Free The Dirty Secrets Club by Meg Gardiner

badge to show me?" he said.
    She sat down. "I'm not a police officer."
    She handed him her card. He read it, dropped it on his WSJ, and looked her up and down. She had dressed up. She was wearing a navy blue wraparound blouse and brown wool slacks over low -heeled boots. Silver hoop earrings. Her hair was pulled back with a barrette, wrangling her curls into submission. Harding's eyes, however, were drawn to the silver chain around her neck, with the cross and white-gold ring.
    He g ave h er same look Lieutenant Tang had given her the night before: What are you?
    It wasn't the dusky light in the arcade. People had a hard time pinning her down. A hint of Asia here, maybe a cherry blossom. Echo of a desert wind there, swords and sand and wailing music in a dusty ruin.
    "Can we talk about your ex-wife?" she said.
    "Why do the cops want a shrink to pry open Callie's head? What's the rush to judgment?"
    "I'm not judging. And I'm sorry if this is painful."
    "Sure you're judging. You presume she killed herself. What if she had an aneurysm? How do you know her brakes didn't fail?"
    "I don't. That's why it's important to gather all the information we can. I take it you don't think she committed suicide."
    "Not for a single second. Not Callie."
    There was a softness at the edge of his voice, and the slightest crack. And she sensed, in one burst, that he wasn't hostile. He was exhausted and jagged, barely holding it together.
    He stood up. "She lived around the corner. I'll show you her place."
    They headed out of the arcade. His stride was quick, and he walked with his hands jammed into the pockets of his chinos.
    "How long were you married?" Jo said.
    "Five years. Divorced seven." He pointed a thumb toward Stanford. "She was in law school, I was getting a J.D./M.B.A." He glanced at her. "That's a four-year program, law and business school
    combined."
    "I know the J.D./M.B.A. program. I went to Stanford med school."
    He nodded, as if acknowledging her as part of some tribal fellowship. "She went into law, I became a venture capitalist. We married, We broke up. No kids, no pets, no rock and roll. It was a grad school r ing that wasn't built to last." He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets. "In the long run we managed to be decent friends."
    He glanced at her, seemingly seeking confirmation that he didn't sound weird. "You married?"
    "No."
    "Ever been?"
    "Yes."
    "So you understand how things get complicated afterward."
    She looked at the trees. "What was she like?"
    "Sharp." The edge came back to his voice. "I mean that in a good way. Brilliant, calculating, driven. It made her a successful lawyer."
    "I understand she was on her way up in the U.S. Attorney's Office."
    "Like a rocket. She thrived on her job. And every bad guy she put away, she regarded as a W in her own personal win column." This time his voice discernibly fractured. "So killing herself would only prevent her from running up the score. No way she'd do that."
    "When did you last speak to her?"
    "Two days ago. She sounded fine."
    They turned the corner and headed into a residential neighborhood overhung with oaks and sycamores. Harding nodded at a row of elegant town houses and took a key from his pocket.
    "Here."
    They crossed a manicured lawn to a red lacquered front door. He stuck the key in the lock.
    "For a divorced couple, you two maintained close ties," Jo said.
    "I watered her plants when she was gone."
    "She listed you as her next of kin."
    "Neither of us have family. It seemed . . . efficient. I never thought I'd have to . . ."
    He deflated. His hand went to his eyes. "Sorry."
    Identifying her body must have been horrifying. "I know this is difficult," Jo said.
    Shaking his head, he pushed the door open and gestured for Jo to
    go in. She walked through the entryway and stopped, gathering an initial impression.
    The town house was airy, minimalist, with black leather furniture under a cathedral ceiling. An upstairs gallery overlooked the living room. Jo could