the other side of her. The apartment directly beneath her was vacant.
The woman who lived next to Millie was in her sixties, dressed as if she were young and living in the sixties. She had on faded jeans with the knees fashionably ripped, a red, blue, and green tie-dyed T-shirt, and rings of every kind on every finger. No makeup. No shoes, either. Her thinning gray hair was straight and hung almost to her waist. Her toenails were painted white with intricate red designs on each one. Quinn considered giving her the peace sign and then decided against it.
He explained why he was there and then double-checked his notes. “Margaret Freeman, is it?”
“My friends call me Free,” she said, with a Mary Travers kind of smile.
“Okay, Free,” Quinn said, thinking, Oh, wow .
She stood aside so he could enter, and he was surprised. The apartment was furnished traditionally, even with a sofa and chairs that matched. The floor was polished wood, with woven throw rugs scattered about. A flat-screen TV reposed placidly in a corner like a god. No beaded room dividers, no rock-star posters, no whiff of incense, no sign or sound of high-tech stereo equipment.
She motioned for Quinn to sit on the sofa, which he did. Free asked him if he’d like anything to drink, and he declined. She settled across from him in one of the matching gray chairs. “I’ve already talked—”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “I read your statement.”
“Then you know I use my largest bedroom for an office, so Millie’s bedroom is right on the other side of the wall.”
She sat back and knitted her fingers over one bare knee, as if waiting for him to ask questions.
“Why don’t you tell me what, if anything, you saw or heard?”
Free drew a deep breath. Her breasts were surprisingly bulky beneath her kaleidoscope shirt. “Around ten o’clock, when I was working late, I came in here to lock up and thought I heard someone knocking on Millie’s door. Then I heard male and female voices, like when she answered the door and they talked, and then nothing. It seemed to me she let in whoever it was.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“I would have heard him walking away in the hall if she hadn’t let him in. That’s just the way this building is.”
“Did it sound as if they were arguing?” Quinn asked.
“No, nothing like that. I went back to my office but didn’t go back to work. Instead I stretched out in my recliner to read. I wasn’t too surprised to hear the same voices, at lower volume, coming from her bedroom on the other side of the wall.”
Quinn wondered if she’d stayed in the office hoping to overhear pillow talk.
“Still friendly voices?” he asked.
“I really couldn’t say, they were so faint.” She looked off and up to the right, the way people do when they’re trying to remember. “I sat there reading my Sara Paretsky novel, only halfway aware of the voices, and after about twenty minutes I heard something I recalled after I gave my original statement to the police.”
Quinn looked up sharply and felt his blood quicken. But probably this would be something inane and of no help at all. They weren’t in a mystery novel.
Free reined in her gaze to include Quinn. “There were no voices, and no other sounds for about twenty minutes. No—more than that. Then, just past ten-thirty, the man said something loud enough that I heard. His voice seemed raised, but not necessarily because he was mad. More like he was trying to make a point. It wasn’t until this morning that I went over again in my mind what I’d heard and it became intelligible.”
“And what did he say?” Quinn asked, realizing Free was drawing this out for dramatic effect.
“He said quite clearly, now that I recall it vividly: ‘You deserve it.’ ”
“But he didn’t seem angry?”
“No, not even upset. It was as if Millie had asked a question and he was answering her.”
Quinn knew Millie would have had to ask the question with her eyes.
The woman who lived next to Millie was in her sixties, dressed as if she were young and living in the sixties. She had on faded jeans with the knees fashionably ripped, a red, blue, and green tie-dyed T-shirt, and rings of every kind on every finger. No makeup. No shoes, either. Her thinning gray hair was straight and hung almost to her waist. Her toenails were painted white with intricate red designs on each one. Quinn considered giving her the peace sign and then decided against it.
He explained why he was there and then double-checked his notes. “Margaret Freeman, is it?”
“My friends call me Free,” she said, with a Mary Travers kind of smile.
“Okay, Free,” Quinn said, thinking, Oh, wow .
She stood aside so he could enter, and he was surprised. The apartment was furnished traditionally, even with a sofa and chairs that matched. The floor was polished wood, with woven throw rugs scattered about. A flat-screen TV reposed placidly in a corner like a god. No beaded room dividers, no rock-star posters, no whiff of incense, no sign or sound of high-tech stereo equipment.
She motioned for Quinn to sit on the sofa, which he did. Free asked him if he’d like anything to drink, and he declined. She settled across from him in one of the matching gray chairs. “I’ve already talked—”
“Yes,” Quinn said. “I read your statement.”
“Then you know I use my largest bedroom for an office, so Millie’s bedroom is right on the other side of the wall.”
She sat back and knitted her fingers over one bare knee, as if waiting for him to ask questions.
“Why don’t you tell me what, if anything, you saw or heard?”
Free drew a deep breath. Her breasts were surprisingly bulky beneath her kaleidoscope shirt. “Around ten o’clock, when I was working late, I came in here to lock up and thought I heard someone knocking on Millie’s door. Then I heard male and female voices, like when she answered the door and they talked, and then nothing. It seemed to me she let in whoever it was.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“I would have heard him walking away in the hall if she hadn’t let him in. That’s just the way this building is.”
“Did it sound as if they were arguing?” Quinn asked.
“No, nothing like that. I went back to my office but didn’t go back to work. Instead I stretched out in my recliner to read. I wasn’t too surprised to hear the same voices, at lower volume, coming from her bedroom on the other side of the wall.”
Quinn wondered if she’d stayed in the office hoping to overhear pillow talk.
“Still friendly voices?” he asked.
“I really couldn’t say, they were so faint.” She looked off and up to the right, the way people do when they’re trying to remember. “I sat there reading my Sara Paretsky novel, only halfway aware of the voices, and after about twenty minutes I heard something I recalled after I gave my original statement to the police.”
Quinn looked up sharply and felt his blood quicken. But probably this would be something inane and of no help at all. They weren’t in a mystery novel.
Free reined in her gaze to include Quinn. “There were no voices, and no other sounds for about twenty minutes. No—more than that. Then, just past ten-thirty, the man said something loud enough that I heard. His voice seemed raised, but not necessarily because he was mad. More like he was trying to make a point. It wasn’t until this morning that I went over again in my mind what I’d heard and it became intelligible.”
“And what did he say?” Quinn asked, realizing Free was drawing this out for dramatic effect.
“He said quite clearly, now that I recall it vividly: ‘You deserve it.’ ”
“But he didn’t seem angry?”
“No, not even upset. It was as if Millie had asked a question and he was answering her.”
Quinn knew Millie would have had to ask the question with her eyes.
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