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The pictures of him attested to that. “Did you go to Naomi’s house planning to kill her?”
“I was prepared for that outcome.”
So blasé and unapologetic. “Go on, tell us.” She encouraged him as if she and Trent were relishing his every word, pretending to be awed by his genius. Whatever it took to keep him talking.
“I knocked on her front door.”
The reason for the front light coming on…
“She let me in with a dramatic sigh and roll of her eyes. Witch. But I played things up like I was there to celebrate her achievement more. She took out Scotch and poured us a few shots.”
The nightcap, but there was one inconsistency… “There was only one glass.”
“Because I took mine with me after I killed her.”
“What did she do or say to trigger you?” Amanda tiptoed toward that question. If she asked the wrong way, wrong words, wrong tone, she feared he’d clam up and stop talking.
“She laughed in my face and said that someone as ugly as me would never get ahead in this world. Can you believe it?” His face turned red, and his jaw clenched. “I just snapped, pulled out the gun I had brought with me, and shot her three times. Pop, pop, pop.” As he retold this part of the story, his eyes darkened.
“But then you had the brainwave to make it look like a home invasion,” Trent interjected. “The shoeprints in the back garden, the broken window in the door. Obviously, the theft of the jewelry. But none of that was your original plan.”
He smiled at Trent and shook his head. “But it all worked perfectly until Felicity started snooping around.”
“How did you know she was? Well, aside from the fact you were probably aware of her book proposal—a murdered intern at a publishing house,” Amanda said.
He rubbed his wrists along his bed rail, and Amanda wasn’t sure why. She didn’t think it had to do with the fact the handcuffs were bothering him. “I have been keeping an eye on her since the project’s approval. In recent months, I started following her.”
“Stalking her.” Amanda wasn’t in the mood to pussyfoot.
“Sure, whatever you want to call it. But she was nosing around too much, talking to people she had no business talking to, asking questions. She was an author for God’s sake, not a cop. But she wouldn’t let it alone. The day of the champagne lunch, I just knew that she knew…”
“How’s that?” Trent asked.
“It was in her eyes, her energy. But I messed up. I wore the onyx cufflinks I’d stolen from Chapman. But how was I to know Felicity had found out about them?”
Amanda shrugged. “She was serious about her research.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Is that why you destroyed all her paperwork, out of fear your name was there somewhere?” Trent said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, your name wasn’t, but your face was. She made a backup of her research and put it somewhere you could never get to it, including this…” She motioned for Trent to show him the intern group photo on the tablet he had with him.
He barely looked at it and shook his head. “Where did you get that?”
“Doesn’t matter. We found Felicity’s area rug in your garage, but what did you do with the coffee table that she hit her head on?” she asked.
“I burned it.”
As they’d figured, but it was one more question answered. “Where did you get the gun you used to kill Naomi? There’s no record of you having a permit for one.”
“Off the street. It’s easy enough if you’re determined.”
“Tell me this, will the rounds pulled from Chapman be a match to the gun you just held on poor Melody Schmitt?” Ballistics would confirm, but she wanted to hear it from him.
He angled his head. “What do you think?”
