"Congresswoman DeBlass has also been treated for symptoms of depression, paranoia, and stress," the lawyer continued in the same neutral tone.
"If she has, Senator DeBlass, we'll find that the roots of it are due to your systematic and continued abuse of her as a child. You were in New York on the night of Sharon DeBlass's murder," she said, switching gears smoothly. "Not, as you previously claimed, in East Washington."
Before the lawyer could block her, she leaned forward, her eyes steady on DeBlass's face. "Let me tell you how it went down. You took your private shuttle, paying the pilot and the flight engineer to doctor the log. You went to Sharon's apartment, had sex with her, recorded it for your own purposes. You took a weapon with you, a thirty-eight caliber Smith Wesson antique. And because she taunted you, because she threatened you, because you couldn't take the pressure of possible exposure any longer, you shot her. You shot her three times, in the head, in the heart and in the genitalia."
She kept the words coming fast, kept her face close to his. It pleased her that she could smell his sweat. "The last shot was pretty clever. Messed up any chance for us to verify sexual activity. You ripped her open at the crotch. Maybe it was symbolic, maybe it was self-preservation. Why'd you take the gun with you? Had you planned it? Had you decided to end it once and for all?"
DeBlass's eyes darted left and right. His breathing grew hard and fast.
"My client does not acknowledge ownership of the weapon in question."
"Your client's scum."
The lawyer puffed up. "Lieutenant Dallas, you're speaking of a United States Senator."
"That makes him elected scum. It shocked you, didn't it, senator? All the blood, the noise, the way the gun jerked in your hand. Maybe you hadn't really believed you could go through with it. Not when push came to shove and you had to pull the trigger. But once you had, there was no going back. You had to cover it up. She would have ruined you, she never would have let you have peace. She wasn't like Catherine. Sharon wouldn't fade into the background and suffer all the shame and the guilt and the fear. She used it against you, so you had to kill her. Then you had to cover your tracks."
"Lieutenant Dallas – "
She never took her eyes from DeBlass, and ignoring the lawyer's warning, kept beating at him. "That was exciting, wasn't it? You could get away with it. You're a United States senator, the victim's grandfather. Who would believe it of you? So you arranged her on the bed, indulged yourself, your ego. You could do it again, and why not? The killing had stirred something in you. What better way to hide than to make it seem as if there was some maniac at large?"
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 his own recognizance. U. S. senator, lifetime of patriotic duty, salt of the earth, dinky heart – and a judge in his pocket."
"Fuck that." She pulled her hair until the pain equaled her frustration. "We got him on murder, three counts. Prosecutor said she was going for no bail."
"She got shot down. DeBlass's lawyer made a speech that would have wrung tears from a stone and had a corpse saluting the flag. DeBlass is back in East Washington by now, under doctor's orders to rest. He got a thirty-six-hour hold on further interrogation."
"Shit." She punched the wheel with the heel of her hand. "It's not going to make any difference," she said grimly. "He can play the ill elder statesman, he can do a tap dance at the fucking Lincoln Memorial, I've got him."
"Commander's worried that the time lag will give DeBlass an opportunity to pool his resources. He wants you back working with the prosecutor, going over everything we've got by oh eight hundred tomorrow."
"I'll be there. Feeney, he's not going to slip out of this noose."
"Just make sure you've got the knot nice and tight, kid. See you at eight."
"Yeah." Steaming, she swung back into traffic. She considered going home, burying herself in the chain of evidence. But she was five minutes from Roarke's. Eve opted to use him as a sounding board.
She could count on him to play devil's advocate if she needed it, to point out flaws. And, she admitted, to calm her down so that she could think without all these violent emotions getting in the way. She couldn't afford those emotions, couldn't afford to let Catherine's face pop into her head, as it had time and time again. The shame and the fear and the guilt.