Naked in Death - J. D. Robb [112]
She waited while DeBlass reached for a glass of water and drank thirstily. “There was a maniac at large. You printed out the note, slipped it under her. And you dressed, calmer now, but excited. You set the ’link to call the cops at two fifty-five. You needed enough time to go down and fix the security tapes. Then you got back on your shuttle, flew back to East Washington, and waited to play the outraged grandfather.”
Through it all, DeBlass said nothing. But a muscle jerked in his cheek and his eyes couldn’t find a place to land.
“That’s a fascinating story, lieutenant,” the lawyer said. “But it remains that—a story. A supposition. A desperate attempt by the police department to fight their way out of a difficult situation with the media and the people of New York. And, of course, it’s perfect timing that such ridiculous and damaging accusation should be levied against the senator just as his Morals Bill is coming up for debate.”
“How did you pick the other two? How did you select Lola Starr and Georgie Castle? Have you already picked the fourth, the fifth, the sixth? Do you think you could have stopped there? Could you have stopped when it made you feel so powerful, so invincible, so righteous?”
DeBlass wasn’t red now. He was gray, and his breathing was harsh and choppy. When he reached for a glass again, his hand jerked and sent it rolling to the floor.
“This interview is over.” The lawyer stood, helped DeBlass to his feet. “My client’s health is precarious. He requires medical attention immediately.”
“Your client’s a murderer. He’ll get plenty of medical attention in a penal colony, for the rest of his life.” She pressed a button. When the doors of the interrogation room opened, a uniform stepped in. “Call the MTs,” she ordered. “The senator’s feeling a little stressed. It’s going to get worse,” she warned, turning back to DeBlass. “I haven’t even gotten started.”
Two hours later, after filing reports and meeting with the prosecuting attorney, Eve fought her way through traffic. She had read a good portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diaries. It was something she needed to set aside for now, the pictures of a twisted man and how he had turned a young girl into a woman almost as unbalanced as he.
Because she knew it could have been, all too easily, her story. Choices were there to be taken, she thought, brooding. Sharon’s had killed her.
She wanted to blow off some steam, go over the events step by step with someone who would listen, appreciate, support. Someone who, for a little while, would stand between her and the ghosts of what was. And what could have been.
She headed for Roarke’s.
When the call came through on her car ’link, she prayed it wasn’t a summons back to duty. “Dallas.”
“Hey, kid.” It was Feeney’s tired face on-screen. “I just watched the interrogation discs. Good job.”
“Didn’t get as far as I’d like, fencing with the damn lawyer. I’m going to break him, Feeney. I swear it.”
“Yeah, my money’s on you. But, ah, I got to tell you something that’s not going to go down well. DeBlass had a little heart blip.”
“Christ, he’s not going to code out on us?”
“No. No, they medicated him. Some talk about getting him a new one next week.”
“Good.” She blew out a stream of breath. “I want him to live a long time—behind bars.”
“We’ve got a strong case. The prosecutor’s ready to canonize you, but in the meantime, he’s sprung.”
She hit the brakes. A volley of testy horn blasts behind her had her whipping over to the edge of Tenth and blocking the turning lane. “What the hell do you mean, he’s sprung?”
Feeney winced, as much in empathy as reaction. “Released on