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“And how would you describe that relationship?” Gutiérrez asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Was it just a business relationship, was it personal … a mix of both, maybe,” Gutiérrez said, allowing her voice to drop.
“I would say that it is a mix of both at this point.”
Bryant
leaned forward. “So, the two of you were more than friends. Ever been to his house?”
“I have. And I am not sure if I’m comfortable with what you’re implying when you say, ‘more than friends’ in that tone of voice, Detective Bryant.”
Gutiérrez glanced at her partner. “How would you describe the relationship between you and Mr. Patterson?”
“We are friends who share an occasional glass of wine and talk about politics and global finance. But there is nothing intimate or physical, if that’s what you were implying,” she said, looking at Bryant before turning to face Gutiérrez. “And you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Gutiérrez asked, ignoring her question. She would answer it in due time.
This was the question that concerned her—how to answer this one question. It could mean the difference between her walking out of there or asking to speak with a lawyer. Should she tell them that she was there on the night of the murder? Did they already know she was there and were waiting to spring their trap?
“It’s been a couple of weeks. I’d have to check my calendar to be sure, but we have gotten together recently to deliver a proposal. And here again, you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Patterson is dead,” Bryant dropped without emotion.
“Oh, my god,” Valencia said, quickly covering her mouth.
“He was murdered this past Sunday evening at his home,” Gutiérrez said, with just a bit more compassion than her partner.
Valencia sat quietly with her head down for a second or two and was able to force out a tear before she faced the detectives. When she looked up, there was a picture of Coleman’s body on the table in front of her. She glanced at it quickly and looked away.
“We found a fingerprint in the house that matched yours, Ms. DeVerão,” Bryant said, “and a number of his neighbors told us that they’ve seen you there a number of times in the past.”
Valencia wiped away a single tear and looked at Gutiérrez. “Yes, as I told you, he and I are friends,” she began, careful to refer to him in the present, rather than past tense. “I’ve been to his house many times over the years and we drink wine and talk—” Valencia paused as if she was getting emotional, and there was a part of her that was. Even though he was her blackmailer, they did have something of a curious friendship. “I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in.”
“Take your time, Ms. DeVerão,” Gutiérrez said.
“Can you tell me where you were on Sunday night, Ms. DeVerão?” Bryant asked.
“I was at home preparing for an important meeting that I had Monday—” Valencia stopped as if she just realized something. “Am I a suspect?” she asked indignantly. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“No, Ms. DeVerão, you are not a suspect,” Gutiérrez said.
“Not at this point,” Bryant said.
“These are just standard questions we ask. This way we can eliminate you as a suspect.”
Valencia nodded. “I understand. I was at home preparing for an important meeting that I had Monday morning.”
“Can anybody verify that?” Bryant asked.
The way that he was coming at her, made Valencia believe that he wasn’t buying a word that she was saying.
You killed him, pretty lady, and I’m going to prove it, was the vibe she was getting from him.
But she stuck to her story, wondering once again why she didn’t call the police that night, instead of running out of there.
“No, sir, Detective Bryant. I was at home working alone.”
