Forgotten in Death(116)

“These are facts.”

“As it’s impossible to establish the exact date this unfortunate incident occurred—”

“Between September seventh and September twelfth, according to the records of the building under construction. It’s the wall, J.B., it’s all about the wall. The bricks. When they were ordered, delivered, used.”

“And you have job reports, invoices, and so on from this time?”

“Your mother’s a sharp businesswoman, isn’t she? I bet she kept records. And I bet the search team, the very skilled e-man on it, will find those records in her files. They’re searching right now.”

“They can’t go into our home!” Singer snatched at Cross’s arm. “They can’t just go into our home, go through our things. It’s insulting.”

“Warrant.” Reo opened her file, slid it across the table.

“I didn’t order any bricks. You won’t find anything about them.”

“But you laid them. You built that wall.”

He smiled, held out his soft, pampered hands. “My dear girl, do I look like a bricklayer?”

Eve smiled back. “I’m not your dear girl. And no, you don’t. That’s why you did a sloppy job. Did it bother you at all as you laid those courses? Did it make you just a little sick seeing her lying there, knowing what was dying inside her? Part of you, dying inside her, did that trouble you at all?”

“My client categorically denies knowing the victim, knowing of the victim, of having any knowledge of her death. All you have is innuendo and circumstantial.”

“I’ve got the thirty-two-caliber handgun, the two bullets that hit me tonight from said weapon, and the three recovered from the remains of Johara Murr.”

“And the ballistic reports?”

“Waiting on that.”

Cross let out a soft sound of dismissal, but Eve looked at Singer. “You know they’re going to match.”

“I know no such thing.”

She nodded as she heard the quiet tap of his foot on the floor. “You know they’re going to match, just as you knew, and feared, we were going to find out who the woman you and your mother murdered was, her connection to your son. The son who wept for her tonight.”

“I don’t know anything about it.” Tap, tap, tap. “I imagine Bolton had relationships, as any young man might, with any number of women he met in college.”

“I didn’t say they met in college.”

“I assumed.”

“You don’t care about him, either,” Peabody put in. “Your own son, his pain or grief. That’s just sad.”

“You know nothing about it.”

“You haven’t asked about him at all, or about your wife.” Peabody jabbed a finger at him. “You haven’t shown any concern for Johara or the baby. Nothing. Because you don’t feel anything for any of them. That’s why it was easy for you to kill her.”

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“You were running,” Eve reminded him. “When we arrived at your home tonight, you were packing to fly out, to run.”

“My client planned to take a trip, a break from the stress of the last several days. It’s not a crime.”

Eve ignored the lawyer. “You tried to run. Your mother tried to kill me, and you tried to run.”

“You burst into our home. You frightened her. Obviously, she believed you were an intruder and put hands on me. She tried to defend me, and herself.”

“Left your wife off that one, too. Your wife, who opened the door for me. My partner and I had been in your home only hours before. You and your mother knew who I was, a police officer. I announced same, informed you and your mother you were being arrested and why. And yet she fired on me.”

“We were confused, obviously. It happened very quickly. In any event, I didn’t have a weapon. I didn’t fire a weapon.”

Time to toss Mother aside, Eve decided.

“You knew about Johara, about the baby, because your mother holds on tight. Johara came to you, didn’t she, desperate to have you accept her, the child, so she could have a hope of making a family with your son. She needed your blessing, your support. Maybe she couldn’t get that from her family—we’ll find out. But as she came closer to term, she wanted family for the child. She wanted a father for the child, so came to you for your blessing.”

“Nonsense.”

This time he couldn’t meet her eyes as he lied.

“So you and your mother had her come to the site—a handy place to kill and conceal the body. No one would know. Everyone would forget her. Bolton wanted music, and he refused to take his place in the business. So you told her to come there. Look at what we do, what we build, what we want for Bolt. That would be a pretty good way to lure her there.

“Then you shot her, watched her fall.”

“I did not. I did not.”

“And built the wall, poured the ceiling. Gone, forgotten, finished. But here’s the thing about the walls, J.B. You’re no bricklayer, you’re right about that. Sloppy work. I’m betting you were pretty shaken while you built it on top of being crap at it. How many times, I wonder, did you scrape your knuckles? Work gloves? But even with those, you banged your hands, maybe an elbow. You bled a little here and there.”