lawyer?”

“You have a right to a lawyer or a representative at any time during this process. What I want is to get a statement from you, Mr. Whittier. To ask you some questions.” She set a recorder in plain view on the table and recited the revised Miranda. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in this matter?”

“Yes, I guess I do. That’s about all I do understand.”

“Can you tell me where you were on the night of September sixteenth?”

“I don’t know. Probably here at home. I need to check my book.”

He rose to go to the desk for a sleek little day calendar. “Well, I’m wrong about that. Pat and I had dinner out with friends. I remember now. We met at about seven-thirty at the Mermaid. It’s a seafood place on First Avenue between Seventy-first and -second. We had drinks first, then took the table about eight. Didn’t get home until around midnight.”

“The names of the people you were with?”

“James and Keira Sutherland.”

“And after midnight?”

“I’m sorry?”

“After midnight, Mr. Whittier, what did you do?”

“We went to bed. My wife and I went to bed.” He flushed when he said it, and the expression reminded her of Feeney’s embarrassment when he’d realized what she and Roarke had been up to on their recreational break.

She deduced Whittier and wife had indulged in some recreation before sleep.

“How about the night of September fourteenth?”

“I don’t understand this.” He muttered it, but checked his book. “I don’t have anything down. A Thursday, a Thursday,” he said, closing his eyes. “I think we were home, but I’d have to ask Pat. She remembers these things better than I do. We tend to stay home most evenings. It’s too hot to go out.”

He was a lamb, she thought, innocent as a lamb, just as he’d been at seven. She’d have bet the bank on it. “Do you know a Tina Cobb?”

“I don’t think . . . the name’s a little familiar—one of those things you think you’ve heard somewhere. I’m sorry. Lieutenant Dallas, if you could just tell me what’s going on, exactly what’s . . . ” He trailed off.

Eve saw on his face the minute the name clicked for him. And seeing it, she knew she’d been right in betting the bank. This man had had no part in splattering the girl’s blood.

“Oh my sweet Jesus. The girl who was burned, burned in the lot a few blocks from the site. You’re here about her.”

Eve reached in her bag, just as the bell rang at the door. Roarke, she thought. She’d made the right choice in contacting him after all. Not to help her determine Whittier’s involvement, but to give the man someone familiar in the room when she pushed him about his son.

“My partner will get the door,” she said, and took Tina’s photo out of the bag. “Do you recognize this woman, Mr. Whittier?”

“God, yes, oh God. From the media reports. I saw her on the reports. She was hardly more than a child. You think she was killed in my building, but I don’t understand. She was found burned to death in that lot.”

“She wasn’t killed there.”

“You can’t expect me to believe anyone on my crew would have a part in something like this.” He glanced up, confusion running over his face as he got to his feet. “Roarke?”

“Steve.”

“Roarke is a civilian consultant in this investigation,” Eve explained. “Do you have any objection to his presence here at this time?”

“No. I don’t—”

“Who has the security codes to your building on Avenue B?”

“Ah. God.” Steve pressed a hand to his head a moment. “I have them, and the security company, of course. Hinkey, ah . . . can’t think straight. Yule, Gainer. That should be it.”

“Your wife?”

“Pat?” He smiled weakly. “No. No point in that.”

“Your son?”

“No.” But his eyes went blank. “No. Trevor doesn’t work on sites.”

“But he’s been to that building?”

“Yes. I don’t like the implication here, Lieutenant. I don’t like it at all.”

“Is your son aware that his grandfather was Alex Crew?”

Every ounce of color drained from Steve’s cheeks. “I believe I’d like that lawyer now.”

“That’s your choice.” Standing as shield, Eve thought. Instinct. A father protecting his son. “More difficult to keep certain facts out of the media once the lawyers come into it, of course. Difficult to keep your connection to Alex Crew and events that transpired fifty years ago out of the public stream. I assume you’d prefer if certain details of your past remained private, Mr.