I went to Starbucks. I fired up the laptop. Dorita had sent me copies of the newspaper articles about Suspect Number One in the mysterious death of…my wife. It still didn’t sound right. ‘Death of my wife.’ It couldn’t be real. I’d found myself doing double takes every time a dark-haired woman walked by. Could that be her? May I please wake up?
The pictures were blurry, inconclusive. A high school yearbook photo. The perp getting into a car, holding his hands up over his face. Certainly a resemblance. But not enough to be sure it was Jake. I realized that I hadn’t asked Dorita how she knew that this was him.
I called her up. I told her about Laura’s results.
Hm, she said. Ambiguous.
Exactly Laura’s word, I said. Anyway, how the hell did you track him down?
I hate to reveal my secrets.
Sure. Save it for the ADA. How’d you find him?
The Guild.
The Actors’ Guild?
Exactly. They’ve got a record of stage names.
Isn’t that confidential information?
Sure, Ricky, it’s private, she laughed. As soon as I heard that, I gave up.
Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to impugn your investigative skills.
I accept your apology. Listen. I got the name. I did a search. These articles turned up. The ages matched. He’s a mystery guy. Here’s a mystery. It all fits. Could I be wrong? I could. But I seriously doubt it.
It would be quite a coincidence, I agreed. But I’d rather have something more concrete.
We could fly to Podunk, interview the locals. Go the whole nine yards. Or, we could just ask him.
Sure. And he’ll say, ‘Yeah, sure, I’m a sister-fucker. And I’m dying to expiate my guilt.’
Expiate. Nice. Are you Catholic?
No, but I’ve considered it. Answer the question.
There wasn’t any question. But I’m telling you, if he’s Brendan, we’ll know. We’ll know in two minutes. He’s a drunk. At least, you told me he was. We’ll get him liquored up.
I love you. ‘Liquored up.’ Who else would use that phrase?
After we get him liquored up, we spring it on him. He won’t see it coming. He has no reason to think anything’s cooking. We’ll see it on his face. Instantly. Then, he spills it. Or he doesn’t. If he doesn’t, we fly to Podunk, get the goods. He does, we save the trip.
Podunk has an airport?
I can always count on you to keep your eye on the ball.
Thanks. It’s one of my better qualities.
Set it up.
All right. I’ll set it up. But tell me, darling. How is it that you got to be so goddamn smart?
Sex. Lots and lots of sex. It stimulates the brain.
You have no idea how depressing that is.
Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.