Chapter Twenty-One
Now
“Lawrence Martins died in a home accident,” Nasser said over the phone.
I was at my computer writing an exhibit for the museum in Indiana when he called back a few hours later.
Even though I was already way behind on the project, I welcomed the distraction.
I couldn’t concentrate. I wasn’t sleeping well, and when I did manage to doze off, my jagged dreams kept the few hours I did get from feeling restful.
But Nasser’s news injected new energy into my veins. “There is a police record? And you got your hands on it?”
“Yes, a report was filed but I haven’t seen it. A law enforcement friend told me what’s in it. It says Martins died at home after falling and hitting his head on the fireplace hearth. His death was ruled accidental.”
“Remind me what part of the fireplace the hearth is,” I said. “Is it the brick surrounding the firebox?”
“Sort of. It includes the raised part that surrounds the actual firebox. In this case, it was a raised stone hearth. The kind that’s around the height of a low stool. You mostly see it in older houses.”
“Hmm. I can see how that might mess Lizzie up if she witnessed his fall.”
My home office desk was up against a window facing the road. Binti was upstairs sleeping in the warmth of the sun that poured in through my bedroom window in the late morning.
As I spoke, a gray sedan pulled up in front of the house.
Two well-dressed people, a dark-skinned man with close-cut hair wearing a sharp navy suit and a redheaded, freckled woman in a forest-green pantsuit, exited the vehicle.
I expected them to go to another residence, but they started walking toward my house, the woman’s heels clicking on the poured concrete. “Someone is coming up my driveway.”
“Who?” Nasser asked. “Do you recognize them?”
“No. It’s two people. A man and a woman. Both are nicely dressed.” I tracked them until they reached my front doorstep. “Maybe they’re doing a security clearance on one of the neighbors.”
It wasn’t unusual for the feds to show up inquiring about some neighbor seeking a government security clearance. It had happened a couple of times since we’d lived in this house, and once back when we were in the townhome. The doorbell rang.
“They’re at the door. I have to go.”
“Keep the line open until you know for sure who they are,” Nasser told me. “Don’t hang up.”
“OK.” Phone in hand, I went to the door. Binti, roused from her sun-drenched nap, raced down the stairs to yell at the newcomers.
“Calm down, girl.” I petted her gently. “It’s OK.” Grabbing hold of her collar, I opened the door.
The gentleman spoke first. “Good afternoon. Mrs. Abadi?”
“Yes?”
He smiled, revealing a dimple. Close up I could see just a sprinkling of gray in his cropped dark hair. He looked to be in his forties. Binti barked, and the man’s smile vanished. “Does he bite?”
“It depends on who you are,” I answered. “Who are you?”
“I’m Detective Isiah Lloyd, and this is Detective Sadie Fox.”
The floor wobbled beneath my feet, and I forgot about Nasser on the phone and holding Binti’s collar. Having law enforcement show up at my door would always recall the worst night of my life.
“May we come in?” the woman asked while keeping one eye on Binti, who stood next to me, tail on alert. The woman detective was about the same age as her colleague and wore a serious, no-nonsense expression.
“What is this about? Is it one of the kids?”
“No, nothing like that,” Detective Lloyd reassured me with another dimpled smile.
“We’re here about your husband,” Detective Fox informed me. Her attention went to Binti. “Maybe you could put the dog away?”
“Can I see your ID?” I made a show of examining the silver-and-navy shields with the county police logo stamped on them. “You said you’re here about my husband? He’s deceased.”
“Yes, we know,” she said. “There’s been a development that we’d like to speak with you about.”
“What kind of development?” It had been months since the accident.
“We think it would be better if you sit while we have this discussion,” the female detective said.
I opened the door wider to let them in. We sat in the formal living room that we almost never used. I set my phone aside. Binti settled near my feet. “She doesn’t bite,” I assured them. “What’s going on?”
The woman brushed a bang off her eye. Her short, manicured nails were painted fiery red. She wore gold ring stacks on three of her fingers. “Whenever there is a serious car accident,” she began, “it is standard to take blood from the deceased and send it to a lab for testing.”
“OK.” I waited for her to get to the point. “And?”
“Your husband’s results were delayed for a bit. And when they did come in, they were, unfortunately, misplaced,” she said. “The original officer on your husband’s case retired, so the report was mislaid for a little while.”
“When there is no reason to suspect foul play,” the male detective added, “there isn’t a big rush on the tox screen.”
“The what?”
