“Counselor,” Rossi said, “we both know I don’t need one after I arrest you. Preserving evidence of gunpowder residue under exigent circumstances is grounds for a warrantless search, and I’d say these circumstances are pretty goddamn exigent.”
Alex cocked her head to one side, giving him a sly smile. “So why bother asking?”
“Have it your way,” Rossi said, squaring around to face her head-on. “Alex Stone, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dwayne Reed. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You are entitled to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”
“Better than you do, Detective.”
Harris signaled a CSI tech waiting nearby. The tech opened the rear passenger door.
“Step outside the car, ma’am,” she said.
Alex complied, and the tech pressed the gummed surface of a small block against her hands, her forearms, and the sleeves of her jacket and shirt. When she finished, Rossi tapped Alex on the arm.
“Hands behind your back, Counselor.”
He strapped plastic cuffs on her wrists, pushed her head down as he guided her back into the car. They exchanged looks. His grim, hers resigned. Rossi closed the door and clapped his hand on the roof of the car.
“She’s all yours,” he said to Harris.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Alex stuck to her vow of silence through each humiliating phase of the booking process. Accompanied by Gardiner Harris, she was fingerprinted and photographed, her belongings confiscated, each step intended to dehumanize her, reducing her to a collection of inked ridges and swirls, a mug shot, and an inmate number.
She’d seen the work product the process generated countless times in the files that came across her desk. The fingerprints told her nothing about her client, but the mug shot spoke. It told her whether her client was cocky, afraid, or confused, whether he or she was high or had been drinking when arrested or whether he or she was desperate for the next fix. Most important, the mug shot told her whether her client had a face a jury could love or, at best, not hate too much.
She thought about all of that when she posed for her photograph, worried that she’d had her eyes closed or, worse, that the flash had given her red eyes, devil eyes, her mother used to call them. She wanted to ask for a preview, a do-over. Not because she was vain but because she was, like so many she represented, scared to death, and she didn’t want the world to know it.
Her next stop would be the county jail, where she’d be made to strip and trade her civilian clothing for an orange jumpsuit and paper slippers. It would be the beginning of a life in which, until she was free, her well-being would depend on the kindness of jailers.
Instead of taking her across the street to the jail, Harris led her to the third floor, through the Homicide squad room, where the detectives stopped what they were doing as they watched her pass. Being put on display angered her enough to forget her fear.
“I bet you enjoyed that little parade,” Alex said. “Better than the perp walk.”
“Nothing beats the perp walk, but yeah, that was pretty sweet.”
“Then you really need to get a life. So? What now? Why put me in a room when I told you I’m not answering any questions?”
“So I heard. Sit tight. You’ve got company,” he said, leaving without further explanation.
Alex barely had time to consider whom that might be when the door opened and Bonnie rushed toward her, swallowing her in an embrace. Neither spoke. They just hugged, Bonnie careful of Alex’s wounded shoulder, each needing the reassurance that came from pressing their bodies so tightly against each other that they could have melded into a single being. Bonnie was the first to let go.
“How-,” Alex began.
“Rossi called me. He said they were bringing you here and that you’d been shot but that you were okay.”
Alex gestured to the four walls. “Well, I wouldn’t call this being okay, but I am alive.”
“First things first. Let me have a look at you.”
She unbuttoned Alex’s shirt, slipping it off her shoulder, and lifted the bandage, peering at the wound and examining the surrounding skin, nodding when she was done.
“You’re a lucky girl,” Bonnie said. “The wound looks exactly like the paramedic described it to me. He did a nice job.”
“You talked to the paramedic?”
“Of course I talked to the paramedic. What kind of girlfriend do you think I am? And by the way, you didn’t make a very good impression on him, joking about Dwayne the way you did.”
Alex shrugged. “Not one of my better moments. Getting shot has turned me into a ghoulish smart-ass.”
“It’s a coping mechanism. It won’t last. You’ll be back to your normal smart-ass self before you know it.”
“That’s not very reassuring, Doctor. But I’ll try to be more politically correct until I’m fully recovered.”
“So what happened?”
Alex opened her mouth, about to answer, when she caught her reflection in the two-way mirror mounted on one wall.
“Did Rossi tell you to come down here?”
Bonnie arched her eyebrows and shook her head. “Tell me? No. He invited me. He said that normally they’d take you straight to the county jail but after all we’d been through with Dwayne threatening me and you killing him, Rossi thought I’d like to see you first. I admit I was surprised but I wasn’t about to tell him no thanks.”
Alex sagged and took a step back, dropping her arms to her sides. It was the first time she’d heard anyone say that she’d killed Dwayne. Hearing Bonnie say it was as shocking as the words themselves. People were calling her a killer, would always call her a killer. That was hard to take, especially from Bonnie. She took a deep breath, cramming the words and the moment into a tight little compartment in her brain, a tumor to be examined another time, needing to focus on the here and now.
“Really? Rossi told you that?”
“Yes, really. You know, he’s not nearly the asshole you made him out to be.”
Alex faced the two-way mirror, hands on her hips. “Oh, I assure you he’s every bit of that and more.” She gave the mirror a one-finger salute. “You’re busted, asshole,” she said to the glass.
“Who are you talking to and what are you talking about?” Bonnie asked.
“See that?” she said, pointing. “That’s a two-way mirror. Rossi and his partner are on the other side watching and listening. They probably came in their pants when you unbuttoned me.”
Bonnie’s face reddened. “Why would they do that?”
“Come in their pants or spy on us?”
“I get the first but not the second.”
“Because I told them I wouldn’t talk without a lawyer, so they put you in here with me hoping I’d tell you what I wouldn’t tell them. And, since there’s no such thing as a privilege to not testify against your girlfriend, they can subpoena you at my trial and make you tell the jury everything I told you.”
Bonnie sucked in a quick breath, spitting it out. “Asshole doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Rossi opened the door. “Don’t take it so personally, ladies. Just doing my job. Let’s go, Counselor.”
“If I hear one more person say they’re just doing their job, I’ll-,” Alex said.
“You’ll what?” Rossi asked. “Shoot them?”
Alex glared at him. Rossi didn’t flinch. Alex looked away, talking to Bonnie. “I need a lawyer. Call Claire Mason.”
“I already did. She said she’d meet you at the jail.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rossi was in the Chapman and Henderson murder room, shifting his attention between case files and cold pizza. It was close to midnight. He was working late and Alex Stone was spending her first night in jail. Rossi doubted either of them would get much sleep.
Dwayne Reed’s death hadn’t ended the investigation into the murders or made solving them any easier. If anything, it made closing both cases harder, because whatever Dwayne might have told them would be buried with him.