A/N1: Booker and Chen may make notes in their little notebooks about ownership of Chuck. Probably not, though.
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They were heading into an empty, small conference room near where Daphne Peralta had been meeting with Chuck, Sarah and Ellie. Booker had grabbed a handful of water bottles from a side table in the larger room and brought them into the room for Mrs. Peralta's interview.
There were only the detectives and Mrs. Peralta present. Since she'd woken up from her faint she'd seemed numb. She wasn't hysterical. She wasn't even crying. It appeared that the shock had frozen her psyche. Neither of the men thought it in any way odd, as they'd seen all sorts of reactions to similar news.
As she was led into the room, Chen said, "Very sorry for your loss, Ma'am."
"Thank you," she said, robotically.
"Before we get started, is there anyone you have to notify? We have to talk to you, but I don't want to distract you from letting his parents know or something," said Chen.
"No, no one. We don't have family. Neither of us," she said, "We had planned to start ... you know, maybe trying for children, but..."
"Ok," said Chen. "Ok, if we get started then? Or do you need a moment or two? It's ok for us to wait. We don't want you to feel more stressed than you already are."
She shook her head "No. We can start. Ask whatever you want." Booker pulled out a chair, inviting her to sit and offered her a bottle of water, which she accepted.
Once seated at the table, Booker said, gently, "Mrs. Peralta, do you mind if we record this conversation?"
"Sure. Fine," she said, emotionlessly, giving a slight wave of her hand. She was staring at a point on the conference table.
Chen put a recorder on the table and announced the date and time and the participants to the interview, then asked her permission to record a second time, getting her acquiescence on tape.
"Mrs. Peralta, could you please give us your full name, address, and contact information?"
She did so, including her company's information. Then, before they could ask the next question, she asked, deadpan, "How?"
"What?" asked Chen.
"How was he killed? Car accident? Mugging? Wasn't a heart attack or you'd have said he died, rather than that he was killed. So, how?"
"I'm afraid he was murdered," said Chen.
Peralta sighed and put her hand up to her face, but otherwise didn't react.
"You don't seem surprised, Ma'am," suggested Booker.
"Surprised? No. Not surprised," said Peralta.
"May I ask why?" asked Booker.
"Do you know what my husband did for a living?"
"We spoke to Ms. Fernandez. We understand he worked for a newspaper," said Booker.
"Yes. He was a reporter. An investigative reporter. He spent his life looking for things that powerful people wanted hidden and then telling those secrets to the world. You know the City Councilman who committed suicide last spring when the corruption scandal broke? That was Vinnie. When the EPA shut down the agricultural chemical business outside of Bakersfield last year? Vinnie is the one who broke the story about the illegal dumping. Put hundreds of people out of work as a result. That cop who went to prison for torturing a confession from a suspect? Vinnie. He's been doing this for nine years and loves it. I could tell you about a dozen more and he made enemies with each one. I think it would be easiest to list the people in Los Angeles who didn't want him murdered."
Booker and Chen looked at each other and both thought the same thing. Oh, boy.
"We'll do our best to find whoever did this, Ma'am. I promise you," said Chen.
"Yeah. I know. Good luck," she said, still affectless. "How did it happen?"
"He was sitting at his computer when a bullet came through the window behind him. Took him in the head. He would have died instantly." said Chen, trying to be gentle with the horrifying news.
"At home. Figures. Shit. Backyard. Ah," said Peralta. "I always told him we needed a light back there."
"Where?" asked Chen.
"The backyard. For at night," she said.
"There was a broken window behind him that's not explained by the shot. Might you have any idea about that?" asked Chen. "Was it already broken before today, for example?"
"Not explained by the shot? No, I have no idea about that," she said shaking her head.
While the questioning was ongoing, both men made occasional notes in the small notebooks on the table in front of them.
"You weren't home last night. Where were you, please?" asked Booker.
For the first time, she looked up and looked him in the eye. "Where was I?" She emphasized the last word, as if their interest in her whereabouts were a surprise to her. But that only lasted a moment or so and she looked back down at the table. "Of course you want to know. Isn't the spouse always the first suspect in a murder on TV? Right? I was here. At the hotel. I've got a mammoth event coming up and they've comped me a room when I need it every now and then. I stayed over last night."
"Can anyone verify that?" asked Booker. "Not that we doubt you, of course."
She made a scoffing noise and said, "No. I was alone in my room all night. Had dinner in the hotel dining room and breakfast in the breakfast place downstairs. The rest of my time, I was in my room alone."
"I understand," said Chen.
"Wait, no, Sadie called me. My assistant Sadie. She called me on the room phone. She can tell you where I was," said Peralta.
"Not your cell phone?" asked Chen.
"Dead. I got distracted and forgot to charge it yesterday," she said.
