Immortal in Death (In Death #3)(22)

He held out his arm where the wound had been poorly bandaged. “There was blood on my hands, on my clothes. Dried blood. I must have fought with her. I must have killed her.”

“Where are the clothes you were wearing last night?”

“I left them at Mavis’s. I showered, and I changed. I didn’t want her to come home and find me looking like that. I was waiting for her, trying to figure out what to do, and I turned on the news. I heard — I saw. And I knew.”

“You’re saying that you don’t remember seeing Pandora last night. You don’t remember having an altercation with her. You don’t remember killing her.”

“But I must have,” he insisted. “She died in my apartment.”

“What time did you leave your apartment last night?”

“I’m not sure. I’d been drinking before. A lot. I was upset, and I was angry.”

“Did you see anyone, speak with anyone?”

“I bought another bottle. From a street hawker, I think.”

“Did you see Ms. Freestone last night?”

“No. I’m sure of that. If I’d seen her, if I could have talked to her, everything would have been all right.”

“What if I tell you Mavis was in your apartment last night?”

“Mavis came to see me.” His face brightened. “She came back to me? But that can’t be right. I couldn’t have forgotten that.”

“Was Mavis there when you fought with Pandora? When you killed Pandora?”

“No. No.”

“Did she come in after Pandora was dead, after you’d killed her? You were panicked then, weren’t you? Terrified.”

There was panic in his eyes now. “Mavis couldn’t have been there.”

“But she was. She called me from your apartment, after she found the body.”

“Mavis saw?” Beneath the copper tone, his skin went pasty. “Oh, God, no.”

“Someone struck Mavis, knocked her unconscious. Was it you, Leonardo?”

“Someone hit her? She’s hurt?” He was up, out of the chair, dragging his hands through his hair. “Where is she?”

“Was it you?”

He held out his arms. “I’d cut my hands off before I’d hurt Mavis. For Christ’s pity, Dallas, tell me where she is. Let me see if she’s all right.”

“How did you kill Pandora?”

“I — the reporter said I beat her to death.” And he shuddered.

“How did you beat her? What did you use?”

“I — My hands?” Again he held them out. Eve noted there was no sign of bruising, no tears or abrasions on the knuckles. They were perfect, as if they’d been carved from rich, glossy wood.

“She was a strong woman. She must have fought back.”

“The cut on my arm.”

“I’d like the cut to be examined, as well as the clothes you say you left at Mavis’s.”

“Are you going to arrest me now?”

“You are not being charged at this time. You will, however, be held until the results of the tests are complete.”

She took him over the same ground again, pushing for times, for places, for his movements. Again and again, she bumped up against the wall blocking his memory. Far from satisfied, she concluded the interview, took him to holding, then made arrangements for the tests.

Her next stop was Commander Whitney.

Ignoring his offer of a chair, she stood facing him as he sat behind his desk. Briskly, she gave him the results of her initial interviews. Whitney folded his hands and watched her. He had good eyes, cop’s eyes, and recognized nerves.

“You have a man who has confessed to the murder. A man with motive and opportunity.”

“A man who doesn’t remember seeing the victim on the night in question, much less bludgeoning her to death.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a perp confessed in such a way to make himself seem innocent.”

“No, sir. But I don’t believe he’s our killer. The tests may prove me wrong, but his personality type doesn’t fit the crime. I was a witness to another altercation where the victim attacked Mavis. Rather than attempting to stop the fight, or showing any signs of violence, he stood back and wrung his hands.”

“By his own statement, he was under the influence on the night of the murder. Drink can and does induce personality changes.”

“Yes, sir.” It was reasonable. In her heart she wanted to pin it on him, to take his confession at face value and run with it. Mavis would be miserable, but she’d be safe. She’d be cleared. “It’s not him,” she said flatly. “I recommend holding him for the maximum amount of time, reinterviewing to try to jog his memory. But we can’t charge him for thinking he committed murder.”

“I’ll go along with your recommendation, Dallas. The other lab reports should be in shortly. We’ll hope the results will clear everything up. You understand they may further incriminate Mavis Freestone.”

“Yes, sir, I understand that.”

“You have a long-standing friendship with her. It would be no blot on your record to withdraw as primary on this case. It would, in fact, be better for you, and certainly more rational if you were to do so.”