Connections in Death (In Death 48)

“You’ll have it. APA Reo, as I’m currently occupied, can I send the completed agreement to Mr. Cohen through you?”

“Of course. In return I’ll copy you on the information Mr. Cohen offers from our record.”

“I appreciate the interagency cooperation. I’ll send you the paperwork shortly.”

When Teasdale signed off, Reo turned to Cohen.

“Mr. Cohen, do you understand the agreement, its terms, your obligations?”

“Yes.” He sat up straight again, and the look in his eyes read smug. “I’m a lawyer, Ms. Reo. I understand the deal on the table.”

“And you understand the statements you make, the information you give upon acceptance of the deal must be valid and truthful? If they prove otherwise, the deal is rescinded.”

“I get it, okay? My life’s on the line here. I get it. Can I get a sandwich and a Coke?”

Reo stared at him. “You want a sandwich?”

“I’ve barely eaten since they pulled me in.”

“Detective Peabody, would you get Mr. Cohen a sandwich?”

“And a Coke,” he added.

“For Christ’s sake,” Eve muttered as Peabody walked out scowling. “Peabody exiting Interview. Maybe you want some cookies, too.”

He actually smirked at her. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“Don’t push it, Mr. Cohen,” Reo added.

Eve swung around to stare at her own reflection in the two-way glass. She wondered if Roarke was still in Observation. Doubted it. The negotiations had taken more than an hour, and despite them running exactly as she’d hoped, she had a small, nagging headache as a result.

In short order, she reminded herself, she’d be moving again.

“Agent Teasdale’s efficient.” Reo’s tablet signaled incoming. She scanned the screen. Nodded, nodded, ordered the printout.

“You’ll initial each page as you read through the agreement, Mr. Cohen. Agent Teasdale has already done so and pre-signed. Lieutenant Dallas, you’ll witness Mr. Cohen’s signature, as will I.”

Eve said nothing.

Peabody came back, updated the record, tossed a Vending sandwich and a tube of Coke on the table. She sat, giving a very good impression of a steaming sulk.

Cohen unwrapped the sandwich, bit in—wrinkled his nose—but kept eating as Reo slid the papers and a pen across the table. With his bottom lip poked out in concentration, he read, initialed, read, drew his eyebrows together, initialed.

“It seems to be in order.” He signed and gave Eve a quiet, satisfied smile.

“Very well, Mr. Cohen.” Reo signed in turn, held the pen out to Eve.

Eve added a bad-tempered scrawl.

“I’m going to scan this document to Special Agent Teasdale. I will messenger her the original once this interview is concluded. At this point, I’m reopening the interview to Agent Teasdale. You will answer her questions, Mr. Cohen, answer mine, answer those of Lieutenant Dallas and/or Detective Peabody. Any and all questions asked, any and all answers you give or statements you make must, as agreed, be valid and truthful.”

“Just hold on, goddamn it.” Eve slapped a hand on the table. “I’m not standing around in here while some fed pokes at this asshole over transporting illegals over state lines or financial bullshit. I want a name. One question, one answer. Who ordered Lyle Pickering and Dinnie Duff’s murders?”

“I don’t know who actually did it. I want to stress I advised against this, strongly advised against it. I wasn’t aware—”

“One question, one answer,” Eve demanded. “Who ordered the murders?”

“Jones.” He looked away, pressed his lips together. “Marcus Jones.”