“But you’re very confident that the state has a good case,” he interrupted. When she didn’t answer, he took another long study of her face. Then he finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass aside. “But you’re wrong, Lieutenant. You’ve got the wrong man.”
“You believe in your son’s innocence, Mr. Angelini. I understand that.”
“Not believe, Lieutenant, know. My son didn’t kill those women.” He took a breath, like a diver about to plunge under the surface. “I did.”
chapter fifteen
Eve had no choice. She took him in and grilled him. After a full hour, she had a vicious headache and the calm, unshakable statement from Marco Angelini that he had killed three women.
He refused counsel, and refused to or was unable to elaborate.
Each time Eve asked him why he had killed, he stared straight into her eyes and claimed it had been impulse. He’d been annoyed with his wife, he stated. Personally embarrassed by her continued intimacy with a business partner. He’d killed her because he couldn’t have her back. Then he’d gotten a taste for it.
It was all very simple, and to Eve’s mind, very rehearsed. She could picture him repeating and refining the lines in his head before he spoke them.
“This is bullshit,” she said abruptly and pushed back from the conference table. “You didn’t kill anybody.”
“I say I did.” His voice was eerily calm. “You have my confession on record.”
“Then tell me again.” Leaning forward, she slapped her hands on the table. “Why did you ask your wife to meet you at the Five Moons?”
“I wanted it to happen somewhere out of our milieu. I thought I could get away with it, you see. I told her there was trouble with Randy. She didn’t know the full problem of his gambling. I did. So, of course, she came.”
“And you slit her throat.”
“Yes.” His skin whitened slightly. “It was very quick.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went home.”
“How?”
He blinked. “I drove. I’d parked my car a couple of blocks away.”
“What about the blood?” She peered into his eyes, watching his pupils. “There’d have been a lot of it. She’d have gushed all over you.”
The pupils dilated, but his voice remained steady. “I was wearing a top coat, rain resistant. I discarded it along the way.” He smiled a little. “I imagine some itinerant found it and made use of it.”
“What did you take from the scene?”
“The knife, of course.”
“Nothing of hers?” She waited a beat. “Nothing to make it look like a robbery, a mugging?”
He hesitated. She could almost see his mind working behind his eyes. “I was shaken. I hadn’t expected it to be so unpleasant. I had planned to take her bag, the jewelry, but I forgot, and just ran.”
“You ran, taking nothing, but were smart enough to ditch your blood-splattered coat.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you went after Metcalf.”
“She was an impulse. I kept dreaming about what it had been like, and I wanted to do it again. She was easy.” His breathing leveled and his hands lay still on the table. “She was ambitious and rather naive. I knew David had written a screenplay with her in mind. He was determined to complete this entertainment project—it was something we disagreed over. It annoyed me, and it would have cost the company resources that are, at the moment, a bit strained. I decided to kill her, and I contacted her. Of course she agreed to meet me.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Wearing?” He fumbled for a moment. “I didn’t pay attention. It wasn’t important. She smiled, held out both of her hands as I walked toward her. And I did it.”