Free Habit by T. J. Brearton Page B

very well.”
    Kettering scowled with thought. “Rebecca said something once about her father having his finger on the pulse when it came to biotechnology. A technocrat, she may have said. But, even though we were fond of each other, there was this air of . . . what do I want to say? They were just private about it. I didn’t ask.”
    “And you never married Rebecca.”
    Kettering came to a full stop this time. He stopped moving, his face stopped emoting. He seemed to look across the desk at Brendan like he was an auditor. “No,” he said.
    “Can I ask why?”
    “You can, but I don’t know that I can tell you that, either. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I can tell you that.”
    “So you proposed.”
    “Not in so many words, but yes. We talked about marriage. I brought it up. She’s . . . Rebecca is several years younger than me. I’ll be fifty in December. So, there’s that.” He seemed to grow uncomfortable.
    Brendan decided to push a little further. “Was she afraid her parents wouldn’t approve?”
    It took him a moment, and Kettering found the words. “Rebecca was very independent. I know that’s, ah, maybe incongruous with how it looks, her buying a place with her parents’ money and living there, but she didn’t do anything she didn’t want to. And she did do the things she wanted to do. You see what I’m saying?”
    “Yes. You’re being very helpful, Mr. Kettering, and I appreciate it.”
    He seemed to soften a little, to revert back to the glad-handing salesman. “Feel free to call me Donald.”
    “Thanks, Donald. Just a few more things I’d like to ask and then I’ll get out of your hair.”
    “It’s no trouble.” A cloud seemed to pass over him. “Jesus, this is just terrible. How did she die?”
    Brendan was careful. He had told Kettering on the phone that Rebecca Heilshorn’s death was unnatural, but had left it there. “She was viciously assaulted and murdered,” he said now.
    Donald Kettering put a hand over his mouth. Through his fingers he said, “As in . . . beat up? Shot?”
    “I’m sorry I can’t say just how. But to call it foul play would be an understatement.”
    “Terrible. Oh my God.” Kettering took his hand away and looked out the window over the couch.
    “It is. And I’m sorry for your loss. When did you last see Rebecca?”
    His gaze lingered on the parking lot outside. His voice was distant. “Oh, well, has to have been a year.” Now his eyes came back and focused on Brendan. “Yes, about a year.”
    “No phone calls during that time? Emails, anything?”
    He shrugged his shoulders. “No. When Rebecca broke something off, she broke it off.”
    “So, if I may, you dated for about two years. But then you became . . . more serious?”
    He nodded. His face seemed to contort with a painful memory and he looked down at his desk. Brendan leaned forward a little. “What is it?”
    Kettering shook his head. He seemed to snap out of something. “It’s just. I just can’t believe this.”
    “Did you live together?”
    “No. She wanted her space.”
    “But you were exclusive.”
    His eyes came up. They had a haunted look. “I hope so, Detective.”
    “And this went on for how long?”
    “Just about a year.”
    “How about friends? Did the two of you go out to dinner, double-date? Who did Rebecca know in the area?”
    “Nada. Zip,” said Kettering. “We never did anything, despite my trying. We went to the mall once to buy some things for the house. I mean, we would go to dinner every once in a while if I pried her, but she was always looking around like she didn’t want to be seen. She never talked about any friends.”
    “Really? Not even an acquaintance? Someone that knew her at the local bakery, let’s say? Anything. You see, the details are critical to this investigation. Where she may have been the night before the tragedy is very important. Who she might have been with. I hate to ask this again, but you’re sure you were exclusive? She