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Jo rose. “Will do.”
Once around the corner and out of earshot, Jo pulled out her phone and began texting. “Did you see that? She’s hoping this is going to pull me into accusations of a cover-up, or some sort of harassment. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her put me in jeopardy.”
Arnett glanced back toward the office. “You’re not going to execute the warrant?”
“Of course I’ll execute it, but”—her usually buried New Orleans accent reared up—“my mama didn’t raise no fool. I’ll be making sure I have plenty of help. Meaning, witnesses.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
Ossokov was waiting with his lawyer, Don Kent, when Jo, accompanied by Goran, Marzillo, Peterson, and Lopez arrived at his mother’s house half an hour later. An attorney out of Boston, Kent had a reputation for fighting for underdogs that had been wronged by the justice system, and an intimidatingly successful series of civil suits. Over six feet tall, he was a lean, raven-haired white man with deep lines etching his tanned forehead but none creasing his expensive suit. Jo glanced around for the candy-apple red convertible his image called up in her mind, but discovered she was wrong—the convertible was lime-green metallic.
Jo pulled out the warrant paperwork. “First things first. I need your client to account for his whereabouts last night through this morning.”
Kent had a whispered conversation with Ossokov behind turned heads and raised hands. “Yesterday was his day off. He did yard work, then watched the Bruins game. After that he read until he fell asleep at about three in the morning. He got up at ten thirty this morning. His mother fell asleep before he did, and was gone to her own job when he woke up.”
“Is there anyone who can confirm that? Did his mother happen to look in on him, anything like that?”
“We’ll check with her when she gets home, but not that we’re aware of.” Kent pointed to a device over the front door. “After your visit yesterday, he purchased a security camera. That will show him doing the yard work, but doesn’t account for the rest of his time. His phone location will show him at home, but I’m sure you’ll say he could have left his phone behind,” Kent said.
“Excellent mind-reading skills.” She handed him the paperwork.
He glanced over the warrant with experienced flicks. “Burner phones, firearms—what’s muslin?”
“A type of material found at the crime scene,” Jo answered.
“The blindfold.” He turned back to the paperwork, and his skeptical expression turned to a glare. “My client needs his phone. You can’t leave him without it.”
Jo gestured to Lopez. “My tech expert has a universal forensic extraction device that’ll transfer the contents in seconds.”
Lopez held up a black case, wiggled it back and forth, and smiled. “I never leave home without my Touch2 Ultimate.”
Kent’s jaw clenched. “It says here you’re removing his mother’s car for on-site analysis? How are either of them supposed to get to work?”
Jo crinkled her brow sarcastically and turned to Lopez. “What’s that company called? The one you pull up on your phone that drives you places?”
“You’re thinking of Uber or Lyft.” Lopez shot a finger at her, then crinkled her own brow. “But I also remember hearing about these big vehicles that carry lots of people around town and make regular stops places?”
“Buses.” Jo’s face cleared as she turned back to Kent. “Rideshares and public transportation. What amazing times we live in.”
A red flush crept up Kent’s neck. “I don’t appreciate the attitude, Detective. This isn’t a joke.”
Jo’s face returned to professionally impassive. “I agree, the murder of three members of the justice system in three days is absolutelynota joke, andIdon’t appreciate the manufactured righteous indignation at what you know are very basic aspects of us doing our jobs.”
Kent’s eyes narrowed. “This is harassment.”
“The judge says it isn’t. You’re welcome to watch. Your client is welcome to watch, too.” Jo shrugged.
But Kent knew, as did she, that it would only upset Ossokov to watch law enforcement go through the house, and make him more likely to do or say something incriminating. He instructed Ossokov to stay back with one of the uniformed backup policemen, then followed along with Goran as Jo motioned Marzillo and Peterson inside to carry out the physical search.
They started with Ossokov’s bedroom. Neat and tidy, it contained very few personal possessions. When they found nothing, they continued on systematically through the house. As Jo rifled through an accordion file of documents lying out on the kitchen table, Marzillo’s voice, tense and staccato, called out from Rebecca Ossokov’s bedroom. “Jo. I need you to come look at this.”
Lopez looked up sharply from the laptop she was processing, then followed Jo into the room.
Jo noted the room’s aggressively 1990s decorating theme—the maroon-flowered wallpaper border over light-pink walls cocooned a light-wood bedroom set complete with two-cabinet headboard. She’d heard it said that women favored the hairstyle they wore at the height of their youth; she wondered if the same was true of bedroom decor, and made a note to reevaluate her own. She turned the corner to find Marzillo standing next to a tall bureau, eyes wide. Marzillo lifted a gloved hand and precisely pointed one finger at something settled in amid the perfume bottles and figurines. Jo peered closely, trying to make out what it was.
A large, eviscerated eyeball. With toothpicks sticking into it.
Behind her, Lopez sucked in a deep breath. “Oh,hellno. Myabuelawas deadly serious about three things: her rice and beans, herpitorro, and herSantería. Take my advice and stay far, far away from that. Like, pick-it-up-with-tongs kinda far away.”
