Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,116
and Chesterfield, and becoming aware they not only committed three murders but have attempted to implicate him, my client wishes to cooperate with the police in these matters.”
“Lots of words to say your client’s found himself in a hard corner and wants to try to slither his way out.”
The PD sent Eve what she supposed he thought was a stern look. “You’re required to inform the prosecutor’s office that my client has information that may help in your investigation and in the subsequent prosecution of charged parties.”
“Words, words.” Eve rose, went to the door. “Officer, would you inform APA Cher Reo we have a suspect who’s looking to deal?”
“Yes, sir.”
Eve sat again, hooked an arm over the back of her chair and met Jorgenson’s stare with one of her own.
He looked away first.
As the uniform let Reo in, Eve spoke for the record. “Reo, APA Cher, entering interview.”
“Paul Quentin.” The public defender extended a hand. “Attorney for Mr. Jorgenson.”
“Tough for you.” But Reo shook his hand before taking a seat. “So?”
Quentin repeated his pitch, almost verbatim, while Reo sat, folded her hands.
“How about the short answer? No deal.”
“Ms. Reo, I don’t doubt the prosecutor wants convictions on these murders. My client has information that will aid you in achieving that.”
“Both Washington and Chesterfield have tendered full confessions for their parts in the murders, and in doing so, both—independently—implicated your client in those murders. No deal.”
“My client maintains that his actions were done without prior knowledge of these crimes. Furthermore, he has information that will aid your investigation, your convictions of the perpetrators, and assist you in identifying others involved.”
“Others. Now that’s interesting.”
“It’s bullshit, Reo,” Eve said.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Here’s what we’ll do. If your client provides true and salient information that leads to the arrest of others involved in the murders of Pickering, Duff, Aimes, we’ll talk deal.”
“Immunity from all charges.”
“Your green’s showing, Mr. Quentin. You need to rub that off. Give me a nibble,” she said directly to Jorgenson, “then we can talk—maybe—accessory after the fact on Barry Aimes—we know you provided the van and, in fact, drove same to transport the body of Barry Aimes. We could plead that down to five to ten.”
“Is actually doing your job too much of a stretch for you, Reo?”
Reo turned her head, gave Eve a cool glance. “This is my job. Offer me something, Mr. Jorgenson, and I’ll talk to my boss.”
When Quentin began to speak, Reo shot a finger at him.
“He tells me. His words, not through your filter.”
“They came to me.” Jorgenson shrugged. “Had blood all over them.”
“Who?”
“Snapper and Ticker. They came to me, and they said how they got jumped by Dragons, and Fan Ho killed Fist.”
“That contradicts the statements they’ve given—independently—in their confessions.”
“I’m saying what they told me. They said how they heard Slice was making a deal with Ho, to keep things down after Dinnie. And they didn’t like it, got talking trash. They figured Slice put the Dragons on them. So they had the idea to get Fist over to Ho’s place, prove the Dragons did him. All I did was get the van and drive it.”
“Rather than report a murder to the police, you helped transport a body from the killing scene to Chinatown?”
“Bangers don’t go to cops.” He spoke defiantly. “We take care of our own.”
“Uh-huh. And didn’t it strike you as odd that neither of these men who survived an attack that killed Aimes had no injuries?”
“They had blood on them.”
“Aimes’s blood.”
He shrugged. “How’m I to know. Blood’s blood.”
“And bullshit’s bullshit. You went out for a big breakfast after disposing of the body, and both the other men had changed clothes—no blood showing. Yet you still failed to question the fact they had no injuries. Aimes’s throat was sliced ear-to-ear, and showed no other injuries.”
“I’m saying what they said, can you latch on? I figure they were working with Slice. Setting me up.”
“Because?”
“Because he knows I’m smarter, stronger, and I’m going to take over.”
“You.” Laughing, Eve straightened in her chair. “You think you’re smarter than Jones. Jones who’s been skimming off the gang’s pool for over three years? Jones, who freaking owns the building you flop in—the one you pay rent to flop in.”
“Samuel Cohen. You know that name. You probably couldn’t reach him to rep you here, probably figured he was too busy trying to rep a bunch of Bangers to get back to you. The two of them? They’ve been