“A lot of buying going on last week,” Eve remarked to Peabody. “A lot of buying—earbuds and high-tops—with Lyle Pickering’s prints.”
Something like inspiration lit on his face. “I bought them off Snapper.”
“Right, the one who likes getting you in the shit, but you do solids for.”
“He gave them to me for doing the solid.”
“I see, so you didn’t buy them last week as previously stated.”
“I traded. The solid for the shoes.”
“Who’s trying to get who in the shit now?” Peabody wondered. “The only prints on the shoes are Lyle Pickering’s and yours.”
“I guess he used up his compassion,” Eve said. “He didn’t have any left when he gang-raped and beat Dinnie Duff to death with Aimes and Washington. He’d really used it up before he slit the throat of Gary Aimes. I mean otherwise, he’s a goddamn humanitarian.”
“I didn’t do nothing. Snapper’s just trying to twist me up, that’s what. I never did none of those things, and nobody can say I did.”
“You did all of those things, and we’re saying you did.”
“It’s my word against Snapper’s.”
“More it’s your stupidity against his, and I’d say they’re running about the same pace. What do you think, Peabody?”
“Neck and neck from where I’m sitting.”
“I ain’t stupid. You guys are the stupid ones.”
“Well, let’s run that stupid race,” Eve suggested. “You had the brooch you took from the Pickering apartment in your damn pocket and Lyle Pickering’s shoes on your feet when we arrested you.”
“He’s pulling into the lead,” Peabody decided.
“And we have a statement from the female who had the bracelet you traded her for sex, also taken from the Pickering apartment.”
“I don’t know what a fucking brooch is! And that Yolanda’s a lying whore.”
“A brooch is jewelry, a pin.” Eve tossed the photo on the table. “And I didn’t say the name of the female who had the bracelet. Adding, we found your DNA on Duff’s body. You use a lot of product to get that vertical lift, asshole, but that doesn’t affect the DNA on hair.”
“Everybody’s got hair.”
“Jesus Christ, is basic science a foreign language to you? Everybody doesn’t have your hair or your DNA.”
Chesterfield tried a lip curl, but it wobbled some. “You don’t have no DNA on me, my old lady wouldn’t sign me up. She’s smarter than that.”
“Too bad she didn’t pass the smarts to you. You drank a Coke during processing. We took your DNA from the tube, matched it with the hair on Duff’s body. Like we took the knife you had when you were arrested, and we got Barry Aimes’s blood off the blade and hilt.”
“Then there’s the bloody shirt he left in his flop at the HQ,” Peabody pointed out. “Slitting throats is messy.”
“That’s not my shirt. I found that knife, and the pin thing, too.”
“Where?”
“On the street.” His eyes wheeled. “No, in Snapper’s flop. They were in Snapper’s flop.”
“You want us to believe you’re a thief but not a murderer? Explain why both the knife and the pin have your prints on them, and not Washington’s? You can’t,” Eve snapped. “You can’t lie fast enough, and he’s already rolled on you. Bolt told you what you had to do to be worthy, and you did it. You pumped that syringe into Pickering, you raped and beat Duff and left her in the neutral zone hoping to start a gang war, then you cut Aimes’s throat, transported him to Chinatown, and dumped his body outside Fan Ho’s family restaurant.”
“I was just there.” His wheeling eyes filled now, with tears, to join the tat at the inside corner of his eye. “I didn’t do any of it. I was just there. I was high. Bolt says we gotta do it.”
“Start there, and be specific. What did Bolt tell you to do?”