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“But more than once?” Sanders said.
“Yes, I—I’m pretty sure it was more than once,” Randall said. He didn’t actually sound sure of anything.
“Uh-huh. Okay. I guess that makes sense.” Sanders slurped loudly from his cup and then set it down on the table—hard. Randall jumped, startled by the sudden loud noise. “Except for one thing,” Sanders said—still mildly, in spite of banging down his mug. “However many times you hit Mr. Hobson—with a fire poker—it didn’t show.” He shook his head slowly. “No bruises, no broken bones, nothing.”
“That—that isn’t possible,” Randall said.
“Sure it is,” Sanders said. “Because Mr. Hobson wasn’t killed with a fire poker. There’s no fire poker in his office. Because there is no fireplace in his office.” Sanders smiled, and it was neither a happy nor a reassuring smile. “He was stabbed to death, Randall. With his letter opener.”
Randall’s mouth moved a few times. It looked like he was trying to say something, probably starting with the letter O, judging from the shape of his lips. But nothing came out.
“So here’s what I think,” Sanders said. He picked up his coffee cup again, glanced inside, and then set it down again. “I think you really were sleeping with Mrs. Hobson. We’ll check your DNA against Mrs. Hobson’s sheets and we’ll know for sure. But I think it was you. I believe that part. And sometime this morning, you left—hey, was it before or after Mr. Hobson got home?”
Randall just shook his head, numb. After a moment, Sanders shrugged. “We’ll find out,” he said. “I’m guessing before—unless you know the code for the alarm system?”
Randall shook his head dumbly.
“Yeah. Didn’t think so, but we’ll see. Anyway. You go back to your own place. And you turn on the TV—and there it is, all over the place. Your girlfriend has gone and killed her husband.”
“That’s not—Katrina could never—”
“And even worse—she killed him over you!” Sanders said loudly, pointing abruptly at him, and Randall flinched. “So we got guilt, and maybe we got real love?” He raised an eyebrow, but Randall said nothing. “Or maybe you just like getting close to all that money. It’s possible. But I guess there’s some feeling there, huh?” He shrugged. “So you figure, come on down here and confess, jerk my chain around for a while, and maybe get your lady love out of the slammer. Am I right?”
And he waited for Randall to say something with that same expression of mild patience, just sat there, until Randall finally had to say something or scream. “It’s not— There had to be some mistake. Katrina could never . . . never do something like that.”
“The evidence is pretty solid,” Sanders said. “It sure looks like she did.”
“. . . Evidence?” Randall said.
“Fingerprints and so on. You know. It looks pretty conclusive, Randall. It really looks like your girlfriend did it.” Randall said nothing, and after a moment Sanders went on. “There’s maybe one or two small holes? A few things maybe you could tell us?”
CHAPTER
19
Katrina wanted to scream. More accurately, she still wanted to scream, had wanted to ever since those two detectives with their Frick and Frack comedy act had accused her of killing Michael.
Even when Tyler Gladstone, her attorney, had finally come down and bailed her out, she was still fighting the desire—no, the need—to open her mouth as wide as it would go and let out a pure, loud, air-raid siren of a scream. Of course that wouldn’t look good, and she’d battled the urge to give in and let one rip.
But now, as it dawned on her that even Tyler—her very own attorney!—thought she’d done it, she was losing the battle. Oh, he’d been very careful choosing his words, naturally—but she could tell what he meant when he said things like, “It might be difficult to make a jury believe your version of what happened.”
“My version?! Tyler, goddamn it, what the fuck does that mean?!”
“Katrina, please, calm down,” he said soothingly.
“Calm down? You want me to calm the fuck down?! Then fucking DO something!”
“I got you out on bail,” he said. “Which was not easy, believe me.”
“Well, whoopity-fucking-do! And that’s it? You’ve got no more masterful lawyer tricks up your sleeve?”
“Come on, Katrina, I’m not a criminal attorney,” he said. “And for a case like this, with all the evidence against you—”
“Tyler, so help me God,” she said. “If you’re going to sit there and hint that you think I killed Michael, I really will kill you.”
He held up both hands, as if to shield himself from her attack. “All I’m saying is, it doesn’t look good. The police think they have a strong case, and apparently the district attorney thinks so, too. In fact,” he said, lowering his voice, as if he were telling her a great secret, “the DA is going to prosecute this case herself. Which means she thinks it’s a slam dunk because she’s up for reelection.”
“Well, Jesus fucking Christ!” Katrina stormed. “That’s fucking great! And so what’s your plan, Tyler? To let her win?!”
