“Counselor,” Michelson said, “We’re not in a court of law.”
“No, Counselor, we’re not. However, this is a sworn statement that can be used in a court of law. Mrs. Ramses’s knowledge regarding anything” —she emphasized the word— “outside of your investigation into Mr. Underwood’s death is irrelevant.”
Letting the chair drop to all four legs, Mr. Michelson pushed himself away from the basic wood table where we were seated and stood. The room around us was only a little larger than the table; nevertheless, Mr. Michelson paced behind his and the detective’s chairs. “This is where we’re going to disagree. We have reason to believe that Ms. Jezebel North was involved in luring Mrs. Ramses to New Orleans.”
“And that is relevant...how?”
“Were you lured, Mrs. Ramses?”
“New Orleans was a bucket-list destination. When Ross asked me to accompany him in the name of our start-up, I agreed. After all, we were business partners.”
His forehead furrowed. “And yet you didn’t check on your business partner after the night of your arrival.”
“Is that a question?” Sophie asked.
“We have no record of Mrs. Ramses,” the detective said, “attempting to contact Mr. Underwood. His phone has been in our custody since the morning he was found.”
My stomach twisted with the discussion of finding Ross. During our four years at the University of Pittsburgh, our association was more competitive than friendly. As I’d told Rett, Ross and I were never romantically involved. However, we both recognized that our possibility for success was exponentially increased when we combined our talents. For over nine months we worked on our program. We edited not only our own manuscripts but already-published works. We didn’t have our program completely refined, but we were close. We needed financial support. Or that was what Ross said—continually.
I could only imagine the student I knew and the man I’d gotten to know. The descriptions from the detective as well as Mr. Michelson of how Ross was found didn’t match how I wanted to remember him.
“Can you tell us again about Mr. Underwood’s injury?” the detective asked.
“He hurt his shoulder in a rugby accident at the university.”
“The University of Pittsburgh doesn’t have a rugby team,” the detective countered.
“No, sir. They have a club, the Pitt Rugby Football Club.”
“And Mr. Underwood’s position was?”
I inhaled. “During his junior year he was a hooker. His senior year, he was moved to scrum.”
“Why was he moved?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know that.”
“But you’re aware of the positions he played?” Mr. Michelson asked. “Which did he prefer, forward or back?”
“We never had an in-depth conversation about his preference.”
“So he didn’t mind being moved to a forward position from hooker to scrum.”
My cheeks rose in partial amusement and disgust. “I know I’m a woman, Detective; however, I happen to know that a hooker is a forward position and a scrum is a back position. It was during Ross’s senior year that he was injured. He didn’t finish the season. And as I said earlier, his shoulder didn’t always bother him, but when it did, it was a distraction. He mentioned bringing his pain medication on our trip. He was concerned that the plane flight would aggravate it.”
“A nonstop flight is only two and a half hours.”
“But,” I said, “as you undoubtedly know, we had a layover in Atlanta. There was a problem with our connection, and we had to find another flight.”
“And what was your hurry to get to New Orleans?”
I looked at Sophie who nodded.
“We had a meeting with an investor.”
“For your editing program?” Mr. Michelson asked.
“Yes.”