even if Healy hadn’t had the time before heading to Miami, Ungaro could have done it. Maybe the security chief had advised against reporting the incident to the cops. But for what reason?
    Whatever the backstory, she’d told Wainwright and Ungaro everything they wanted to know. The New York police had just made clear they required nothing from her. It was over , hopefully. And except for a few bad memories, she could move on.
    As soon as she reached home, she plugged her iPhone into the speakers and played music, hoping to slip into a better mood. It didn’t help that the weekend was looming and she had almost nothing planned, other than a rendezvous with the treadmill at the gym and her weekly phone call to her parents. She realized that in the months since her break-up with Jeremy, she’d allowed her personal life to become as exciting as a soft-boiled egg.
    In the first weeks after the split, there’d been a flurry of activity. She’d signed up for an iPhone photography course and downloaded advanced Spanish lessons from Pimsleur. Her friends knew that the break-up had been mutual, knew she’d sensed for ages that Jeremy was a nice, safe harbor rather than someone she truly loved and longed for a life with, but they’d still been generous with invites for everything from pub crawls to concerts. They’d arranged blind dates, too. Most had been attractive, decent