Eve aimed her gaze at that moon-white face, those bored eyes. “We’re aware he doesn’t do his own dirty work.”
“My client, in fact, had no connection to the deceased and therefore would have no cause to order his murder. However, my client believes he may have some information that may help the police identify the individual who did, in fact, kill Mr. Pickering. He will offer that information in exchange for immunity on the lesser charges of assault, illegal possession, possession of—”
“Stop talking.”
Quentin’s mouth fell open. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stop talking.” Time, Eve decided, to wipe some of that green away. “If your murderous fuck of a client thinks he can try to toss this off on Marcus Jones, you’re wasting my time, my partner’s time. And if you actually believe your scum of a client, you’re going to last about six months as a PD.”
“Speaking to me or about my client in such a way—”
“Stop talking,” Eve repeated. “They rolled on you, Bolt. Snapper, Ticker—if we’re going to use your lame gang names. They rolled, then folded you up and rolled some more.”
Bolt leaned to his attorney, spoke low in his ear. Quentin nodded, cleared his throat. “My client and I are fully aware police officers are allowed to lie and mislead during an interview. Now, though my client is barely acquainted with the individuals you named, he did see them briefly at or about the time of Lyle Pickering’s murder when they joined, for a short time, a casual game of basketball at a location known as the lot.”
“That’s interesting. Isn’t that interesting, Peabody?”
“I’m riveted. I mean, sure, his lame-ass alibis both stated they were playing when he joined, but it’s easy to mix up little details like that when you’re lying.”
“It’s always the little things,” Eve agreed. “And speaking of little things, I bet Washington, Chesterfield—and we need to add Aimes in here—didn’t mention to your client the little things they took from the Pickering apartment after they carried out his orders and pumped a killing dose of Go into Pickering.”
“There’s no evidence my client—”
Eve rolled over him like his fellow gang members rolled on Jorgenson. “Like the shiny red purse from the vic’s sister’s closet we found in Aimes’s pigsty of a room. And you know what? It had earrings inside with blood traces from where they’d been ripped out of earlobes. Dinnie Duff’s blood, as it happened.”
“My client’s hardly responsible for or connected to—”
“Not finished,” Eve said, and had to admit she enjoyed interrupting him again. “Washington had a pair of earrings, too.” She shoved a photo from her file onto the table. “Taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. He had them in his pocket, Bolt. I mean, Jesus, can’t you find anybody smarter? Not Chesterfield, that’s for sure, as he traded this bracelet—also from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom—for sex, and had on his person at the time of his arrest, this brooch, taken from Rochelle Pickering’s bedroom. The asshole was wearing shoes he stole from Pickering’s closet.”
“If this is true, it has nothing to do with my client.”
“I bet it pisses him off,” Eve said, watching the muscles in Bolt’s jaw tighten. “I mean, Jesus, they had one job. You sent three of them—four when you include Duff—to kill one guy. Get in, do it, plant the illegals, get out. But they had to take some shiny things.”
“Actually, Lieutenant, he gave them two jobs that day. After Lyle, he ordered them to kill Dinnie Duff.”
“That’s true. Two jobs in one day. It’s practically asking them to multitask. They screwed that up, too, ripping off her earrings, leaving hair and fiber on her body when they raped her. Now, we get the motive there. A junkie like Duff could blab, and doing her, leaving her in the neutral zone stirs up trouble with the Dragons. But I don’t get the motive on Pickering. Why him, Bolt?”
“My client maintains, and will continue to maintain, his innocence in these matters.”
“Then I guess he maintains same for the murder of Barry Aimes, and the subsequent transporting of his body into Chinatown. You know, Bolt, I figured you for the bright one of the group, because Washington and Chesterfield barely have half a brain between them, but using your cousin’s van to haul the body to the alley behind Ho’s family restaurant?”
As if in pity, Eve shook her head. “We’re processing it now. Found it exactly where Chesterfield said we would.”
Fury rippled over Bolt’s face, but he again leaned to his attorney. This time it took a little longer.
“My client relates that if his cousin’s vehicle was used in the commission of a crime, numerous people knew where said vehicle was kept.”
“Yeah? How many of them had the access code to the garage where it was kept, or the codes to the van itself? How do you explain your client’s prints on and in the van?”
This time when Bolt leaned toward Quentin, Eve rolled her eyes.
“For Christ’s sake, just say it. Do you want to be in the box all day?”
“My client assists his cousin on a part-time basis in his delivery service, therefore his fingerprints could certainly be in and on said vehicle. Lieutenant, you have nothing but circumstantial evidence and supposition in regards to my client. I believe it’s time to conclude this interview.”
“Do you? Well, let’s do one more thing. Peabody, cue it up and roll it out.”
21