and she needed to remember that. “Probably not,” she mused, “unless you gaveme some information and brought me a soda so we could go through the facts together.”
“So you would help me.”
She smiled, not amused. “If you hadn’t arrested me. That kind of thing can put a real damper on a relationship.”
“You’re a Jellicoe. In my book, that’s reason enough for a lot of things.”
“Well, your book is stupid. And where’s my damned soda?”
Gorstein looked toward the wall-sized mirror. “Get her a soda, will you?”
“A cold one. A Diet Coke,” she put in, facing the same direction.
“You may think you’re cute,” he grunted, standing to pace around her again, “but I’m running your prints. If you have as much as an unpaid traffic ticket, I’m holding you.”
She’d only had a driver’s license for three weeks, so the odds of her having a ticket were pretty slim. As for the rest, she didn’t think she’d ever left a clue behind. This would be the test, though. “While you’re at it, why don’t you call Detective Frank Castillo in Palm Beach? He’s Homicide, but don’t be jealous. I help him out sometimes.”
He bristled, actually looking physically larger. “Listen, Jellicoe, I am not—”
“Touched a nerve, did I?”
Gorstein narrowed his eyes. “You don’t talk like somebody who lives in a townhouse on the East Side.”
“I can get snooty if you want me to, but I still didn’t take the painting.”
“How about an alibi? Can you at least give me that?”
She probably could, actually, if she wanted to confirm that she’d been riding in a taxi at 1:35 and then at 3:10. Balto was too close to the townhouse to make it worth bringing inthe cabbies, though; she could have ridden out, walked back, stolen the Hogarth, walked back to the park again, and gotten a ride home. “How about you start looking at people who might want to steal a painting instead of somebody who practically lives in an art gallery?”
Growling, he slammed a chair back into the table. “If you’d be straight with me and actually answer a damned question, maybe I could.”
Samantha tilted her head at him. “I’m sorry, Detective, are you saying that you don’t think I really did it? I’m getting confused now. Am I helping you find the thief, or am I the thief?”
“What you are is—”
The door to the interrogation room opened, and an older guy with crazy white tufts of hair sticking out over his ears walked in. “Let her go, Detective.”
Gorstein straightened. “What?”
“This little chat is finished,” a tall, balding man in an Armani suit snapped, pushing past Mr. Crazy Hair. “That’s what. Unless you’d like to face a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment.”
Samantha didn’t even try to hide her grin as Rick moved past the other two. “Sir Galahad,” she murmured, standing.
He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a flannel gray shirt over that, and still looked like the most powerful guy in the room. “Are you well?” Slowly he pulled her into his arms.
I am now . “Well enough,” she said, beginning to realize just how tense she’d been over the past hour or so. Still, she wasn’t going to admit any such thing in front of the cops, and they both knew it. “You made it by breakfast.”
“I said I would.”
“Come on, Captain,” Gorstein was growling, “this is ridiculous. She’s got no alibi, and her dad was—”
“Before you come after her again,” Expensive Suit Guy said, “you’d best have more than her father’s occupation as a reason. Good day.”
With Rick keeping an arm over her shoulder, they trooped out of the interrogation room. As they left, Samantha couldn’t resist a parting shot. She turned to face the glowering detective. “You still owe me a Diet Coke, Gorstein.”
The hallway was lined with cops, none of them looking very happy to see her walking. So be it. She wasn’t trying to make friends with any of them. And now that they
“So you would help me.”
She smiled, not amused. “If you hadn’t arrested me. That kind of thing can put a real damper on a relationship.”
“You’re a Jellicoe. In my book, that’s reason enough for a lot of things.”
“Well, your book is stupid. And where’s my damned soda?”
Gorstein looked toward the wall-sized mirror. “Get her a soda, will you?”
“A cold one. A Diet Coke,” she put in, facing the same direction.
“You may think you’re cute,” he grunted, standing to pace around her again, “but I’m running your prints. If you have as much as an unpaid traffic ticket, I’m holding you.”
She’d only had a driver’s license for three weeks, so the odds of her having a ticket were pretty slim. As for the rest, she didn’t think she’d ever left a clue behind. This would be the test, though. “While you’re at it, why don’t you call Detective Frank Castillo in Palm Beach? He’s Homicide, but don’t be jealous. I help him out sometimes.”
He bristled, actually looking physically larger. “Listen, Jellicoe, I am not—”
“Touched a nerve, did I?”
Gorstein narrowed his eyes. “You don’t talk like somebody who lives in a townhouse on the East Side.”
“I can get snooty if you want me to, but I still didn’t take the painting.”
“How about an alibi? Can you at least give me that?”
She probably could, actually, if she wanted to confirm that she’d been riding in a taxi at 1:35 and then at 3:10. Balto was too close to the townhouse to make it worth bringing inthe cabbies, though; she could have ridden out, walked back, stolen the Hogarth, walked back to the park again, and gotten a ride home. “How about you start looking at people who might want to steal a painting instead of somebody who practically lives in an art gallery?”
Growling, he slammed a chair back into the table. “If you’d be straight with me and actually answer a damned question, maybe I could.”
Samantha tilted her head at him. “I’m sorry, Detective, are you saying that you don’t think I really did it? I’m getting confused now. Am I helping you find the thief, or am I the thief?”
“What you are is—”
The door to the interrogation room opened, and an older guy with crazy white tufts of hair sticking out over his ears walked in. “Let her go, Detective.”
Gorstein straightened. “What?”
“This little chat is finished,” a tall, balding man in an Armani suit snapped, pushing past Mr. Crazy Hair. “That’s what. Unless you’d like to face a lawsuit for wrongful imprisonment.”
Samantha didn’t even try to hide her grin as Rick moved past the other two. “Sir Galahad,” she murmured, standing.
He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with a flannel gray shirt over that, and still looked like the most powerful guy in the room. “Are you well?” Slowly he pulled her into his arms.
I am now . “Well enough,” she said, beginning to realize just how tense she’d been over the past hour or so. Still, she wasn’t going to admit any such thing in front of the cops, and they both knew it. “You made it by breakfast.”
“I said I would.”
“Come on, Captain,” Gorstein was growling, “this is ridiculous. She’s got no alibi, and her dad was—”
“Before you come after her again,” Expensive Suit Guy said, “you’d best have more than her father’s occupation as a reason. Good day.”
With Rick keeping an arm over her shoulder, they trooped out of the interrogation room. As they left, Samantha couldn’t resist a parting shot. She turned to face the glowering detective. “You still owe me a Diet Coke, Gorstein.”
The hallway was lined with cops, none of them looking very happy to see her walking. So be it. She wasn’t trying to make friends with any of them. And now that they