"What time was that call?" asked Booker.
"I don't know. After dinner and before I turned off the light," she shrugged.
"Was it your intention to go home today?" asked Booker.
"Yeah. I guess so. Not now, right? Crime scene now, huh, though? Guess I'll be here for a few more days," she said.
"We can let you in to your house to get some clothes and whatnot. Any papers you need. That sort of thing," said Booker.
"Thank you," she said.
"How did you and your husband meet?" asked Chen.
"It was about five years ago. I was hired to run the newspaper's holiday party. I was working and he was there. He spent time talking to me. I didn't know it at the time, but it was sort of his thing. Talking to the working people. Not the rich or important. Not the guests. The men and women who actually made things happen. He always said that the best stories came from below. He used to tell me that the newspaper man Jimmy Breslin won a Pulitzer Prize for his coverage of the Kennedy assassination. Breslin wrote about the grave-digger at Arlington. He's Vinnie's role model.
"So, whenever we'd be invited to a big society party or something, there Vinnie'd be in conversation with the bartender or the busboy or the parking valet. Whatever. He had what it took to charm everyone. Big and strong. Rugged good looks. Killer smile. He could carry on a conversation with a plant and make it laugh. He certainly charmed me.
"He'd give out his business card and let them know to call him with anything interesting. It was almost often nothing when he'd get the calls. Like gossipy shit. Who's banging who, that kind of thing. But sometimes it wasn't nothing. Sometimes it gave him a thread to pull.
"Anyway, after the holiday party we started to date and fell in love. We've been married for three and a half years. Had been, I mean. Had. Past tense of the verb," shaking her head at her own slip. She took a sip of water from the bottle in her hand, her hand shaking a bit.
"Good marriage? No trouble?" asked Booker softly.
She paused a moment or two. "No trouble. It was good. I mean we had issues, like anyone else, but it was good. Nothing major." She grinned weakly for the first time, still staring at the table, and said, "Toilet seat was a thing, but I don't expect you guys to understand that unless you've got live-in ladies. Anyway, we've been ships passing in the night for the last couple of months. This double wedding – double everything, rehearsal dinner, wedding, reception, next day brunch. It's the biggest job I've ever done. And it's right after Christmas, so there's all the holiday bullshit too. And Ellie will not tolerate a single detail to be anything less than nailed down tight." Booker and Chen glanced at each other quickly.
"And he was busy too. He had some big investigation going on," she said,
"Do you know what he was looking into?" asked Chen.
"No. Journalistic ethics and stuff. He was a stickler for those rules. His editor would know, but I wouldn't find out until the day before he published. Pretty much like everyone else," she said.
"The car in the garage, that would be his?" asked Chen.
"Yeah. That's where he kept his car," she said. "Mine is downstairs with the parking valet people."
"The computer he was working with at the desk, was that his business or home computer?" asked Chen.
"Business. We shared a home computer. Kept it on a table in the bedroom," she said.
"Do you know if he had life insurance?" asked Booker.
"Insurance? I don't know. Maybe through the paper, I guess. I don't know. I didn't think about that. I'll have to ask Frank," she said.
"Frank?" asked Chen.
"Frank Deppard. Vinnie's editor," she said.
"OK. Did Vinnie seem nervous lately?" Booker asked.
She shook her head and said, "Vinnie? No. He was a cocky son of a bitch. He'd laugh at the danger. Literally. He thought it was funny when he was threatened. Truth was, I think he also thought it was a compliment. That his work was so important he might be physically threatened. Like confirmation that he was making a difference."
"Had he been threatened lately?" asked Booker.
"Frank would know. Vinnie knew it upset me and after a while stopped talking to me about those things," she said.
"Did you notice anything odd around the home? Strange cars in the neighborhood? People hanging around when they shouldn't be?" asked Booker.
"No. Nothing like that. Maybe some of my neighbors might have. I don't know. I didn't see anything like that," she said. "But I'm gone during the day, of course."
"How about deliverymen? Or someone coming in you didn't invite?" asked Chen.
"Um, like what?" she asked.
"Someone to read the gas meter? Someone from the electric company? Anything like that?" asked Booker.
"No. I mean, maybe Irma let someone in, but she didn't tell me. Why?" she asked.
"Because someone knew the layout of the house. Knew where he'd be and when. It wasn't an accident that the killer showed up just behind him when they did. They had clearly done a recon of your house and your husband's habits. Other than you, who else might have known that?" he asked. "Who could have shared that information?"
She kept her focus on the table and said, "I don't know. Irma. But she'd never betray us. I think she was a little bit in love with Vinnie."
"Ok, then, normal tradesmen? The plumber? The carpenter to fix the bedroom door?" asked Booker.
"No. Nothing like that. Nothing I remember, anyway," she said.
