“Why are you coming forward now?”
“As I said, I thought I could get away with it. Perhaps I could have. I never expected my son to be arrested in my place.”
“So, you’re protecting him?”
“I killed them, Lieutenant. What more do you want?”
“Why did you leave the knife i
n his drawer, in his room?”
His eyes slid away, slid back. “As I said, he rarely stays there. I thought it was safe. Then I was contacted about the search warrant. I didn’t have time to remove it.”
“You expect me to buy this? You think you’re helping him by clouding the case, by coming forward with this lame confession. You think he’s guilty.” She lowered her voice, bit off each word. “You’re so terrified that your son is a murderer that you’re willing to take the rap rather than see him face the consequences. Are you going to let another woman die, Angelini? Or two, or three before you swallow reality?”
His lips trembled once, then firmed. “I’ve given you my statement.”
“You’ve given me bullshit.” Turning on her heel, Eve left the room. Struggling to calm herself, she stood outside, watched with a jaundiced eye as Angelini pressed his face into his hands.
She could break him, eventually. But there was always a chance that word would leak and the media would scream that there was a confession from someone other than the prime.
She looked over at the sound of footsteps, and her body stiffened like steel. “Commander.”
“Lieutenant. Progress?”
“He’s sticking to his story. It’s got holes you could drive a shuttle through. I’ve given him the opening to bring up the souvenirs from the first two hits. He didn’t bite.”
“I’d like to talk to him. Privately, Lieutenant, and off the record.” Before she could speak, he held up a hand. “I realize it’s not procedure. I’m asking you for a favor.”
“And if he incriminates himself or his son?”
Whitney’s jaw tightened. “I’m still a cop, Dallas. Goddamn it.”
“Yes, sir.” She unlocked the door, then after only a faint hesitation, darkened the two-way glass and shut off audio. “I’ll be in my office.”
“Thank you.” He stepped inside. He gave her one last look before shutting the door and turning to the man slumped at the table. “Marco,” Whitney said on a long sigh. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“Jack.” Marco offered a thin smile. “I wondered if you’d be along. We never did make that golf date.”
“Talk to me.” Whitney sat down heavily.
“Hasn’t your efficient and dogged lieutenant filled you in?”
“The recorder’s off,” Whitney said sharply. “We’re alone. Talk to me, Marco. We both know you didn’t kill Cicely or anyone else.”
For a moment, Marco stared up at the ceiling, as if pondering. “People never know each other as well as they believe. Not even the people they care for. I loved her, Jack. I never stopped loving her. But she stopped loving me. Part of me was always waiting for her to start loving me again. But she never would have.”
“Damn it, Marco, do you expect me to believe that you slit her throat because she divorced you twelve years ago?”
“Maybe I thought she might have married Hammett. He wanted that,” Marco said quietly. “I could see that he wanted that. Cicely was reluctant.” His voice remained calm, quiet, faintly nostalgic. “She enjoyed her independence, but she was sorry to disappoint Hammett. Sorry enough that she might have given in eventually. Married him. It would have really been over then, wouldn’t it?”
“You killed Cicely because she might have married another man?”
“She was my wife, Jack. Whatever the courts and the Church said.”
Whitney sat a moment, silent. “I’ve played poker with you too many times over the years, Marco. You’ve got tells.” Folding his arms on the table, he leaned forward. “When you bluff, you tap your finger on your knee.”
The finger stopped tapping. “This is a long way from poker, Jack.”