his mind he was
holding back. And this kept me on the edge of my chair,
wondering.
O’Malley continued his methodical
interrogation, which he almost seemed to be enjoying. “And when you
woke up, you found yourself intoxicated, lying in bed next to the
dead blonde woman that you photographed having an affair with
Catherine Sinclair’s husband?”
I nodded, and O’Malley glanced at a
notepad.
“And that’s when Cornwell and Muncie showed
up?”
“It’s all in my statement,” I told him
laconically. My voice sounded hoarse from the alcohol, while my
head refused to let me forget the induced headache and
hangover.
O’Malley gave me a spare-him-the-wiseass
routine. “I want to hear it from your mouth,” he demanded, bridging
his brows grimly. “Look, D.J., we may go back a long ways, but I
still have to do it by the book. Believe me, this is one time you
can’t afford not to cooperate.” He paused, studying my reaction.
“It’s still not too late to have your attorney present—”
I balked at that for now, wanting to keep
this as unofficial as possible. That seemed like my best bet for
maintaining my innocence of everything, except maybe stupidity and
being turned on by a nice looking, sexy blonde. Inside, I was as
unsettled as I’d been in some time. And with good reason.
I confirmed and reconfirmed everything in my
statement.
O’Malley remained unconvinced. “This lady who
hired you—Catherine Sinclair—are you sure it wasn’t the same woman
you woke up next to, with your underwear stuffed halfway down her
throat?”
“Give me a damned break, O’Malley!” Vexation
raged in my voice. “I’m not blind and I’m not lying. Whoever the
hell she is, she is not the woman I was working for!”
Or slept with .
The resentment I was beginning to feel for
O’Malley was growing in leaps and bounds. This was Dean Jeremy
Drake he was talking to. His ex-partner. And one time friend. Not
some idiot too stupid or drunk to know the difference between the
two women.
Knowing I was up to my ass in hot water, a
cool head prevailed when I looked O’Malley in the eye. I told him
in a controlled voice: “Look, I know it all sounds crazy, even to
me, but everything I’ve told you is true! I never met the dead
woman face to face until after she was dead.”
O’Malley lit another cigarette. “Why do you
suppose this Catherine Sinclair would set you up for the murder of
her husband’s lover?”
I blinked with bafflement. “If I knew that, I
wouldn’t be sitting here. Maybe she needed a patsy to get rid of
the woman she felt threatened by. And I was the perfect candidate.
That way she got to keep the money and the man—”
Even that suggestion was hard for me to
swallow. Or maybe I just didn’t want to think I was anybody’s
perfect candidate to take a murder rap. I didn’t figure Catherine
to be capable of murder. But what did I know about her, other than
what she wanted me to believe? Someone set me up. From where I sat,
she was the first person to come to mind.
“But why at her own house?” Smoke streamed
from O’Malley’s wide nostrils. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense if
this woman you say is Catherine Sinclair killed her husband’s
mistress somewhere where the Mrs. was less likely to be a
suspect—like maybe at your place?”
“Maybe Catherine had her reasons for wanting
to see the other woman dead in her own bed,” I suggested, though
such reasons escaped me at the moment. “Poetic justice or something
like that,” I tossed out weakly.
O’Malley dragged on his cigarette, studying
me very much like a man who had just been condemned.
Tired of waiting to see where this was all
headed, I made O’Malley’s face and said: “Look, I’ve told you
everything I know, O’Malley. If you think you have enough to charge
me, do it. If not, I’m outta here—”
He stepped up to me, dropped the cigarette on
the floor after one last puff, squashed it with his foot, and said
bleakly:
holding back. And this kept me on the edge of my chair,
wondering.
O’Malley continued his methodical
interrogation, which he almost seemed to be enjoying. “And when you
woke up, you found yourself intoxicated, lying in bed next to the
dead blonde woman that you photographed having an affair with
Catherine Sinclair’s husband?”
I nodded, and O’Malley glanced at a
notepad.
“And that’s when Cornwell and Muncie showed
up?”
“It’s all in my statement,” I told him
laconically. My voice sounded hoarse from the alcohol, while my
head refused to let me forget the induced headache and
hangover.
O’Malley gave me a spare-him-the-wiseass
routine. “I want to hear it from your mouth,” he demanded, bridging
his brows grimly. “Look, D.J., we may go back a long ways, but I
still have to do it by the book. Believe me, this is one time you
can’t afford not to cooperate.” He paused, studying my reaction.
“It’s still not too late to have your attorney present—”
I balked at that for now, wanting to keep
this as unofficial as possible. That seemed like my best bet for
maintaining my innocence of everything, except maybe stupidity and
being turned on by a nice looking, sexy blonde. Inside, I was as
unsettled as I’d been in some time. And with good reason.
I confirmed and reconfirmed everything in my
statement.
O’Malley remained unconvinced. “This lady who
hired you—Catherine Sinclair—are you sure it wasn’t the same woman
you woke up next to, with your underwear stuffed halfway down her
throat?”
“Give me a damned break, O’Malley!” Vexation
raged in my voice. “I’m not blind and I’m not lying. Whoever the
hell she is, she is not the woman I was working for!”
Or slept with .
The resentment I was beginning to feel for
O’Malley was growing in leaps and bounds. This was Dean Jeremy
Drake he was talking to. His ex-partner. And one time friend. Not
some idiot too stupid or drunk to know the difference between the
two women.
Knowing I was up to my ass in hot water, a
cool head prevailed when I looked O’Malley in the eye. I told him
in a controlled voice: “Look, I know it all sounds crazy, even to
me, but everything I’ve told you is true! I never met the dead
woman face to face until after she was dead.”
O’Malley lit another cigarette. “Why do you
suppose this Catherine Sinclair would set you up for the murder of
her husband’s lover?”
I blinked with bafflement. “If I knew that, I
wouldn’t be sitting here. Maybe she needed a patsy to get rid of
the woman she felt threatened by. And I was the perfect candidate.
That way she got to keep the money and the man—”
Even that suggestion was hard for me to
swallow. Or maybe I just didn’t want to think I was anybody’s
perfect candidate to take a murder rap. I didn’t figure Catherine
to be capable of murder. But what did I know about her, other than
what she wanted me to believe? Someone set me up. From where I sat,
she was the first person to come to mind.
“But why at her own house?” Smoke streamed
from O’Malley’s wide nostrils. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense if
this woman you say is Catherine Sinclair killed her husband’s
mistress somewhere where the Mrs. was less likely to be a
suspect—like maybe at your place?”
“Maybe Catherine had her reasons for wanting
to see the other woman dead in her own bed,” I suggested, though
such reasons escaped me at the moment. “Poetic justice or something
like that,” I tossed out weakly.
O’Malley dragged on his cigarette, studying
me very much like a man who had just been condemned.
Tired of waiting to see where this was all
headed, I made O’Malley’s face and said: “Look, I’ve told you
everything I know, O’Malley. If you think you have enough to charge
me, do it. If not, I’m outta here—”
He stepped up to me, dropped the cigarette on
the floor after one last puff, squashed it with his foot, and said
bleakly:
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