“Lieutenant, if you’re going to add more ridiculous charges to those already levied against my client, I’ll—”
“It’s a pattern, Counselor, and I can connect each and every one of these people to your client. This one, the first one we’ve dug up. You’re in Africa, it’s hot, kind of wild. And hell, you’re paying her, aren’t you? She should do what the hell you want when you want it. And you’ve got that buzz on,” she added, rising and circling the table. “Women are supposed to lie down when you say lie down, supposed to spread them when you say spread them. It was her own fault, really, and thank God you had Sly there to help you out.”
She reached over, leaning over him, pulled the death photo of Melly Bristow out of the file.
Blonde gagged.
“Yeah, harsh, but, hey, she was dead already. Such a rush, getting away with murder. And they’re all just people for hire anyway—like Sofia Ricci in Naples, like Linette Jones in Vegas.”
She tapped each ID shot while Sorenson dismissed her accusations, and Dudley continued to twitch.
“But wouldn’t it be more of a rush to kill people who’ve got some cachet?” she continued. “Why waste your time on nobodies? Add some spice to the contest. What was the winner going to get anyway?”
“You’re making things up.”
“A high-class version of the classic game of Clue. Oh, wait.” She pressed the recorder she’d already cued up, and Dudley’s voice came out.
Games are for children. This is adventure. It’s competition.
“How many points did you get for the LC in the amusement park with the bayonet?” she wondered. “Your great-uncle’s bayonet. Or for the facilitator on the jogging trail with the bullwhip. The bullwhip custom-made for you in Australia. Detective Peabody returning to Interview. And, look, she’s brought party favors.”
“I was nowhere near either of those places. You know very well I was entertaining on the night Adrianne was killed.”
“We’ve been talking to people on your guest list. Even better, to staff hired for that little soiree. The hired help, Winnie? They tend to see things because people like you don’t really see them.” She smiled. “We’ve already found a couple of guests who state they looked for you to say good night before they left, and gee, couldn’t find you.”
“I have a large home, an extensive estate.”
“Yeah, and needed a lot of extra help, the kind who don’t have any reason to lie about or for you. We’ve got a few who noticed you and Adrianne Jonas heading for the garage, a couple others who noticed you coming back, a bit after three A.M. Alone.”
“You bribed them.” Sweat coated his face like dew. “It goes back to this vendetta. It goes back to jealousy.”
“Oh, of what?”
“You may have finessed marriage out of Roarke, may have money, but you’ll never be anyone. Either of you. You’ll never be what I am.”
“Thank God for that. I’ve got statements, recordings, witnesses, weapons.” She shrugged. “Oh, and you know what else? You had this in a locked drawer in your bedroom.” She pulled out an evening bag. “It’s Adrianne Jonas’s.”
“She left it at the party. I was keeping it for her.”
“No, do better. We have those pesky hired help who saw her, with the bag, as she was entering your garage.”
“She dropped it.”
“And oddly, her ’link wasn’t in it, though she was seen using it minutes before you walked her to the garage. Oddly, too, her prints and several strands of hair were in your vehicle. Oh, and a couple of the valets you hired saw your vehicle leave the estate just under an hour prior to her time of death.”
“She must have asked one of the servants to drive her. I can’t keep track of everyone.”
“Are these your shoes?” She pulled them out of the box, got a shrug. “I can save us time and tell you these were taken out of your shoe closet, tagged, and logged. You wore these same shoes the night you killed Ava Crampton. We have you, wearing them and a bogus disguise, entering the House of Horrors with her, less than thirty minutes prior to her time of death.”
“You can’t have. I took . . . I wasn’t there.”
“You were going to say you took care of it, jammed security with this.” She drew out the jammer. “You did a pretty good job, Winnie. Credit where credit’s due. But you didn’t get them all. And before you say there are any number of people with this particular make of shoe,” she said to Sorenson, “you should know they’re a limited edition, and in this size and color, very few have been sold—and we’ve been briskly eliminating them as suspects. I really don’t think your client’s been fully forthcoming with you.”
“I’ll need time to confer privately with my client.”
“Sure. We can do that. And given the time, I can postpone the continuation of this interview until Monday morning. I bet you’re feeling a little tense and itchy, Winnie. Gee, you’re all shaky and sweaty. I bet you wish you had just a little hit to smooth it out. It’s a long time until Monday, a long time in a cage without all your usual indulgences.”
“You can’t keep me here.”
She leaned forward, into his face. “Oh, yes, I can.”
“Sorenson, you useless shit, deal with this.”
“Lieutenant, if I could speak with you outside.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” In fact, she leaned back in her chair, crossed her booted feet. “Why don’t you deal with me, Winnie? That was the plan. But Sly screwed up, he messed it up for you. He’s the loser. But you, you’re a screwup, too. Jesus, you’re laughable. I beat both of you in under a week. Maybe I should have a victory drink.”
She pulled a bottle of champagne from the box. “Fancy French stuff. Special vintage, numbered and signed and recorded in Delaflote’s log for the Simpson job. It was in your wine cellar. That Delaflote, he had no business getting naked with your mother. Freaking French upstart.”
“You shut your mouth.”
“Oh, I got more. Lots more. So much I’m amazed the two of you had a nine-month run at this. The NYPSD judge?” She gestured to Peabody.
“Gives them a five-point-eight out of ten. But that’s for creativity,” Peabody added. “Execution drops to a four-point-six.”
“That’s fair. But it was fun, wasn’t it, Winnie? That much fun, you do it for the love, not the score. And you loved it, just like you love your chemicals. What’s life without some buzz and thrill?”
“Lieutenant, that’s quite enough.” Sorenson stood. “We’ll end this interview here.”
“I’m not staying here, going back to that cell. You moronic prick, do what you’re paid to do! I want to go home. I want this bitch punished.”
“Ouch, starting to jones some, huh?” Eve shook her head in sympathy as she checked her wrist unit. “It’s been a while. Not that you’re going home—ever—Winnie, but you wouldn’t find any of your stashes there. We’ve got them, too.”
He surged to his feet, backhanding Redhead out of her chair when she tried to soothe him down again. “You have no right to touch my things. I pay you. You’re nothing but a public servant. I own you.”
“You bought and paid for these people.” Eve gestured to the photos scattered over the table. “You had every right to kill them for sport.”
“You’re damn right we did. They’re nothing.” He swept the photos to the floor. “Barely more than droids. Who cries when a droid’s destroyed? And you, you’re nothing more than a conniving, social-climbing nobody’s temporary whore. We should’ve killed you first.”
“Yeah, guess so. Missed that shuttle.”
“Winston, I don’t want you to say another word. Do you hear me, not another word.”
“Going to listen to your paid servant, Winnie?” She put a taunting sneer into her voice. “Does he tell you what to do?”