Roberta Krause sits rigid on a sagging sofa, her hands nervously twisting a tea towel in her lap. The detectives’ notepads are out, pens poised, the air thick with suspicion. The faint hum of city traffic filters in, muffled by the heavy curtains.
"I just had a second visit from police detectives. They are looking for clues concerning the disappearance of small-time real estate mogul Adam Pearson. They claim that I was the last person to see him. And that if he met with foul play, I have a very good motive," Roberta says, her voice steady but edged with defensiveness.
"You see, Adam bought the rent-controlled New York apartment in which I live, and had filed to convert it into a co-op. That would allow him to sell each apartment individually, after fixing up the building. And that if I couldn't come up with the $200,000 price, I'd have to leave. And where else could a woman working as a waitress in a medium-price café find a similar apartment so close to my job for only $435 a month?"
One of the detectives, tall with graying temples, leans forward, his gaze unyielding. The other, younger and impatient, taps his pen against his notepad. Roberta folds her arms, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on her.
Roberta[/@ch_1]'s mind. The apartment is brighter, midday sun illuminating a chipped table set for two, a teapot steaming between mismatched mugs.]
"I explained to the detectives that Adam did visit me on that date. I invited him in, and served him a cup of herbal tea. And we discussed his pending conversion of my building, cordially I might add. And then he left. End of story. I even ventured an opinion that Adam wasn't dead, but alive, only where you would least expect him,"
The memory flickers out, replaced by the cold reality of the detectives’ presence and the silence that follows her words.
The detectives exchange glances, one arching an eyebrow, the other glancing toward the closed bedroom door. Roberta rises, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirt, masking her nerves with a practiced mother’s composure.
"He must be hungry," Roberta offers, voice softening as she steps toward the hallway. The detectives, uncomfortable, murmur their excuses and let themselves out, the door clicking shut behind them.
Roberta approaches the crib, her demeanor shifting from anxious to tender as she lifts the child and cradles him gently. Her voice is a whisper, tinged with irony and something like triumph.
"And here he is. What's the matter, Adam? You hungry? Don't fret. Mommy's not going to give you any more of that herbal tea. Let me warm up your bottle of formula," Roberta coos, her secret safe for now within the four walls of her modest apartment.
