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“Where did she have it done?”
“It was a calendar entry with the procedure listed. We’ll run down who performed it.”
“Did she say who the father was?”
Shoemaker crossed one leg over the other and tapped his wingtips with his index finger. “Was it you?” he said, staring off before swinging his gaze around to Devine’s. It was clearly done for dramatic effect, and Devine had to admit the cop pulled it off nicely.
“I know nothing about any of this.”
“Again, not really my question. Did you have sex with Sara Ewes?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
Ekman interjected, “No, but your refusal comes with consequences. And she did name you as the father, just so you know.”
Devine now swiveled his gaze in the man’s direction. “And it’s totally legal for cops to lie to suspects to trick them into saying something. So that could be a load of bullshit. Show me where she says that.”
Shoemaker said, “Paul, this guy sounds like a lawyer. Who woulda thought that about a fine Army lad.”
Devine knew all about this because the CID had interrogated him after Hawkins’s death, tried to screw with his head, lied to him, tried to get him to confess, pounded him with everything they had. Only the body had been so torn up by animals that the forensics were of no use in assigning legal blame to Devine, and the injuries he had incurred in his fight with Hawkins were minimal and inconclusive. All soldiers had bumps and bruises and cuts. And any DNA of one man found on the other was also inconclusive, since they served in close proximity to one another. No witnesses, no other evidence, and a time of death that was all over the place allowed Devine to reasonably argue that he had an alibi for the broad time window in question. The CID had finally given up. Devine also assumed that they didn’t want to pursue it more thoroughly because doing so might open up for scrutiny the whitewash investigation they had done of Blankenship’s supposed suicide.
“You can take my prints and my DNA. I did not kill her.”
“How about a polygraph? Will you take one of those?”
Devine sat back. “Which means you found no DNA and no prints at the murder scene. Or maybe you just didn’t find any of mine. And you’re trying to railroad me into a confession so you can clear this one off your list and make your boss happy and Wall Street rest easy. Only if you did pin it on me, the killer would still be out there. But I’ll make a deal with you.”
“I don’t rememberasking for a deal,” said Ekman.
“I’ll take a polygraph if you show me where Sara names me as the father and you swear in an affidavit that it’s legit and not made up to get me to confess to something I didn’t do.”
“You watch too many cop shows,” said Shoemaker. “But while we can make deceptive statements to you in an interrogation, we can’t manufacture evidence. That would be a crime.”
“Do I take that as a no-go on my offer, then?”
“Where were you between the hours of midnight and four a.m. on Friday?”
Devine grimaced impatiently. “Come on, I already told the other guy all that.”
“What other guy?” said Shoemaker sharply.
“Hancock.”
“Hancock?” parroted Ekman.
“Detective Karl Hancock with NYPD. I guess he’s working the case with you two.”
The two men exchanged a glance that Devine couldn’t really read, but didn’t like.
“When did this Hancock talk to you?” asked Ekman.
“He was waiting for me at the train station near my place in Mount Kisco, this was on Friday. And he was waiting for me at my house the next day when I got home from work.”
“And you told him where you were that night?”
“Yes, and he wrote it down.”
“Describe him,” said Shoemaker.