"How about friends over. Dinner party?"
"No. Neither of us were much into entertaining. If we were seeing friends we'd go out to a restaurant or club or something," she said. She sighed, "I guess you're right and someone was observing us. That's goddamn creepy." She seemed to shudder a bit, but didn't look away from the point on the table.
"Did you have any conversations with anyone about things like this? The layout of your home? Your husband's habits?" asked Chen, but again, he worked to ask the upsetting question as gently as possible.
"No, no. Of course, not," she said, still deadpan, but frowning and also a bit engaged.
"Mrs. Peralta, I don't suggest anything other than a friendly conversation with someone at the neighborhood Starbucks. 'Hey, we're getting our backyard worked on. Think we should get some backyard lights?' Something like that. Totally innocent except in hindsight. Anything come to mind?" said Booker.
"Oh shit. I.. I ... don't think so. No," she said shaking her head softly.
"Any unexplained trips out of town for your husband? Late nights?" asked Chen.
"No trips, no. Late nights? I don't know. He often met sources at night. It was just a part of the gig. Pretty normal. Recently, I don't know. I was working late nights myself and we didn't get to see each other as much as usual," she said. "I guess he might have been out late."
"Any strange behavior at home? Leaving the room to take a phone call?" Chen asked.
"Jeez, guys. It would have been weird for him to take a call in front of me. He had hundreds of contacts and I don't think I ever met more than a handful. Hell, he probably had dozens in your own department. At least until he outed that torturer, he did anyway. Now, I have no idea. He was always keeping me away from his work," she said.
"Maybe he was trying to protect you?" asked Booker.
"Maybe. We'll probably never know," she shrugged. "Any idea when they'll release the body? I have a memorial service and funeral to prepare."
"We don't know, Ma'am. It usually takes a few days for the Medical Examiner to do his thing," said Chen.
"Bullet to the back of the head. Doesn't sound complicated," she said.
"Yes, Ma'am," said Chen.
"Is there anyone to help you make the arrangements? Your assistant, perhaps?" asked Chen.
"Maybe. Yeah. Maybe Sadie can help, I guess," she said.
"Is there anything else you want to tell us, Ma'am?" asked Booker.
"No. Nothing I can think of," she said.
"Ok. Here are our cards with our cell phone numbers. Please call us if anything comes to you."
"Ok," she said dully.
Booker reached out to turn off the recorder on the table, signaling that the interview was over.
"Once again, Ma'am," said Booker. "Very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you," she said.
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A/N2: I'm a lawyer, but not a California lawyer. There are more than 50 different sets of laws in the United States. Fifty states, military law, the Federal government, and the various more amorphous U.S. jurisdictions, like Samoa or Guam. (For any of my readers from Samoa or Guam, I apologize if you are annoyed by my characterization. I was trying to be all encompassing and yet as unoffensive as possible.)
Among the different sets of laws there are laws about the recording of a conversation which broadly fall in two categories. A "one party consent" state means if a single party to the conversation chooses to record it (surreptitiously or otherwise), it's cool (New York, for example). A "two party consent" state, on the other hand, means that every party to the conversation has to approve the recording. It's my understanding that California is among the most stringent in terms of that rule (which is an actual crime in California), and one of the most aggressive in the prosecution of its violation. While there are exceptions for the police, officers are very careful nonetheless. This is just to explain the care that Booker and Chen take with getting the consent to record the conversations (as with Mrs. Peralta).
A/N3: The story about Jimmy Breslin's Pulitzer is true. Look it up.
A/N4: Six years. Wow. Today is the six year anniversary of my posting Chapter 1 of New Day. To those of you who observe this milestone with amazement, well, just imagine how I feel. Needless to say, if you'd have told me then where I'd be today, I would have thought you were out of your mind. And yet here I am having fun, and I have no plans to retire or end this story. (It's really an alternate universe consisting of 36 finished stories and one more in progress. I decided to keep it together for my own silly idiosyncratic reasons.) Coming up: Wedding. Honeymoon. Ring. Shaw. Pregnancy. Mary. Volkoff. Parenthood. Quinn. And wealth, power, family, joy, more wealth, more family, more joy. Seriously.
First off, I want to thank Argo0, who wrote First Dates and One Night Stands, which put our heroes on a parallel path from canon, and, in my opinion (obviously), a much better one. I also want to specifically thank the friends from those early years who did so much to encourage me when I was unsure of this project. And now a thank you to all my readers and reviewers whose manifest interest in the story keeps it alive. And, thank you all of my dear friends that I've made here through this fun little hobby. Finally, and most of all, thank you to my wife and sons for putting up with hearing the same New Day discussions over and over again. ("You told us that part already, Dad. Just stop.") You guys are all the best.
A/N5: How's everybody doing? How am I doing?