She entered the bare, brightly lit interrogation room, Tatum a step behind her. Swenson tried to seem as if he was comfortable, but O’Donnell had watched him pace the room earlier. He was on edge.
They sat down, and O’Donnell said aloud, “Detective Holly O’Donnell and Special Agent Tatum Gray, initiating the interview of Allen Swenson.”
“Is my client under arrest?” the lawyer, Garry Nelson, asked.
He was bald and had a large mole on his chin. His lower lip was much thicker than the top one, giving him a toad-like demeanor. His voice, which had a croaky undertone to it, made it worse.
“No, he’s not,” O’Donnell said. “He’s just here for questioning.”
“Then I would like—”
“But we found some things when we searched his house.”
“You searched my house?” Swenson yelled, the calm facade evaporating.
She slapped the copy of the search warrant on the desk. “You going into the movie business, Swenson? Found some interesting footage on your DVDs.”
Nelson snatched the warrant from the desk and skimmed it. “I can have this thrown out. You got my client here on false pretenses—”
“Go ahead and try,” O’Donnell said dryly. “Everything we did is perfectly within the law.”
Nelson ignored her, his eyes fixed on the warrant. “I would like to confer with my client.”
O’Donnell sighed. “Again?”
She and Tatum stepped outside.
“You know what this guy reminds me of?” Tatum asked.
“A toad?”
“You too? I keep expecting him to catch flies with his tongue.”
“It’s really distracting,” O’Donnell agreed. “Maybe that’s his strategy. He gets us confused and then hops off with his client in tow.”
They both smiled. It was a tense smile, fragile. O’Donnell’s nerves were frayed, and she had a feeling Tatum wasn’t much better, despite his cool facade.
“It’s weird that lawyers always confer,” O’Donnell said. “Why not just say talk, like a normal person? Does anyone other than lawyers confer?”
“No. And I don’t think anyone objects, either. Regular people just say, ‘You’re wrong.’”
“I sometimes say ‘I object.’”
“No you don’t.”
“No,” O’Donnell admitted. “I don’t. But my mom used to say she objects to my tone.”
“That’s different. Moms can say whatever they want.”
Ten minutes later, the door opened, and Nelson said they were done “conferring.”
“The DVDs in my client’s possession are inadmissible,” Nelson announced as soon as they sat down. “You won’t be able to use them in court, and any line of questioning that stems from whatever you saw on those DVDs is inadmissible as well.”
O’Donnell folded her arms, annoyed. “We’ve been through this. The warrant permits us to search the property for—”
“For any concealed person or weapons, or any writings or records identifying the locations of those people, specifically Rhea Deleon and Rod Glover, a.k.a. Daniel Moore,” Nelson said, reading from the page.
“That’s right.”
“And those DVDs?”
“We found them while looking for those writings and records.”
“I have no issue with that. But I fail to see why you viewed their content.”
“They could have something to do with the locations of Rod Glover and Rhea Deleon.”
“How exactly?”
“Well, they could hold files pertaining to that,” O’Donnell said. “Or security footage from wherever Rhea Deleon is being held.”
“You’re reaching, Detective. If you wanted to look through my client’s electronic media and computer files, the search warrant should have stated it.”
It should have; he was right. O’Donnell wanted to step outside and repeatedly kick Koch. He should have made sure the warrant contained that. But then, every second they delayed could be the last second of Rhea Deleon’s life. Could she fault Koch for rushing it?
Sure she could. Damn it.
“Well, I guess the judge would have to decide if the evidence is admissible or not,” she said sharply. It could go either way in court.
“If you’re building your case around it—”
“Let’s discuss something else. Mr. Swenson, I have your phone records here. It seems three months ago, you and Catherine Lamb called each other almost every day.” She took out the phone records and showed them to him. “That’s two months after the charity you two organized.”
“She was my religious counselor,” Swenson said. “She talked to a lot of people on a daily basis.”
“That’s true . . . but your conversations were quite short. None of them more than five minutes.”
“My crisis of faith resolved fast.”
“Your conversations occurred at the same period of time in which Terrence Finch photographed your relationship with Ms. Lamb. Since we already know you had a sexual relationship with her, and you now know I’ve already seen the photos, let’s cut to the chase. You were calling her to meet up.”