“Why would I do that?” Bui asked. “I am under zero obligation to talk to you because I have done nothing wrong.”
“How about aiding and abetting a cop killer?” Sampson said.
That seemed to come out of nowhere to Bui, and her chin retreated fast.
“Thao’s no cop killer,” she said.
“We think he is,” Bree said. “The cop was Tommy McGrath, a guy who had a jones to put Thao away for the rest of his life.”
Bui said nothing, her eyes darting back and forth.
“You’ve heard the name before? McGrath?” I asked.
The way she shook her head said she had heard of the late COD.
Bree picked up on it too. She said, “When someone kills a cop, the net gets big and wide. That net is forming around your boyfriend. Question is, which of his fish will get caught in the net with him?”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means your boyfriend is disloyal,” I said. “He keeps three different women in three different apartments, rotates among them.”
Bui’s face hardened, but she said nothing.
“How’s that make you feel, sharing him with two others, good for only one night in three?”
Le’s girlfriend blinked, stared at the floor, and said, “If that.”
“Right. And suppose his other two girlfriends decide it’s better to tell us what they know than get caught in Thao’s net. Where’s that going to leave you?”
Tears began to well in her eyes. “Up a creek,” she said. “Take off the cuffs, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Chapter
16
Bree built up a quick rapport with the twenty-four-year-old, so we decided to let her and Muller run the questioning when we returned to DC.
I went back to the office I share with Sampson and found a GoPro camera in a sealed evidence bag along with a note from the medical examiner Nancy Barton.
From the Maserati, she’d written. You’ll find it interesting.
Barton had included a cable to hook up the camera to my computer. I attached it and turned the camera on. I had to fiddle until I got it in playback mode, and then Sampson and I watched the most recent MPEG file.
We watched it again. We talked about what we’d seen, and then we watched it a third time.
“I think we need to tell Michaels sooner rather than later,” Sampson said.
“Agreed,” I replied.
Ten minutes later, we were in the office of DC police chief Bryan Michaels. A welterweight fighting a paunchy belly, Michaels took a sip from his coffee cup and made a sour face.
“Damn it, I’ll never get used to this,” he said, shuddering and setting the cup down on his desk. “Hot lemon water. Supposed to be good for me, change my alkalinity.”
“Add honey,” I said.
“But first call up that video we sent you,” Sampson said.
“I could use a latte.” Michaels sighed, put on reading glasses, and turned to his computer.