“Toxicology report.” Fox, the woman detective, answered for him. “The results of the blood tests.”
I remembered then that the police who visited shortly after Ali died mentioned running a blood test. “What were the results?”
“Since the results weren’t routine,” Fox said, “we have to investigate further before we close this case.”
“Not routine? What does that mean?”
“Your husband had a significant amount of alprazolam in his system at the time of death,” Detective Fox said.
“What is that?”
“It’s more commonly known by its brand name,” her partner, Lloyd, told me. “Xanax.”
I shook my head. “There must be some mistake. Ali never took Xanax. He rarely even took over-the-counter pain relievers.”
“Is it possible he took it without your knowing?” Detective Fox asked.
I was quickly learning that anything might be possible. Secretly taking antianxiety medicine could be the latest on the growing list of things that Ali didn’t share with me. “I don’t think he would hide something like that.” At least the Ali I knew wouldn’t.
Detective Lloyd referred to his phone. “Our report says that you previously mentioned being of the Muslim faith to our officers.”
“Did I?” I didn’t remember alluding to our religion. “I don’t recall. How does that signify?”
“Isn’t admitting you have mental health problems looked down upon in a conservative culture like yours?”
“We’re American. We were both born here. I don’t think less of people who need Xanax,” I said flatly. “Obviously I can’t know one hundred percent for sure that Ali didn’t take Xanax, but it would surprise me very much if he did, given his general dislike of over-the-counter medicines.”
Detective Lloyd gave me another kindly look. “We’re not making any assumptions—”
“It sounds like you are.”
“We’re just trying to clear everything up,” he finished.
Detective Fox scooted to the edge of her seat. “Did your husband have any sleeping issues?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did he have trouble falling and staying asleep?” She talked a lot with her hands, the red nails sweeping through the air. “People sometimes take Xanax to help them sleep.”
“He seemed to sleep just fine. He never complained about not sleeping well. My husband was one of those outdoorsy guys who hated to use drugs. He wouldn’t even take anything for a headache.”
“Can you think of any reason for your husband to have this drug in his system?” Detective Lloyd asked.
“I honestly can’t. Are you sure you didn’t get the report mixed up?”
Detective Fox had a contemplative look on her face. “You are aware that your husband didn’t brake before he hit that tree?”
“Yes.” My muscles tensed. I knew where this was headed. “I’m aware.”
“And the investigators felt it was possible that Mr. Abadi took his own life.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“We don’t mean to cause you any additional distress, Mrs. Abadi, but we have to be thorough in our investigation, and that means exploring all possibilities.
” She spoke in a brisk manner that gave the impression that I was holding her up.
“Someone who felt suicidal might have anxiety, and he might take Xanax for that anxiety.”
“What are you saying?” I retorted. “Did Ali drive into a tree because he wanted to kill himself? Or did he accidentally take too much Xanax, which caused him to crash?”
“As we said,” Lloyd answered in a calm tone, “we have to explore all potential options.”
Detective Fox seemed to lose her patience. She came to her feet. “Would you mind if we have a look inside your medicine cabinet?”
“What for?”
Detective Lloyd stood up. “Just to rule out that Mr. Abadi had Xanax in his possession.”
“You can look, but we don’t keep any medicine in the bathrooms. We keep it down here in the kitchen.”
Detective Lloyd dimpled again. “Would you mind showing us?”
I led them into the kitchen and opened the cabinet where I kept meds like painkillers and allergy tablets, along with alcohol swabs and various sizes of Band-Aids. This cabinet saw a lot of action during the kids’ years of scraped knees and grazed elbows.
“While Detective Fox looks through this cabinet, would you mind if I looked at the medicine cabinets?” Lloyd asked. “Just to be thorough.”
I numbly showed him upstairs to look through the bathroom cabinets. Binti trailed after us. When we came down again, the doorbell rang.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked.
“No, but I didn’t know you were coming either.”
I found Nasser on my doorstep wearing a dark tailored suit and a concerned look on his face. He didn’t wait to be invited in.
“What are you doing here?” I asked at the same time Binti started barking.
Nasser focused on Detective Lloyd. “I’m Nasser Abadi.”
The detective’s brows lifted. “The eminent defense attorney?”
“That’s right.”
“Your reputation precedes you.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated Nasser’s unexpected appearance. “Has Mrs. Abadi retained you as her counsel?”
Did the man think I’d hired a lawyer in the last ten minutes? Why would I?