Chapter 5: The Morning Cordelia Came Back
She came back at nine-fifteen, before Adrian's lawyers arrived and before the detectives from Major Crimes.
She was wearing pearls again.
I heard the click of her heels in the corridor before the door opened.
Unhurried.
Certain.
The walk of a woman who had spent a night recalculating and arrived at a number she liked.
She closed the door behind her — not locked this time, because Petra was visible through the small window in the door, seated at the nurses' station directly across the hall.
Cordelia stood at the foot of my bed and looked at me the way you look at a piece of furniture you are deciding whether to keep.
"I spoke to our attorney this morning," she said.
"Gerald Fitch.
You may remember him from the wedding.
He handled the prenuptial agreement." She smoothed the front of her jacket.
"Gerald tells me that the recording laws in this state require all parties to consent to being recorded.
He believes any audio captured in this room without my knowledge may be inadmissible."
She was watching my face for a reaction.
I gave her nothing.
"I also want you to know," she continued, moving to the side of the bed, closer now, "that whatever Mr.
Mercer has told you — or told anyone — the Voss family has resources that a private investigator with a folder of payment receipts cannot match.
Gerald has already contacted the hospital administrator.
There will be a review of who has been granted access to this room."
She leaned down slightly.
Her perfume arrived before her face.
"I have done this before," she said softly.
"Not this exactly.
But I have faced people who thought they had enough to bring this family down.
They were wrong.
Every one of them."
The door opened.
Cordelia straightened.
But it was not Petra.
Detective Sandra Okafor was a compact woman in her late forties with close-cropped hair and the kind of stillness that came from years of walking into rooms where people were lying.
Behind her stood Detective Ray Villanueva, younger, broader, holding a recorder of his own.
"Mrs.
Voss," Detective Okafor said.
"We've been looking for you.
We went to the estate first."
Cordelia turned.
Her composure was extraordinary — a lifetime of practice made visible in a single pivot.
"Detectives.
I was just visiting my daughter-in-law."
"Of course." Okafor looked at me, then back at Cordelia.
"We'd like you to come with us.
We have some questions about a payment authorization from the estate maintenance account."
"I've already told Mr.
Mercer—"
"Mr.
Mercer is a private investigator," Okafor said pleasantly.
"We're not Mr.
Mercer."
Cordelia picked up her handbag.
She was still composed.
Still measured.
But her eyes moved to me one last time — and in that look was something I had not seen from her before.
Calculation replaced by something rawer.
She had not expected the detectives this soon.
"I'll need to contact Gerald Fitch before I answer any questions," she said.
"Absolutely," Okafor said.
"You can call him from the car."
They left.
Villanueva pulled the door shut behind him.
The room was quiet.
I moved my thumb and deactivated the recorder.
Then I lay still and thought about Gerald Fitch and his theory about consent laws.
He was not entirely wrong.
Consent laws were complicated.
Evidence obtained in certain ways could be challenged.
A good defense attorney would challenge everything.
But Cordelia had made a mistake the night before that had nothing to do with the recorder.
May you like
She had done it in front of Petra.
And Petra had written it down before she ever walked through that door.
