Page 76 of Rage

She shakes her head. “The only person he had a beef with was Brooks. Most everyone liked Sammy.”

“Someone didn’t,” Tomasetti points out.

She raises her eyes to him, then to the wall clock behind him. “I guess not.”

“How well do you know Aaron Shetler?” I ask.

“I met him a few times.” She shrugs. “Aaron and Sammy were tight. They worked together sometimes. Hung out together. Partied together.”

“What kind of partying?”

“Drinking, mostly.”

“Drugs?”

She looks down at the tabletop again. “Look, they weren’t druggies or anything like that, but they got high.”

“Did they sell drugs?” I ask.

“No.”

“Did Aaron have any disputes or arguments with anyone?” I ask.

“Not that I know of.” Her eyes slip to the clock again.

“You got somewhere else to be?” I ask.

She hands me a disdainful look. “I just want to get this crap over with.”

I remind myself that my opinion of this young woman doesn’t matter. My job is to find out what she knows, if anything. But I don’t like what I see. I don’t trust her. I’m not sure if she’s credible.

“How long did you work at The Cheetah Lounge?” I ask.

“A few months.”

“Where did you get the fake ID?” I ask.

The shadow of a smile crosses her mouth. “I don’t remember.”

She nearly jumps out of her chair when a brisk knock sounds on the door. Simultaneously, my cell phone goes off. Frowning, Tomasetti rises and goes to the door. I stand, reach for my cell to see that it’s Jodie at reception.

“There’s an attorney on his way back, Chief,” she says. “I couldn’t stop him.”

Tomasetti opens the door. A burst of adrenaline hits my gut when I see his hand hover above the holster beneath his jacket. I stride toward him when I hear the voice of a male coming from the hall outside the door.

“I’m Brett Adamson with the Adamson and Schneider law firm out of Cleveland,” says the voice. “I’m here for my client.”

I come up behind Tomasetti, look over his shoulder. The man is very well dressed. Custom suit. Hermès tie. Wing-tip oxfords. He’s about forty years old with a neat man bun at his nape. A diamond winks from his left earlobe. He’s craning his neck, trying to see past Tomasetti to get a look at Wilma Borntrager.

Tomasetti isn’t cooperating. “How about you show me some ID?”

The lawyer’s mouth curves as he unfolds his wallet. “You’ve got my client in your interview room. If she’s not under arrest or being detained, she’ll be coming with me.”

Tomasetti sighs.

The other man laughs, makes eye contact with me. “Is Ms. Borntrager under arrest? Is she being detained?”

“No.” I move closer to the door. “We’re conducting an interview.”