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“Contact me once you have it done,” Eve ordered, and parted ways. “I don’t like dumping the notification on her. She’ll carry it longer than I would.”
“I doubt that,” Roarke said. “You carry them all.”
Claiming otherwise would be a lie, she admitted, and why bother. “I’ll waste my time saying this again, but you could go home.”
“It’s never less than entertaining, watching you interrogate a suspect.”
“Whatever floats.” She pulled out her ’link as he drove, contacted Mira. “Sorry to disturb you at home,” she began, “but you said you were interested in observing when I had Copley in the box.”
After making arrangements with Mira she contacted Central to make certain Copley was where she wanted him.
“Interview B,” she said when Roarke drove into Central’s garage. “Reo’s heading in. He used his one contact for his lawyer. Didn’t use it to check on his wife. The lawyer’s with him, making lawyerly noises.”
“One expects no less.”
Eve eyed the elevator with distrust, but got on. “The last time I was on this, Drunk Santa let loose a nuclear fart while showing me his grimy little dick.”
“You lead such a colorful life.”
“I’m pretty sure he puked right after I got off, because I heard they had to shut down this car for two hours.” She sniffed cautiously. “You can still sort of smell the detox.”
“We can hope this ride proves less eventful.”
As it did, she peeled off straight to her office. “I’m going to put a file together—DB, the first-on-scene’s record of Quigley, the scene itself, the nine-one-one.”
“And Ziegler?”
“Second file. I may hold that back, depending. He doesn’t know his wife’s status, and I can use that. His lawyer can’t access it—Patient Privacy Act—so they don’t know I haven’t interviewed her.”
“You’ll lie.”
“Fortunately, I can lie my ass off.” She checked the time. “He’s had a good long sweat, the lawyer’s told him to keep it zipped, but he won’t.”
“He’s . . . excitable.” Roarke looked over at her. “You’ll use that.”
“Damn straight. He doesn’t know what the hell’s going on regarding Quigley. He’ll have a story though, and he’ll want to tell it.”
“And lawyer or not, you’ll make sure he does.”
“That’s the plan.” She picked up the files. “If you get bored in Observation, I’ll find you. If you want to go home, just go.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her. “I’ll be here.”
Armed with her files, she walked to Interview B, and went in.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Copley, John Jake, regarding case files H-28901 and H-28902. Mr. Copley has exercised his right to legal representation.”
“Edie McAllister with Silbert, Crosby, and McAllister, representing Mr. Copley.”
“So noted.”
“As Mr. Copley’s legal counsel I demand his immediate release.” She clipped the words out, all confident, outraged lawyer. “He’s been held here for nearly three hours. He’s been prevented from accompanying his injured wife to the hospital. He’s been prevented from contacting the hospital to learn his wife’s condition. This extreme hardship is—”
“You are aware evidence strongly indicates Mr. Copley is responsible for his wife’s injuries?”
“That’s a lie!” Copley banged his fist on the table, rattling the chains that secured him.
“JJ.” The lawyer, a swirly-haired blonde in potent red, laid a hand on his. “You have no tangible evidence, and, in fact, have Mr. Copley’s own account that he found his wife unconscious. We strongly believe, and evidence will show, that Catiana Dubois assaulted Ms. Quigley, was killed during the struggle.”
