Free Fatal Impressions by Reba White Williams Page A

never married, never been engaged, never lived with anyone, and that I never will. That I like men in small doses—flings. That I love living alone. And I said that if you were looking for a wife, or even a roommate, forget about me . I’m not interested. Didn’t you hear me?” she asked, her green eyes icy.
    He remembered every word, but he hadn’t believed she meant it at the time, and he still didn’t. All women wanted to be married, to have a family, to have a husband to support them. He and Coleman had gone out together almost every night since their first date in January. Every occasion had been wonderful. He was in love with her, and he was certain she was in love with him. He was confident that he could persuade her that they were meant to be together. It was just a matter of time.
    But the more he pursued her, the more she retreated. When he talked about children and a house in Connecticut, perhaps Darien or Westport, she shook her head and looked at him as if he were a Martian. Before she’d acquired First Home , he’d tried to persuade her not to buy another magazine, advised her that given the country’s economic problems, buying it was a bad risk. In any case, she shouldn’t work so hard, keep such long hours. Since then, she’d refused his every invitation. He could rarely reach her on the telephone. He sent flowers, candy, books, notes, and cards. He received brief thank-you notes, until she’d e-mailed him, asking him to stop the “annoying” barrage.
    Still, he would keep trying. He was determined to marry her. Surely she would come to her senses and see how much better off she’d be as Mrs. Robert Mondelli. Retired from the cutthroat world of publishing. Taking care of babies instead of a lap dog. A big beautiful house in the suburbs instead of her tiny apartment in dangerous New York, where she’d been mugged, and where she met such awful types, like that filthy artist who accosted her at her party.
    He tried to call both Coleman and Jonathan from the limo that met him at JFK. Coleman was out of the office, but Jonathan, who hadn’t yet arrived from Los Angeles, had e-mailed asking Rob to come to Cornelia Street tonight at seven. Rob left word with Jonathan’s assistant that he’d be there and that he would call Jonathan as soon as possible. He phoned Dinah at home, got her machine, and tried the Greene Gallery.
    A shaky little female voice answered the telephone—probably one of Dinah’s graduate students, getting a taste of the real world and not liking it. “This is Robert Mondelli. May I speak to Ms. Greene, please?”
    “Welcome back. We missed you,” Dinah said, picking up the line. Her chatty tone suggested that today was an ordinary day. Could something have changed since he spoke to Coleman?
    “What’s happening, Dinah?” he asked.
    “The detectives are here waiting to interview me again. I thought they’d asked me everything early this morning, but I guess not, and Coleman said I mustn’t speak to them without a lawyer—”
    Bad news. The police shouldn’t be after her again so soon. She must be their only suspect. She shouldn’t be in the office; she should be at home, resting and inaccessible, especially since it was after five.
    “Coleman’s right. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Don’t say a word till I arrive. Can you transfer me to one of the officers?”
    “Yes, of course. Thanks, Rob,” she said.
    The next voice he heard was deep and gruff.
    “Harrison,” the man said. Rob identified himself as Dinah’s attorney and said he’d be with them in an hour. “Till then, I don’t want you to speak to my client. Is that clear?”
    “Yeah.”
    He sounded surly, but Rob was confident Harrison would do as he was told, at least for now. Before Rob saw Dinah or talked to the police waiting to interrogate her, he needed information about this death. When he spoke to Coleman, she hadn’t been sure that it was murder. Maybe the problem had disappeared. If