Forgotten in Death(115)

23





They took a conference room, and Roarke sat back and watched the four women discuss evidence, strategy, psychology.

Singer didn’t have the slightest clue what he was in for.

They would, Roarke had no doubt, simply dismantle him.

Eve pushed back, came to attention when Commander Whitney strode into the room.

“Sir.”

“Sit, sit.” Rather than his usual suit, he wore a casual shirt in thin blue-and-white stripes and, a little to Eve’s shock, jeans and high-top kicks.

And still looked every bit in command.

“Doctor, Lieutenant, Detective, Assistant Prosecutor, Roarke.” He moved straight to the AutoChef. “I don’t suppose this is your coffee in here, Dallas.”

“No, sir. We can get that for you.”

“This’ll do. I’m here to observe. I haven’t asked for face-to-face reports on these cases, as you not only had them well in hand, but they moved rapidly. Yet this?”

He took a hit of coffee. “When I’m informed we’ve made arrests within days of an investigation of remains more than three decades old, and those arrests are individuals of some status and repute, I like to study more details. Which, considering the time, I would have done from home.”

He sat, drank more coffee. His wide, dark face went to stone. “However, when those details include one of those individuals firing a handgun on one of my officers, striking her twice, I’m damn well coming in. Have you had medical attention, Lieutenant?”

“I was wearing protective gear, Commander.”

“A considerable number of years ago, I was wearing protective gear when I took two hits.” He tapped a fist just below his breastbone. “Knocked me flat. Dr. Mira?”

“After considerable nagging, browbeating, and guilt-tripping, I convinced the lieutenant to allow me to examine the areas involved. She has severe bruising, but the portable scanner detected no fractures or internal injuries.”

“All right then. Is my information correct that you intend to start the interview process on both suspects tonight?”

“At their insistence, sir,” Eve told him.

He smiled. “This should be interesting. Are you observing, Roarke?”

“I am, yes, and it’ll be very nice to have your company, Jack, as well as Charlotte’s.”

“I promised to keep Anna informed. She despises Elinor Singer. An incident twenty, maybe twenty-five years ago involving table decor at a gala.” He studied his coffee. “My wife holds a grudge.”

Then he smiled broadly at Roarke. “But as she’s not here, we’ll get snacks. And enjoy them,” he added, scanning the women. “Because I have every confidence in my officers, our prosecutor, and the doctor to wrap these two up and serve them a very large, very unpleasant platter of justice.”

He rose, turned to Roarke. “I want chips. There should be some salt and vinegar chips in Vending, which are now banned by Anna’s decree from our home and my office. I’m buying. We’ll get you a share, Dr. Mira.”

“We should have fizzies with that.” Roarke shot Eve a wink as he left with Whitney. “Do it up right.”

A little bemused, Eve watched them walk out. “Well, that was unusual.”

“He’s angry,” Mira said to Eve. “He’s furiously angry. You were shot. He wants payment for that. He’s angry, but he also trusts we’ll get that payment. But trust aside, he needs to see it done.”

“Peabody, have them bring J. Bolton Singer into Interview A. And let’s get it done for the commander.”

Singer didn’t look so stylish in his orange jumpsuit. Beside him, his lawyer appeared very buttoned down, very ready to go. Indina Cross, a mixed-race female of forty-eight, wore a navy suit, a crisp white shirt, and tiny gold balls in her ears as her only jewelry.

Currently, her wide, thin mouth pressed into disapproving lines as Eve ordered the record on, read off the names, case numbers, and charges.

She pushed off first. “My client wishes to get this ridiculous interview over and done so he can return to his own home. The charges are without merit. There is no evidence supporting them or involving my client with the death of the woman purportedly identified as Johara Murr.”

“First, she has not been purportedly identified, the victim’s identity is confirmed, and her relationship with your client’s son has been confirmed. The paternity of the fetus has been confirmed by the father—your client’s son. So don’t sit there and insult the victim, counselor.”

“We will have our own forensic scientists examine the—”

“Fine, you do that. When we go to court. Meanwhile, she is Johara Murr and your client is the grandfather of the fetus who died with her. You’re going to want to move off that one, Ms. Cross.” Eve’s warning filled the room with frost. “You’re going to want to move off that one real quick or your client’s going to be escorted back to his cell for the night, and this interview ends.”

“Indina.”

“The identity of the victim doesn’t change the lack of evidence as applies to my client.” As she spoke, she reached over to pat Singer’s hand.

Indulgently, Eve noted.

“She was murdered, shot three times, in early September of 2024 on a property owned by your client and his company. She was concealed by a hastily built brick wall in a building under construction on property owned by your client. She was in a serious, committed relationship with your client’s son, and carrying a child from that relationship.