Fatal Flaw Read Free

good looks, a five o’clock shadow that emphasized his classic bone structure. He worked out regularly, always had, even when wewere law students together, but even so, there was something weak about him. His chin was too sharp, his gaze too wavering. Looking at Guy, you had the sense you were looking at a Hollywood facade of what a man should look like, perfect on the outside, but one stiff breeze would blow him down. And now he had been beset by a hurricane.
    It had grown crowded in and about that little house. Someone upstairs was taking pictures. Someone upstairs was dusting for fingerprints and swabbing for blood. Someone outside in the rain was examining the windows and flower beds for signs of forced entry. Someone in the neighborhood was going door to door, asking questions. Television vans, alerted by the scanner, were on the street in force. The noose was already tightening around Guy Forrest’s neck, and there was precious little I could do about it.
    The coroner’s van sat on the street by the house’s front entrance, its motor running, its lights flashing. The attendants were in the front seat reading the Daily News, drinking coffee, waiting for the okay to take the body away. We were in the dining room, drinking nothing, but also waiting to be allowed to leave. I had already given as much information about Hailey Prouix’s next of kin as I could extract from Guy, the name of and an address for her sister, and had packed for Guy a small gym bag with a change of clothes. Twice I had tried to exit the house with him, twice I had been politely ordered to remain until Guy could speak to the detectives. Except Guy wouldn’t be speaking to the detectives.
    “Mr. Carl, is it?” said a tall, good-looking young woman in jacket and pants who entered the room. Her hair was cut short, her nose freckled. With her broad shoulders and confident smirk, she carried the athletic air of a field-hockey coach and referred to her notepad as if it were a playbook.
    “That’s right,” I said.
    “And Mr. Forrest?”
    Guy raised his head, looked at the woman, said nothing. His eyes were impressively red-rimmed, the eyes of the seriously bereaved. Or, considering what I had found in the bathroom, maybe the eyes of someone who was about to ask you to bust open another sack of Doritos, dude.
    “As you can understand,” I said, “it’s been a very difficult evening for us all.”
    “Of course,” said the young woman. “I’m County Detective Stone. With me is County Detective Breger.”
    She gestured at the man standing behind her, whose attention was turned away from us as he examined the edges of the dining room carpet. He was a good three decades older than she, with a sad face and plaid jacket. His shoulders were thick and rounded, his posture slumped, he was a great hunch of a man. There was something soft about Breger, something tired, as if he had grown comfortable in a routine that was being shattered by his younger, more enthusiastic partner.
    “I am sorry for your loss, Mr. Forrest,” said Detective Breger even as he continued his inspection of the room. “I have been doing this now for thirty-six years, and it is still a tough thing to see.”
    Guy tried to get a thank-you past his quivering jaw and failed.
    “Miss Prouix was what to you, Mr. Forrest?” asked Stone. “Your girlfriend?”
    “His fiancée,” I said.
    “Fiancée?” said Breger. “Oh, hell. That is a tough one. When was the wedding supposed to be?”
    “As soon as Mr. Forrest’s divorce came through,” I said.
    Stone shot me a look. “Mr. Carl, you’re a friend? An adviser? What?”
    “I am a friend of Mr. Forrest’s, but I am also a lawyer. Mr. Forrest called me when he found Miss Prouix on the bed.”
    “So you’re here now as what?”
    “A friend,” I said. “But a friend who knows that when a man is in shock over the death of a loved one, maybe it’s not the best time to be talking to the police.”
    “It is if the goal is