Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(110)

“Fuck you, bitch. You can’t do that to my money.”

“We didn’t. The FBI did, so you can take that up with them. Do you wish to have us arrange for a public defender?”

“You think I don’t know they work with the cops? You think I’m stupid?”

“My opinion in the matter of your stupidity isn’t relevant. Are you waiving legal representation?”

He jabbed a finger at her. “Fuck you and fuck lawyers. I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t need to talk to you.”

“Let the record show Mr. Piper has waived his right to an attorney. While he may exercise his right to remain silent, we don’t have to. We will inform Mr. Piper of the weight of the charges against him. Detective.”

“Mr. Piper, you’re charged with spousal abuse, spousal assault, endangering minors—three counts—due to the locks installed on the doors of your children’s rooms.”

“That’s all bullshit. I’m the head of the house, the breadwinner. I run my house as I see fit, so you can fuck right off.”

“You saw fit to strike your wife on multiple occasions—we have the records from the Huffmans’ medical facility.” Good Cop Peabody made no appearance here. She continued in a cold, flat voice. “You are further charged with murder in the second degree for the beating death of your wife—”

“Six months’ pregnant wife,” Eve added. “The jury’s going to want that information.”

“And are charged with leaving a crime scene, attempting to conceal evidence.”

“That’s all bullshit! My wife died from complications of a miscarriage. I called her doctor, I got her to the best hospital I know. Now you’ve taken my kids. They just lost their mother. I lost my wife. I’m going to sue your bitch asses to the—”

“They took your wife out of the house in a body bag,” Eve said. “Your cleaners missed a spot, Larry, so we have her blood and yours on the wall where you beat her head in. That’s off-planet, a lifetime in a cage. And with the other charges? Add another twenty. And that’s before the feds hit you with accessory to kidnapping, torture, forced imprisonment. And I’m barely getting started.”

“You can’t prove any of it.”

“I have proved it. Two witnesses, Larry, heard your pregnant wife screaming, begging you to stop. Heard you screaming at her, beating her, bashing her head against the wall.”

“Lying bitches. Who’s going to believe them?”

Eve leaned in. “I believe them. A jury’s not only going to believe them, a jury’s going to eat up every word they say. Two witnesses, blood, and forensic evidence. And guess what, Larry, your wife’s body.”

She watched him jerk back at that.

“We recovered it from the crematorium on the compound. Hell of a thing to have, a private crematorium—but they hadn’t disposed of her yet. Her body is now at our morgue. We’ve got the Huffmans, we’ve got your head cleaner. The Wilkeys, the Pooles. We’ve got the island, we broke the farm system. You’re fucked, Larry. And yeah, bone stupid if you think the Huffmans, the Wilkeys, any of them will protect you now.”

“Hard to protect some flunky,” Peabody added, “when you’re locked in a cell.”

“You’ve got one shot or we walk out of here. As it stands, you’ll do life off-planet with a twenty-year sweetener. Take the shot, give us chapter and verse on the Wilkeys, on Natural Order, and we can talk to the PA about reducing the murder charge so you’d have a chance at parole in twenty-five. Cooperating witness or a lifetime plus off-planet. Up to you.”

“What do you want to know?”

He spilled, then spilled some more, primarily confirming and corroborating evidence and statements she already had. But she didn’t object to adding to the pile.

As he spoke, Roarke’s voice came through her earbud, and, with that lovely hint of Ireland, gave her more.

“All right, Larry, I’m going to talk to the PA about reducing the time for beating your pregnant wife to death and get you that twenty-five on-planet.”

“With parole.”

“Possibility of parole. Then there’s the twenty for child abuse and endangerment.”

“What? Wait!”

She sent him a cool look. “I explained that to you, on record. Your prints on the locks, Larry. Only yours. Same deal with the illegal substances—the derivative of Whore, the date-rape drug—found locked in your office. The bondage toys? Woo, Larry, but that’s a personal choice. After that, you’re going to have to deal with human trafficking charges. We’re leaving that to the feds, so good luck there.”

He started to sputter.

“You kept really good records on your computers—at home and in the compound. You had a good shot on a solid return on your investment with Marcia. The fifty K marriage fee’s steep, but you got a ten K rebate since you found her on your own.

“Amazing how they broker people, isn’t it, Peabody?”

“I know I’m impressed. He banked the five K each for his three kids, and got that really nice house for dirt cheap rent as long as he kept Marcia in line.”

“And had another five K in the bag, except he killed her.”

“You’re twenty-five large down, Larry.”