The Day Trader by Stephen Frey Page B

did he find me here? The buzz of voices fades as the doors swing shut behind me and I see Reggie Dorsey relaxing on the couch.
    “Hello, Augustus,” he says pleasantly, rising to meet me in front of Anna’s desk.
    I can tell she’s listening closely to what we’re saying even as she pretends to focus on sorting mail. “Good morning, Reggie. Let’s go in there,” I suggest, taking him by the elbow and guiding him away from her prying ears toward the conference room off the lobby where Seaver, Roger, and I met last week.
    “How have you been?” he asks, sitting down in the chair at the head of the table.
    “All right. Still hurting.”
    “Started a new job, I see.”
    “Yes.” I haven’t spoken to Reggie since he stopped by the house more than a week and a half ago. “How did you know I was here? I don’t remember telling you I was coming to Bedford.”
    “We’ll get to that,” he replies, brushing aside my question. “I need to ask you a few things first.”
    I’m suddenly aware that the Great Western envelope is sticking out of my shirt pocket. I can’t remember how I slid it in there—with the return address visible or not. His eyes flicker down to my chest, but I can’t read anything in his glance. I want to look down, want to hide the envelope because he might get the wrong idea, but, of course, I can’t do that now.
    Reggie crosses his arms and his sports jacket rides up, exposing thick forearms. “How were you and Melanie getting along in the months before her death?”
    He’s never started a conversation like this before, and I’m on the defensive immediately. “I don’t understand.” I clasp my hands together tightly beneath the table and feel cool perspiration between my fingers.
    “Any arguments or fights?”
    “Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say. “What’s going on here, Reggie?”
    “What was ordinary?”
    He pays no attention to my request for an explanation. “We argued once in a while.”
    “About what?”
    “Fall fashions, usually.”
    “Come on, Augustus.”
    “Oh, I see. I answer you, but you ignore me.”
    “Augustus.”
    “We didn’t have much money, which was difficult.” I shouldn’t have to endure this kind of questioning. “Our financial situation was frustrating for both of us. We couldn’t buy things we wanted or take nice vacations. We saw lots of people our age enjoying the good life, and we felt we were missing out. That caused problems. I told you all this the last time you stopped by the house. I’ve been very honest with you.”
    “Do you have any reason not to be honest with me?”
    “Of course not.” I think back to the speech Reggie delivered in his car after giving me a ride home from the morgue. The one about asking me questions that might upset me. About how he would just be doing his job. This is what he was talking about. He’s given me a few days to recover, and now he’s treating me like a suspect. There won’t be any sympathy for me from now on because, as he warned me, he doesn’t care about my feelings. He only cares about finding Melanie’s killer.
    Reggie leans forward, elbows on the table. “So you fought over money.” He opens his hands, palms up like a minister, and his voice takes on a compassionate quality. “Most couples do. I bet Melanie was the one who wanted to spend all the money, and you wouldn’t let her. Weren’t you the one who managed the finances?” He shakes his head. “That’s a tough job. I know. I manage the money in my household.”
    I’ve been to this movie before. The cop whose manner is typically brusque turns sympathetic when he wants something. Russell Lake and Reggie Dorsey are alike in this way. “I was the one who paid the bills,” I confirm calmly. “I knew how little money we had. Melanie didn’t want to know.”
    “She wanted all those nice clothes and jewelry, like any woman does. She probably went to that Body Beautiful shop in the strip mall near your house for a manicure