For the first time since they’d entered his house, Chesterfield looked flustered. “I… I didn’t. We’ve been talking about poisoning and it just came out. If Sophie Randall had been stabbed, I would probably have denied stabbing Arthur. Was he poisoned?”
“Nice catch,” Quinlan said. “By the way, that accent, it’s phony, right?”
Chesterfield’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me?”
“This whole business about being an English lord, that’s a load of shit, isn’t it? Aren’t you really little Bobby Chesterfield from the Manchester slums who cheats at cards and fucks women old enough to be his mother?”
Chesterfield’s hands curled into fists, and Dillon could tell that it was taking him every ounce of energy to keep from exploding.
“I’ve had enough of this interrogation. It’s time for you gentlemen to leave. If you wish to speak to me again, you can contact me through my solicitor.”
Quinlan smiled as he stood. “We don’t have solicitors in the US of A. We got attorneys, and you should look into hiring a good one who’s up on his criminal law.”
“That went well,” Quinlan said sarcastically when they were back on the highway.
“That son of a bitch,” Ragland fumed. “We’ll see how smug he is when he’s rotting on death row.”
“Look, Peter, you’ve got to start being objective,” Quinlan said. “Chesterfield is a horse’s ass, but he’s a very intelligent horse’s ass. He was baiting you because he knows you don’t have a prosecutable case.”
“That’s where you and I disagree. I think I can get an indictment with what I have. Once Chesterfield is in custody, dressed in an orange jumpsuit instead of an Armani, we’ll see how fast he changes his tune.”
Quinlan was smart enough to know that he wasn’t going to change Ragland’s mind, so he stopped trying. Getting an indictment would not be a problem. Any prosecutor worth his salt could convince a grand jury to indict the pope for John Kennedy’s assassination. Winning this case when it went to trial was something else.
CHAPTER TEN
Morris Quinlan was sound asleep when his phone rang.
“My hunch paid off,” Peter Ragland bragged as soon as Quinlan answered.
“What hunch?” Quinlan asked, groggy and annoyed at being jarred out of a deep sleep.
“You know I got the murder indictments for Chesterfield last week?”
“I testified at the grand jury, Peter.”
“Well, I don’t just want to arrest His Lordship, I want to shake him up. I knew a guy like Chesterfield wouldn’t be able to keep it in his pants, so I called in a favor from an undercover at Vice and had a tail put on him. Guess what?” Ragland asked gleefully.
“You woke me from a deep sleep, Peter. I’m too tired for games. Please cut to the chase.”
“Lily Dowd is at her house on the coast. About an hour ago, Chesterfield escorted an attractive young woman up to Dowd’s Portland condo. They’re probably in the sack, doing the dirty right now, so I thought that this would be a perfect time to come calling.I’m in the lobby of the condo with two uniforms. Hustle on down, and you’ll be just in time to get in on the bust.”
Robert Chesterfield had just finished giving a young woman whose name he couldn’t remember her second orgasm when loud banging on the front door interrupted a most enjoyable evening.
“Stay here, my dear,” Chesterfield said as he got out of bed and slipped on a robe.
“Open up, police!” a familiar voice shouted.
Motherfucker, thought Chesterfield, who remained outwardly composed. “Is that you, Peter?” he asked through the door.
“Open up, Robert.”
“Why should I do that? It’s the middle of the night and I have a guest.”
“Tell your guest to get dressed. Playtime is over. I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Put on some clothes, dear. The police are calling!” Chesterfield shouted. Then he sighed and opened the door. “Did you plan this bit of theater in the hopes of embarrassing me?” Chesterfield asked wearily. “Because you haven’t succeeded.”
Ragland walked into the penthouse and handed Chesterfield the arrest warrant. “Robert Chesterfield, I am arresting you for the murders of Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall and the attempted murder of Samuel Moser,” the deputy DA said.