“¡Suficiente! Una palabra más y le diré a tu padre que te castigue a golpes.”I flinch at the anger in the woman’s tone, and whatever she says, the girl’s attitude lessens and she slumps in her seat and doesn’t look at Jacob again.
I need to get him out of here. While it may be mouthwatering smells and family time now, at some point this will turn ugly. These men had a gun, one that they pointed at Jacob’s head.
I stand behind my son and wait to see what happens next.
CHAPTER 63
LENNY
The pieces of the puzzle are coming in slowly, but they are there and Gersh is not all useless for a child born in the eighties.
Lillian’s stomach contents include what appear to be a pumpkin spice latte, half of a banana, some crackers, and a cocktail of medicines, including enough Xanax to kill a three-hundred-pound man. Blood tests show a blood alcohol level of .29 and GHB—the former would have had her stumbling around, and the latter shecouldhave gotten her hands on. Together they make me suspect foul play.
If her cell phone’s location pings are reliable, which they aren’t, all they share is that her killer was smart enough to ditch it before he took her anywhere important. If anything, we should probably look at the places the cell phone didn’t go, rather than those it did.
Gersh has a tail on the husband, and the traffic department is backtracking his car movements for the last forty-eight hours, including the time of her death.
At least there was no rape. No evidence of prior abuse, despite the faked call to the domestic center. Also missing ... any distinguishable foreign hairs, blood, or DNA on her body. If she fought someone off, she did it without her fingernails, and without damagingherself at all. Unfortunately, with GHB in her system, she probably was cooperative. Probably opened up her mouth for the pills, then asked for more.
Now I sit in a place I used to know well—the questioning pod—only this time I am behind the glass, beside the transcriber and some asshole from Legal, who apparently watches all questioning to make sure the suspect is given cupcakes and back massages. On the other side of the glass, Gersh sits across from Lillian’s boyfriend, who looks cool as a fucking cucumber and is refusing to answer any questions, except to some badge named Pat Horkins.
“Who the fuck is Pat Horkins?” The Legal guy asks the question before I have to.
“He’s in narcotics.” The transcriptionist speaks from his spot at the table, and I swear, everyone in this joint is barely old enough to grow facial hair. “Works with a lot of the agencies.”
Okay, so maybe rosy-cheeked youths are helpful. “Agencies?” I grunt. I examine the boyfriend as best I can through the glass. Maybe he’s connected. An informant.
“Why you waiting on Horkins?” Gersh asks David Laurent, and I like that he doesn’t use a pad of paper. Makes him seem like he already knows what you’re about to say, and I never knew what to write down anyway. Plus, with this pencil head typing and the cameras humming, you’re getting all the notes you need without having to move a finger. “You an informant? Running drugs out of your boat?”
The man smiles and says nothing, and in the good old days, now is when you would smack him in the jaw. A woman is dead and he’s toying with us, withholding information that could lead to her killer. Maybe it’s him. He certainly doesn’t seem brokenhearted, and I’m annoyed at the commonalities I’m seeing between him and her husband. At least Mike made an effort to seem upset. This asshole is two seconds away from whistling a cheery tune.
The door to our cramped room opens, and a uniform comes in and presses the intercom button to Gersh’s room. “Horkins is twenty minutes out. Says he’s DEA.”
In our room, everyone reacts. The attorney sighs, the kid at the table whistles, and I automatically reach for my flask, then realize it’s in the car. If any news qualifies for a drink, that does. DEA. Talk about a wrinkle.
“DEA ...,” Gersh muses, and if there were a way for David Laurent—who is probably not named David Laurent—to preen, he would be doing it. Fucking feds. Always,alwaysthinking that they are better than us. “Now that’s interesting.”
Gersh hunches forward. “Now I realize why you aren’t talking. You’re scared, right? That you’ll say the wrong thing, will violate one of those ten thousand rules you suits have to follow. So how about I just toss some ideas out there—just dumb local-cop ideas, you understand—and you just nod if I’m anywhere close to being right. Nothing for the transcript; in fact, I’ll turn off the cameras.”
Smart. Gersh is smart. I’m nodding, and almost give him a thumbs-up when he faces the window and reaches up and unplugs the camera in the upper corner of the room. I keep my thumbs to myself since he can’t see me, but the sentiment is still there.
“I’m going to assume that you didn’t kill Lillian. Yes?”
He pauses, and this is an easy nod for David to make, but an important one, one that will concede his willingness to play this game.
The man rolls his eyes behind a dorky pair of glasses—What did Lillian see in this dweeb?—and nods.
“Okay, great. Now I’m going to assume that she wasn’t just a side piece of ass you picked up while suntanning on the job. Was she a part of an operation?”
This David is less reluctant to answer, and I lean closer, my breath fogging the glass.Come on...“I’ll speak to Horkins, when he gets here.Just Horkins. I’m not confirming that I was or wasn’t part of any sort of operation.”
I growl out a curse. Pansy-ass feds. I swear to God, they’re more trouble than help.
“I just need to stop running in certain directions if they’re dead ends, you understand?”
“Oh sure.” David gives a shit-licker smile. “Don’t worry, Detective. We’re all on the same page here.”
“It’s a fucking nod,” I yell, and the attorney flinches. “Just nod, you fucking fed!”