Claire nodded.
“Curious thing number two.” He added a second finger. “Paul went to college with Quinn. He shared a dorm room with the guy, and then when they were in grad school together, they shared an apartment, and then Quinn was best man at your wedding, and then they started the business together, right?”
Claire nodded again.
“They’ve been best friends for almost twenty-one years, and it seemed curious to me that after twenty-one years, Quinn figures out his best buddy is stealing from their company, the one they built together from the ground up, but instead of going to his buddy and saying, ‘Hey, what the fuck, buddy?’ Quinn goes straight to the FBI.”
The way he put it together did seem curious, but Claire only said, “Okay.”
Nolan held up a third finger. “Curious thing number three: Quinn didn’t go to the cops. He went to the FBI.”
“You have domain over financial crimes.”
“You’ve been reading our website.” Nolan seemed pleased. “But lemme ask you again: Is that what you’d do if your best friend of twenty-one years stole a small, almost negligible, amount of money from your zillion-dollar company—find the biggest, baddest stick to fuck him with?”
The question gave Claire a different answer: Adam had turned Paul in to the FBI, which meant that Adam and Paul were not getting along. Either Adam Quinn didn’t know about the movies or he knew about the movies and he was trying to screw over Paul.
Claire asked Nolan, “What did you do next?”
“How’s that?”
“You investigated Adam’s complaint about the money. You must have talked to the accountants. You traced the money back to Paul. And then what?”
“I arrested him.”
“Where?”
“Where?” Nolan repeated. “That’s a funny question.”
“Humor me.”
Nolan chuckled again. He was enjoying this. “I arrested him in his fancy office down the street. I put the handcuffs on him myself. Frogmarched him through the front lobby.”
“You surprised him.” Claire knew the kinds of things Paul left behind when he was surprised. “Did you check his computer?”
“Another funny question.”
“You have your curious things, I have my funny questions.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “Yes, I checked his computer.”
Claire nodded, but not for the reason Nolan would be thinking. If Adam had known about the movies, he would’ve made sure that they weren’t on Paul’s computer when the cops came. The first thing Paul would’ve done is point the finger back at his partner. Which meant that Fred Nolan had just handed Claire compelling proof that Adam was not involved in Paul’s side business after all.
“So, what do you say?” Nolan asked. “Quid pro quo, Clarice?”
They stared at each other again, this time with hope instead of hostility.
Could she trust Fred Nolan? He worked with the FBI. Then again, so had Johnny Jackson. Maybe Nolan’s trash talk about the Congressman was meant to draw her out. Give a little/get a little more. Or perhaps Nolan was being truthful. Paul was always telling Claire that she never trusted people, that she held back too much.
She asked, “What do you want to know?”
A smile broke across his face. “Did Paul slip you something before he died?”
The keytag. She almost laughed with relief. This entire dance had been to move them toward the keytag.
Claire chose to sound obtuse. “Are you making some kind of sexual innuendo because of what my husband and I were doing in the alley?”
“No.” The question clearly knocked him off his game. “Absolutely not. I just want to know if he slipped you—gave you—something. Anything. It could be small or big or—”
Claire stood up. “You’re disgusting.”
“Wait.” He stood up, too. “I’m not being an asshole.”
Claire employed one of Grandma Ginny’s quips. “If you have to say you’re not doing something, then you probably are.”
“I need you to sit down.” Nolan wasn’t playing around anymore. There was nothing flirty or silly about his tone. “Please.”
Claire sat back down, her spine straight in the chair. She could almost feel the power shifting back to her side. Nolan was going to lay all of his cards on the table, and she knew what the first card would be before he even showed his hand.
He said, “He’s alive.”
Claire asked, “Frankenstein?”
“No.” Nolan smoothed down his tie. “Paul. He’s not dead.”
Claire twisted her face into what she hoped was an expression of disbelief.
“Your husband is alive.”
“I am sick of your bullshit, Agent Nolan.” She forced some haughtiness into her voice. “I knew you were reprehensible, but I didn’t know you were cruel.”
“I’m sorry.” He held out his hands as if none of this was his fault. “I’m being straight with you. Your husband is alive.”
Claire tried to show surprise, but it felt too fake. She looked away. Coldness had always worked to her advantage. “I don’t believe you.”
“No more bullshit,” Nolan said. “We helped him fake his death.”
Claire kept her gaze turned away. She had to remind herself that she wasn’t supposed to know the extent of Paul’s crimes. “You’re telling me that the FBI helped my husband fake his death over three million dollars?”
“No, what I told you before is the truth. The embezzlement charges were dropped. That was settled between your husband and his partner. But we found some other things while we were investigating the initial complaint. Things that were a hell of a lot more curious than some missing cash.” Nolan didn’t elaborate. “We realized that Paul had information we needed. Volatile information. His life would’ve been in danger if it got out that he was talking, and we needed him alive to testify at the trial.”
Claire’s cheeks were wet. She was crying. Why was she crying?
Nolan said, “He was mixed up in some things—bad things— with some bad people.”
She touched her fingers to her face. The tears were real. How could that be?
“He asked to go into witness protection.” Nolan waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, he continued, “My bosses felt like he might be planning to run, so we moved up the day it was supposed to happen. We picked Paul up on his way to see you, taped him up with the squibs—that’s like a plastic balloon with fake blood—and told him it was going down in the alley.”
Claire stared at her wet fingertips in disbelief. She couldn’t be crying for Paul. She wasn’t that stupid. Was she crying for herself? For Lydia? For her mother who would never come?
Claire looked up at Nolan. He’d stopped talking. She should say something now, ask a question, make a comment.
She said, “Did you know Paul was going to meet me? That I would see it?”
“That was part of the agreement.” This time, Nolan looked away. “He wanted it to happen in front of you.”
Claire’s hands were shaking again. She longed for a time when nothing on her body shook with rage or fear or whatever mixture of hate and betrayal she was feeling right now. “The paramedics—”