his father with her intelligence and fiery spirit. For their twentieth wedding anniversary, his father had taken her to Italy for a week, then Ireland. Mary Sullivan Renzi adored her husband, but she loved teasing him, and her hair-trigger temper was a thing to behold when she got going.
Franklin Sullivan Renzi hadn’t inherited his mother's auburn hair and green eyes, but he liked to think he channeled her fiery passion and empathy for the downtrodden. Salvatore Renzi was seventy-five now, still an appellate court judge in Boston. Six years ago, after battling a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer, Mary Sullivan Renzi had died. For the first time in his life, he had seen his father cry.
A heartbreaking moment, one he’d never forget. A normal reaction to grief, one he hadn’t seen from Peterson’s widow last night.
_____
His second visit to the Peterson home was starkly different. The Petersons lived in an exclusive enclave near the Metairie Country Club. At three a.m. their street had been dark and quiet. Now, bathed in sunlight, four television vans and a pack of reporters surrounded the house, an imposing English Tudor with an attached three-car garage. Dark-brown wood outlined the cream-painted exterior, and gables jutted out from the steep-slanted roof.
Waving off the reporters, he mounted the semi-circular terraced steps and rang the bell. The door opened immediately.
Corrine Peterson was only forty-five, but her dress was dowdy, not flattering at all. Nor was it widow’s black, though the aquamarine color complimented her short ash-brown hair. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and deep lines grooved the corners of her mouth.
Urgently motioning him inside, the widow led him into the living room and said in a business-like voice, “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Water would be fine,” he said.
Left alone, he studied the room, stunned by the décor. Unlike the English Tudor exterior, the interior was stark modern: Off-white walls and carpeting, floor-to-ceiling glass on the wall facing the golf course. In the center of the room, a smoked-glass coffee table stood between a black-leather couch and a white-leather settee. The room felt cold and impersonal, like the painting mounted on one wall, monochrome geometric shapes on a black background.
The one trace of humanity was the framed color photo on the mantle of a white-brick fireplace: the Petersons and their children, two girls and a boy. No sign of them now, no patter of footsteps, no young voices. He hoped there was a playroom. They sure didn’t fool around in here. The photograph appeared to have been taken by a professional, for a Christmas card perhaps.
He tried to reconcile the man in the photo with the corpse in the hotel, the man with the hideous grimace. In the photo Arnold sported a cocky, used-car-salesman grin. Dark hair flecked with gray slicked back from his fair-skinned brow. No tan. Indoor sports appeared to be Arnold's specialty. His hands rested on the boy in front of him. Corrine stood behind the two girls, a fake smile on her heavily made-up face. The girls were pretty, dark haired like their father, smiling into the camera. The boy looked to be about six. His smile seemed forced, as if it had taken a million shots to get a decent one. A not-so-happy family?
Stifling a yawn, he took a seat on the couch. Corrine Peterson returned, set a cut-crystal glass of ice water on the table in front of him and arranged herself on the white settee. Was the amber liquid in her glass iced tea or something stronger? Was Corrine a drinker?
“Do you have family around here?” he said, his usual icebreaker when interviewing a bereaved spouse.
“My mother’s flying in from Iowa City today. To help with the children.”
He took out a spiral notepad. “I know this isn't a good time, but I need to ask you some questions.”
She sipped her drink and gazed at him with her bloodshot blue eyes.
He tried to think of a word to
Franklin Sullivan Renzi hadn’t inherited his mother's auburn hair and green eyes, but he liked to think he channeled her fiery passion and empathy for the downtrodden. Salvatore Renzi was seventy-five now, still an appellate court judge in Boston. Six years ago, after battling a particularly aggressive form of breast cancer, Mary Sullivan Renzi had died. For the first time in his life, he had seen his father cry.
A heartbreaking moment, one he’d never forget. A normal reaction to grief, one he hadn’t seen from Peterson’s widow last night.
_____
His second visit to the Peterson home was starkly different. The Petersons lived in an exclusive enclave near the Metairie Country Club. At three a.m. their street had been dark and quiet. Now, bathed in sunlight, four television vans and a pack of reporters surrounded the house, an imposing English Tudor with an attached three-car garage. Dark-brown wood outlined the cream-painted exterior, and gables jutted out from the steep-slanted roof.
Waving off the reporters, he mounted the semi-circular terraced steps and rang the bell. The door opened immediately.
Corrine Peterson was only forty-five, but her dress was dowdy, not flattering at all. Nor was it widow’s black, though the aquamarine color complimented her short ash-brown hair. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and deep lines grooved the corners of her mouth.
Urgently motioning him inside, the widow led him into the living room and said in a business-like voice, “Would you like some iced tea?”
“Water would be fine,” he said.
Left alone, he studied the room, stunned by the décor. Unlike the English Tudor exterior, the interior was stark modern: Off-white walls and carpeting, floor-to-ceiling glass on the wall facing the golf course. In the center of the room, a smoked-glass coffee table stood between a black-leather couch and a white-leather settee. The room felt cold and impersonal, like the painting mounted on one wall, monochrome geometric shapes on a black background.
The one trace of humanity was the framed color photo on the mantle of a white-brick fireplace: the Petersons and their children, two girls and a boy. No sign of them now, no patter of footsteps, no young voices. He hoped there was a playroom. They sure didn’t fool around in here. The photograph appeared to have been taken by a professional, for a Christmas card perhaps.
He tried to reconcile the man in the photo with the corpse in the hotel, the man with the hideous grimace. In the photo Arnold sported a cocky, used-car-salesman grin. Dark hair flecked with gray slicked back from his fair-skinned brow. No tan. Indoor sports appeared to be Arnold's specialty. His hands rested on the boy in front of him. Corrine stood behind the two girls, a fake smile on her heavily made-up face. The girls were pretty, dark haired like their father, smiling into the camera. The boy looked to be about six. His smile seemed forced, as if it had taken a million shots to get a decent one. A not-so-happy family?
Stifling a yawn, he took a seat on the couch. Corrine Peterson returned, set a cut-crystal glass of ice water on the table in front of him and arranged herself on the white settee. Was the amber liquid in her glass iced tea or something stronger? Was Corrine a drinker?
“Do you have family around here?” he said, his usual icebreaker when interviewing a bereaved spouse.
“My mother’s flying in from Iowa City today. To help with the children.”
He took out a spiral notepad. “I know this isn't a good time, but I need to ask you some questions.”
She sipped her drink and gazed at him with her bloodshot blue eyes.
He tried to think of a word to
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