Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,113
of the interviews, pass the word. Push it.
“Peabody, break’s over. Jorgenson’s up.”
“I’m ready. I’m freaking armed and ready.”
He didn’t look like much, Eve thought when she walked into interview. On the short side at five-seven with that compact build. The spiked red hair flamed over a moon-white face.
He sat with his arms crossed and a look of boredom in pale green eyes while his overanxious public defender agitated beside him.
“My client has spent over sixteen hours waiting for this interview. His due process—”
“Hold it. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering interview with Jorgenson, Kenneth, and his court-appointed attorney. Please state your name for the record, sir.”
“Paul Quentin.”
Eve named various case files as she and Peabody took their seats.
“As I said my client—”
“Had to wait his turn,” Eve supplied. “Mr. Jorgenson—”
“I’ll speak for my client, Lieutenant. My client prefers being addressed and/or referred to as Bolt.”
“Is that so?”
Prissy-looking guy, Eve thought, and still green. Mixed race, skinny in his suit and carefully knotted tie. She imagined he was still young enough, still new enough to be idealistic.
“Are you aware of the charges against your client?”
“Of course, and my client, of course, refutes them. My client can name two witnesses who will verify his whereabouts at the time Lyle Pickering died.”
“First, your client is charged with ordering the murder of Mr. Pickering, not of carrying out the murder.”
Eve aimed her gaze at that moon-white face, those bored eyes. “We’re aware he doesn’t do his own dirty work.”
“My client, in fact, had no connection to the deceased and therefore would have no cause to order his murder. However, my client believes he may have some information which may help the police identify the individual who did, in fact, kill Mr. Pickering. He will offer that information in exchange for immunity on the lesser charges of assault, illegal possession, possession of—”
“Stop talking.”
Quentin’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stop talking.” Time, Eve decided, to wipe some of that green away. “If your murderous fuck of a client thinks he can try to toss this off on Marcus Jones, you’re wasting my time, my partner’s time. And if you actually believe your scum of a client, you’re going to last about six months as a PD.”
“Speaking to me or about my client in such a way—”
“Stop talking,” Eve repeated. “They rolled on you, Bolt. Snapper, Ticker—if we’re going to use your lame gang names. They rolled, then folded you up and rolled some more.”
Bolt leaned to his attorney, spoke low in his ear. Quentin nodded, cleared his throat. “My client and I are fully aware police officers are allowed to lie and mislead during an interview. Now though my client is barely acquainted with the individuals you named, he did see them briefly at or about the time of Lyle Pickering’s murder when they joined, for a short time, a casual game of basketball at a location known as the lot.”
“That’s interesting. Isn’t that interesting, Peabody?”
“I’m riveted. I mean, sure his lame-ass alibis both stated they were playing when he joined, but it’s easy to mix up little details like that when you’re lying.”
“It’s always the little things,” Eve agreed. “And speaking of little things, I bet Washington, Chesterfield—and we need to add Aimes in here—didn’t mention to your client, the little things they took from the Pickering apartment after they carried out his orders and pumped a killing dose of Go into Pickering.”
“There’s no evidence my client—”
Eve rolled over him like his fellow gang members rolled on Jorgenson. “Like the shiny red purse from the vic’s sister’s closet we found in Aimes’s pigsty of a room. And you know what, it had earrings inside with blood traces from where they’d been ripped out of earlobes. Dinnie Duff’s blood, as it happened.”
“My client’s hardly responsible for or connected to—”
“Not finished,” Eve said, and had to admit she enjoyed interrupting him again. “Washington had a pair of earrings, too.” She shoved a photo from her file onto the table. “Taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. He had them in his pocket, Bolt. I mean, Jesus, can’t you find anybody smarter? Not Chesterfield, that’s for sure, as he traded this bracelet—also from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom for sex—and had—on his person at the time of his arrest—this brooch, taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. The asshole was wearing shoes he stole from Pickering’s closet.”
“If this is true it has nothing to do with my client.”
“I bet it pisses him off,” Eve said, watching the muscles in