Concealed in Death (In Death #38)(32)

“You’ve got an appointment with me now. At Central.”

“Whafor? Get off me.”

“You knocked down two people, and are even now attempting to immobilize an officer with your incredible breath.”

“Huh?”

“Drunk and disorderly, pal. You’ve been here before.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“That’s him!” The woman with the oranges pointed an accusing finger. “He knocked me down.”

“Did not.”

“Do you want to press charges, ma’am?”

“Oh, come on!”

The women eyed Clipperton balefully. “I guess not. This nice gentleman helped me up, helped me get my groceries. And said you’d make this one apologize.”

Eve flicked a glance at Roarke, then poked an elbow into Clipperton’s ribs. “Apologize. Apologize,” she said in darker tones, “or we add assault.”

“Jesus, okay. Sorry, lady. I didn’t see you, that’s all.”

“You’re drunk,” the woman said severely. “And you’re stupid and rude. You’re a gentleman,” she said to Roarke. “Thank you very much for helping me.”

“You’re very welcome. I’d be happy to walk you home.”

“See, a gentleman.” She gave Clipperton the evil eye, then turned to sunshine when she looked back at Roarke. “Thanks, but I’m just in the next block.” She beamed a last smile over Roarke, then carried her bag, anemic oranges and all, up the block.

“Let’s go, Clip.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Ain’t that a shame?” She quick-walked him to the car, maneuvered him into the back. “If you puke in this vehicle, I’ll make you eat it.”

He didn’t puke—lucky for him—but he whined a lot, and bitterly muttered about someone named Mook. The whining spurted up toward panic when Roarke pulled into Central’s garage.

“Listen, listen, it’s all bogus, man. Her tits were right out there.”

“Is that a fact?” Eve muscled him out of the car.

“Fucking A,” he assured her, wobbling his way as she dragged him to the elevator. “And she’s got some big-ass cha-chas, you know? They were right in my face.”

Eve pulled him into the elevator, called for her floor and sector.

“Come on, man.” He turned, appealing to Roarke. “A bitch has her major tits in your face, you’re not going to grab a taste?”

“I take the Fifth.”

“I’d take a fifth, I had the scratch for one. Come on.”

“And Mook objected to you taking a taste of her major tits?” Eve suggested.

“Got real pissy, started carrying on, said it was like rape or something. I never had my dick out. I got witnesses. I never took the slugger out of the dugout, but she says she’s going to call the cops. Next thing I know, you’re coming for me. How’d you get there so fast?”

“I’m like the wind.”

More cops, more Clip types piled on as the elevator climbed, but Eve stayed on, taking the time to work out her game plan.

She’d settle for a conference room if the interviews were booked, but when she hauled him along the corridor, she found A empty. She pulled him in, pushed him into a chair.

“Sit there,” she ordered, and went out again.

“That’s your prime suspect?” Roarke asked.

“He fits some of the bill, and yeah, he seems pretty stupid. But he’s drunk. Either way, I need to go a round with him.”

“I’ll occupy myself and arrange to have your vehicle fumigated.”

“You always do—and good idea. He’s too drunk for this to take long.”

“Understood. Just let me know when you’re done.”

“Before you occupy yourself, how about getting me a tube of Pepsi. And yeah, I’m still boycotting Vending. Those machines hold a grudge, but they’ve got nothing on me.”

He obliged, handed over the soft drink tube. “If you’re reasonable with them, they’re reasonable with you.”

“Not in my experience.” She pulled out her comm, officially booked Interview A as Roarke wandered off.

Clipperton could sit and sweat a few minutes, she decided, and went to her office, put together a file.

By the time she walked back into Interview, Clipperton had his head on the table. His snores pulled the ugly paint from the walls.

“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Clipperton, Jon. Wake up!” She sat across from him, set her files down, gave his arm a brisk shake. “Wake up, Clipperton.”

“Huh?” He lifted his head, stared at her with droopy, blood-shot eyes.

“Do you need or wish the assistance of Sober-Up before we begin the interview?” She rattled the small tin she’d brought in with her.

“I’m not drunk.” He attempted to poke out his chest in outrage. “I’m just tired. A guy works all day like me, he gets tired.”

“Yeah. Do you understand refusal of this aid, as offered, negates any future claim that this interview was conducted while you were impaired?”

“I’m not impaired, okay? Can’t a guy take a quick nap after a hard day?”