She dug a finger along the center of her brow. “Let’s get it together then. And make it two drinks after we’re done.”
Whitney didn’t waste time. The moment Eve and Feeney stepped into his office, he scalded them both with one long look. “You brought David in to Interview.”
“I did, yes, sir.” Eve took an extra step forward to take the heat. “We have video of him on the gate security at Channel 75 at the time of Louise Kirski’s murder.” She didn’t pause, but streamed through her report, her voice brisk, her eyes level.
“David says he saw the murder.”
“He claims he saw someone, possibly male, in a long black coat and a hat, attack Kirski, then run toward Third.”
“And he panicked,” Whitney added, still in control. His hands were quiet on his desk. “Left the scene without reporting the incident.” Whitney may have been cursing inwardly, his stomach might have been in greasy knots of tension, but his eyes were cool, hard, and steady. “It’s not an atypical reaction from a witness to a violent crime.”
“He denied he was on scene,” Eve said calmly. “Tried to cover, offered a bribe. He had the opportunity, Commander. And he’s linked to all three victims. He knew Metcalf, was working with her on a project, had been to her apartment.”
Whitney’
s only reaction was to curl his fingers, then uncurl them. “Motive, Lieutenant?”
“Money first,” she said. “He’s having financial difficulties that will be eased after his mother’s will is probated. The victims, or in the third case, the intended victim, were all strong women in the public eye. Were all, in some manner, causing him distress. Unless his lawyers try to block it, Doctor Mira will test him, determine his emotional and mental state, the probability factor of his aptitude toward violence.”
She thought of the press of his hands around her throat and figured the probability was going to be nice and high.
“He wasn’t in New York for the first two murders.”
“Sir.” She felt a bolt of pity, but suppressed it. “He has a private plane. He can shuttle anywhere he likes. It’s pathetically simple to doctor flight plans. I can’t book him for the murders yet, but I want him held until we gather more evidence.”
“You’re holding him on leaving the scene and the bribery charge?”
“It’s a good arrest, Commander. I’m requesting search warrants. When we find any physical evidence—”
“If,” Whitney interrupted. He rose now, no longer able to sit behind his desk. “That’s a very big difference, Dallas. Without physical evidence, your murder case can’t hold.”
“Which is why he has yet to be charged for murder.” She laid a hard copy on his desk. She and Feeney had taken the time to swing past her office and use her computer for the probability ratio. “He knew the first two victims and Nadine Furst, had contact with them, was on the scene of the last murder. We suspect that Towers was covering for someone when she zapped the last call on her ’link. She would have covered for her son. And their relationship was strained due to his gambling problem and her refusal to bail him out. With known data, the probability factor of guilt is eighty-three point one percent.”
“You haven’t taken into account that he’s incapable of that kind of violence.” Whitney laid his hands on the edge of his desk and leaned forward. “You didn’t factor that in to the mix, did you, Lieutenant? I know David Angelini, Dallas. I know him as well as I know my own children. He isn’t a killer. He’s a fool, perhaps. He’s weak, perhaps. But he isn’t a cold-blooded killer.”
“Sometimes the weak and the foolish strike out. Commander, I’m sorry. I can’t kick him loose.”
“Do you have any idea what it would do to a man like him to be penned? To know he’s suspected of killing his own mother?” There was no choice left for him, in Whitney’s mind, but a plea. “I can’t deny that he was spoiled. His father wanted the best for him and for Mirina, and saw that they got it. From childhood he was accustomed to asking for something and having it fall into his lap. Yes, his life has been easy, privileged, even indulgent. He’s made mistakes, errors in judgment, and they’ve been fixed for him. But there’s no malice in him, Dallas. No violence. I know him.”
Whitney’s voice didn’t rise, but it reverberated with emotion. “You’ll never convince me that David took a knife and ripped it across his mother’s throat. I’m asking you to consider that, and to delay the paperwork on the yellow sheet and recommend his release on his own recognizance.”
Feeney started to speak, but Eve shook her head. He may have outranked her, but she was primary. She was in charge. “Three women are dead, Commander. We have a suspect in custody. I can’t do what you’re asking. You put me on as primary because you knew I wouldn’t.”
He turned and stared hard out of the window. “Compassion’s not your strong suit, is it, Dallas?”
She winced, but said nothing.
“That’s a wrong swing, Jack,” Feeney said, with heat. “And if you’re going to take one at her, then you’ll have to take one at me, ’cause I’m with Dallas on this. We’ve got enough to book him on the small shit, to take him off the street, and that’s what we’re doing.”
“You’ll ruin him.” Whitney turned back. “But that’s not your problem. You get your warrants, and you do your search. But as your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to keep the case open. You keep looking. Have your reports on my desk by fourteen hundred.” He flicked a last glance at Dallas. “You’re dismissed.”
She walked out, surprised that her legs felt like glass: the thin, fragile kind that could be shattered with a careless brush of the hand.
“He was out of line, Dallas,” Feeney said, catching at her arm. “He’s hurting, and he took a bad shot at you.”
“Not so bad.” Her voice was rough and raw. “Compassion’s not my strong suit, is it? I don’t know shit about family ties and loyalties, do I?”
Uncomfortable, Feeney shifted his feet. “Come on, Dallas, you don’t want to take it personal.”