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“Detective Wyatt,” Liam said, to draw his attention.

Bash turned around. “Do you have somewhere we can talk privately?”

“Sure.” Liam led Bash to his office. The entire suite had been decorated by Midwest Design not long after Liam and David had signed a lease. It was how he and Ava had met. She’d done his office with an eye for grays and blacks. The large desk she’d selected dominated the space and was stained a color she’d called driftwood. A matching credenza had been placed by the door. Liam had art deco chairs for guests and an executive leather one for himself.

“Do you mind if I close the door?” Bash said.

“Be my guest.” Liam sat down behind that monster desk. Although he liked it, he didn’t like the distance it put between him and his guests. “How’s the investigation going?”

Bash closed the door. “Mr. Parker, did you use Elise’s phone while you were in the apartment?”

That seemed like a strange way to start the discussion. Liam couldn’t see the relevance. “No. Why?”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Bash stared at Liam for a couple of seconds, as if he was giving Liam a chance to change his answer. Then he said, “Because we found your fingerprints on it.”

Liam wasn’t surprised. His prints had been on file for twenty years. He, along with six others, had been arrested for a bar fight in college. Liam wasn’t involved, he wasn’t a fighter. But the police thought he was, and that was enough. He was slapped with a fine and community service. The whole thing was stupid. But facts were facts. He’d been arrested for fighting, his prints were on file, and, while he hadn’t used Elise’s phone, he had touched it.

Liam could see how his answer might look less than honest, so he clarified. “I left my phone in the car and tried to use hers to call 911 when I found her body.”

“According to our notes, the call came from your cell.”

“Her phone was locked, and I didn’t know the code, so I went out to my car to get mine.”

“Why didn’t you use the emergency button on the lock screen?”

Liam didn’t remember seeing one, but if the detective said it was there, it must be. “I didn’t notice it.”

Bash leaned against the credenza and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you didn’t use her phone to delete your text messages.”

Delete his text messages? The question was so absurd that it didn’t register at first. Once it did, Liam said, “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Parker, we know that there were messages deleted from her phone. We got a court order and had the records sent over from AT&T. Based on the texts you two exchanged that night, it sounds like you might have been having some problems.”

To a degree, the detective was right. They had been having problems—or, at least one. But, even out of context, Liam didn’t see how Bash could read much into those messages. People “had to talk” every day. Still, that seemed to be what Bash was doing, and the whole conversation was quickly making Liam uneasy. “I just needed her to give me some space.”

Arms still crossed over his chest, Bash drummed his fingers on his bicep. “It looks like the last message she sent you was thirty-two minutes before you called 911. Does that sound right?”

“I guess.” Liam rolled his chair back a foot, putting a little more distance between him and the detective.

“So, to recap, the door was unlocked when you arrived.”

“Yes.”

“Nothing was taken.”

“Not that I could see.”

“And there was only thirty-two minutes between the time of her last text to you and the time you called 911.” Bash was rapidly firing one thought after another.

“I suppose,” Liam said, responding just as fast.

“Your text messages were deleted.”

“If you say so.”

Bash pointed at Liam. “But you didn’t delete them.”

“No.”

The detective opened his palm. “Mr. Parker, do you mind if we take a look at your phone?”

Liam pulled his phone out of his pocket, then hesitated. He realized handing it over might not be a good idea. To get into Ava’s at night, he had to request permission to play through an app she provided. He didn’t want the detective finding out about the gambling which, if he clicked on the app, he surely would. Besides, if Bash could twist a simple text message exchange into something suspect, what might he do with the rest of Liam’s life? “Do you have a warrant?”

Bash let his arm fall to his side, and the silence that followed was uncomfortable.

On the credenza, a small collection of first edition novels from Ray Bradbury and Phillip K. Dick were framed by a juniper bonsai tree and a model biplane made of metal and wire. The plane had come from the Chicago Arts Festival last year. Liam had taken his kids on a Sunday morning before the crowds settled in. His son Charlie, who was seven at the time, had said it would be perfect for his office and, even though his son had never seen his office, he was right.

The detective picked up the plane and spun the propeller with one finger, watching the blades rotate until they stopped. The whole thing irked Liam—Bash coming into his office, touching the plane his son had picked out for him, and all but outright accusing him of Elise’s murder.

Bash put the plane back down and rocked off the credenza. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Parker.”

“You know, if you’re thinking I killed her, you’re wrong.”

Bash opened the door without a response of any sort. It was almost as if he hadn’t even heard Liam. Before leaving, however, he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “One more thing. Why did you tell the officers that night her last name is Whitman?”

“What do you mean? It is Whitman.”

“It’s Watson.” Bash stepped through the doorway. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll get it all sorted out.” Then, as he headed toward the lobby, he called out, “See you