The 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club 8)

Chapter 101

NORMA JOHNSON’S SHOULDER had been popped back into place, and she was on a few hundred milligrams of Motrin. She sat across from me in the interrogation room, twiddling a business card, her “whatever” expression back on her face.

If Conklin had been here, he would have smooth-talked her. I wanted to backhand that smirk right off her face.

Pet Girl snapped the card down on the table, pushed it toward me so I could read, FENN AND TARBOX, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW.

George Fenn and Bill Tarbox were two triple A–rated criminal-defense attorneys who catered to the top 2 percent of the upper crust. Fenn was steady and thorough. Tarbox was volatile and charming. Together, they’d flipped more probable slam-dunk guilty verdicts into dismissals than I wanted to remember.

“Mrs. Friedman is paying,” Pet Girl said.

She was toying with me, making me wonder if she’d lawyer up, or more likely she just thought she was smarter than me.

“Call your lawyers,” I said, unhooking my Nextel from my belt, slapping it down on the table. “Use my phone. But since this is all new to you, let me explain how the system works.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m going to believe everything you say.”

“Shut up, stupid. Just listen. Once you ask for a lawyer, I can’t make a deal with you. This is how we see it on this side of the table: you assaulted a police officer with a deadly weapon. Conklin dies, you’re dead meat walking.

“Setting that aside, we’ve got you cold on five counts of murder. You had access to every one of the victims, and they were killed by the same rare, illegally imported snake you kept by the dozen in your apartment.

“A law-school intern could get you convicted.

“But we won’t be using a law-school intern. You’ll be going up against Leonard Parisi, our top gun, because you killed VIPs and because this is what’s known as a high-profile case.

“We can’t lose, and we won’t.”

“That must be some crystal ball you have, Sergeant.”

“Better believe it. ’Cause here’s what else I see in there: while your lawyers are getting great press on Mrs. Friedman’s dime, your old school chums are going to testify for the prosecution.

“They’re going to trash you in court, Norma. And then they’re going to tell the press all about you, how sick you make them, how pathetic you are.

“And after you’ve been exposed as the godless, heartless psychopath you are, the jury is going to convict you five times over. You understand? You’re going to be disgraced — and then you’re going to die.”

I saw a flash of panic in the woman’s eyes. Had I gotten to her? Was Norma Johnson actually afraid?

“So if it’s such a dead cert, why are you even talking to me?”

“Because the DA is willing to make you a deal.”

“Oh, this should be good. Like I haven’t seen this ploy a hundred times on Law and Order.”

“There’s a wrinkle, Norma. A smidgen of wiggle room on that death penalty. So listen up. The chief medical examiner reviewed your old boyfriend’s autopsy report, and she says it doesn’t pass the sniff test.”

“McKenzie Oliver? He died of a drug overdose.”

“His blood test was borderline for an OD. But he was in his thirties, otherwise healthy. So the ME who did his autopsy didn’t look any further.

“But this is a new day, Norma. We think you killed him because he dumped you. His coffin is being hoisted out of the ground this minute. And this time, the ME is going to be searching for fang marks.”

Johnson looked down at the business card Ginny Friedman had given her, looked at my phone, looked up at me.

“What’s the deal?”

“Tell me about the murders, all of them, including what you did to McKenzie Oliver, and we’ll spare you the humiliation of a trial and take the death penalty off the table. This offer expires when I get out of this chair.”

There was a long pause, a full two minutes.