Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [104]
I already had my answer thought out. “What’s the difference between interviewing and interrogating?”
“What?”
“Tell me the textbook definitions.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tell me.”
“Look, I’m not a barbarian.”
“The definitions, please.”
He gave a sharp, irritated sound, then said, “Interviewing is a non-accusatory, fact-finding mission where you let the suspect/witness do the talking. Interrogating is an active, confrontational method of questioning where you give the suspect a psychological reason to confess.”
“Now how old did I say Eva Knoll is?”
“Ninety-seven, but what’s that—”
“She’s an elderly woman, Detective Hudson. And no matter what she’s seen or done, I’m not going to let you browbeat her. I’m married to a cop. I’ve seen the techniques. I’ve experienced them. I know a so-called interview can turn into an interrogation in two seconds. I’m not going to allow that to happen. We’ll go see her tomorrow. It’s too late tonight and it’s a bit of a drive. Please note the pronoun we. And one other thing. I’m going to do the talking.”
He threw his hat down on the desktop. “There is no way you are interviewing this or any other possible witness. Give me that name and address now.”
“No.”
“I swear, if you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” he sputtered.
“You’ll what? Call Gabe and tell on me? Inject me with truth serum? Lock me up for the night?” I held out my wrists. “Go ahead, book me.”
He literally growled at me, “Don’t think I won’t call your husband. I’ll tell him you’ve interfered in this from the very beginning, that I’ve asked you repeatedly to stay out of it, that you’re jeopardizing my investigation, and that I’ll have to go to my superiors if he can’t control you. I’ll embarrass you and him in front of all his colleagues.”
I smiled serenely, knowing I had him. “And you know what I’ll tell him and your boss? That you cajoled and harassed me into helping you on this case. That you didn’t have the resources or feel confident enough to solve it without the help of a lowly civilian. Worse than that, a female civilian. And then I’ll give the story to my cousin, the journalist. He’s always looking for amusing things to make fun of in his column. He’ll make mincemeat of your burgeoning career here on the Central Coast. You’ll be the laughingstock of every police agency in the county. Nope, you got me into this, and now I’ve got the upper hand. I suggest you deal with it.”
He gave a nasty smile. “With your reputation, who do you think they’ll believe? Admit it, I have you there.”
That’s when I pulled the ace out of my sleeve. Or rather, the tape recorder out of my purse. “They’ll believe me, Detective, because I’ve been recording key conversations with you for days, and the tapes are in my safety deposit box.” I wiggled the tiny tape recorder.
He stared at the recorder, opened his mouth and started to say something, then closed it. His brown eyes were dark and angry, and I tried to quell the anxiety in my chest and the truth on my face. It was the biggest bluff I’d ever attempted, me of the billboard face.
Slowly a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a small laugh. Shaking his head, he said, “Oh, man, you’re good.”
Surprised, I laughed, too, and said, “Yeah, I know.”
“With an ego to match mine,” he added.
“Meet me tomorrow. Nine o’clock at the folk art museum.”
“I’ll be there with my whips and thumbscrews.”
“I told you, Detective, no browbeating on my watch.”
He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “My dear Mrs. Harper, who said they’re for the old lady?”
In the parking lot I called home again to see if Gabe was there. When the answering machine took the call, I hung up.
The driveway was empty. Inside the house, it was apparent Gabe hadn’t been home yet—no briefcase or dirty glasses in the sink. Another dinner with Lydia? Annoyed, I listened to my message to him on the answering machine, then the one after it.
“Sweetheart,” he said. “I have a dinner with the city manager and then I’m going to drop by Lydia’s hotel to talk about Sam.