Page 53 of The Perfect Divorce

“To what do I owe the pleasure of two such esteemed officers of the law making an in-person visit to my office?”

Olson has had little to no interaction with Sarah, and I can see by the look on Pam’s face that she’s thrown off by the mixture of supreme confidence laced with sarcasm and wit coming from the woman in front of us. But I know Sarah very well, and if I want to get anything of value out of her on the Stacy Howard disappearance and the Kelly Summers case, I’ll have to play her games—otherwise, she’ll shut us out cold. She may already have. As a lawyer, she knows knowledge is power, which is why she holds it tight.

“I’m sure you’re aware at this point that we’ve reopened the Kelly Summers investigation,” I say, figuring I should start with the likely reason she assumes we’re here.

“You mean the murder your department helped wrongfully convict my husband of? The same one in which one of your colleagues concealed exculpatory evidence as well as his sexual involvement with the victim. That investigation?” She cocks her head to the side, studying our faces.

“Just because a piece of evidence was...” I put my hand up to stop Olson.

“No, Sheriff Hudson, please let her continue.” Sarah gestures with her hand.

Olson looks to me for guidance on how to proceed. I shake my head softly, signaling for her to drop it. If Sarah wants to play it like this, then we need to dial her back.

“Obviously, in light of everything that’s happened since the withheld evidence was made public?—”

“Yes, the suicide attempt plus the manslaughter charges certainly don’t help the county’s image at all,” Sarah interrupts. “How’s the former sheriff doing by the way? I hope he’s recovering quickly because I have a lot of questions for him.”

“Actually, that’s one of the things we wanted to talk to you about, in addition to the Kelly Summers investigation.”

“I already answered every single question your sheriff’s department could throw at me a dozen years ago. If you want to know more about the Kelly Summers case, I suggest you go ask the guy who withheld evidence from it.”

“We can’t,” I say.

“And why’s that?”

“Because he’s dead,” Olson answers before me.

Sarah’s mouth parts but then snaps closed. Her eyes swing between us, slightly squinting. “So, you’re telling me that the man who led Kelly Summers’s investigation and the only person that could answer for key evidence having been withheld is dead? Right before the county will most likely be hit with a mountain of lawsuits due to his shoddy police work? If you ask me, that sounds rather convenient for the Prince William County Sheriff’s Office,” she says, leaning back in her chair.

“It’s actually not at all convenient for us,” I respond, narrowing my eyes to match her demeanor.

Sarah turns her head toward me slowly. “Oh yeah, and why’s that, Sheriff?”

“Because Stevens was murdered. Someone slit his throat while he was asleep.” I’m only telling her this because I need Sarah to grasp the severity of the situation. Public information be damned.

“Okay, so what’s this have to do with the Summers case?” she asks, indifferent to the gruesome details I just revealed. Then again, she’s a lawyer; she’s heard about many murders in gory detail over the years, including one in her own home.

“We’re not sure it has anything to do with it, but with the investigation reopened and Stevens dead, we’re running out of people to question, so I’d appreciate your cooperation.” I press my lips together and hold her gaze.

Sarah nods and flicks a hand. “Please proceed then.”

I slip a pen and a pad of paper from my front pocket. “The night Kelly Summers was murdered, you previously stated that you were out at a bar in DC, having drinks with your then assistant, Anne Davis. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct, and Anne has corroborated that as well. In fact, she works here with me and can verify it again if you like.” She begins to rise from her chair.

“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” Olson gestures for her to sit back down.

It’s clear Sarah is still toying with us. She’s pissed, and she wants us to know it—so she’ll continue to jam it down our throats every chance she gets.

“What time did you go home?” I ask.

“I don’t remember, whatever I said twelve years ago.”

I glance at the pad of paper. “A little after midnight,” I say.

“Sounds about right.”

“And where did you and Ms. Davis have drinks?”

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