“The entertainment field doesn’t have what you might call normal business hours. Both of our schedules were tight, and this was a time that suited us both.”
“Why not handle it over the ’link?”
“A great deal of our business was done that way. But we both felt it was time for a personal meeting. We’d hoped—still hope—to have the first project on air by fall. We have the script,” he continued, almost talking to himself now. “The production team’s in place. We’ve already signed some of the cast.”
“So, you had a late night meeting with Carlson Young of Channel 75.”
“Yes. The weather held me up a bit. I was running late.” His head came up. “I called him from my car. You can check that, too. You can check. I called him a few minutes before eleven when I realized I would be late.”
“We’ll check everything, Mr. Angelini. Count on it.”
“I arrived at the main gate. I was distracted, thinking of . . . of some casting problems. I turned. I should have gone straight to the main entrance, but I was thinking of something else. I stopped the car, realized I’d have to backtrack. Then I saw—” He used his handkerchief, rubbed at his mouth. “I saw someone come out of a door. Then there was someone else, he must have been standing there watching, waiting. He moved so fast. It all moved so fast. She turned, and I saw her face. Just for a second, I saw her face in the light. His hand jerked up. Fast, very fast. And . . . dear God. The blood. It gushed, like a fountain. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t believe—it just spurted out of her. She fell, and he was running, running away.”
“What did you do?”
“I—I just sat there. I don’t know how long. I was driving away. I don’t even remember. I was driving and everything was like a dream. The rain, and the lights from other cars. Then I was here. I can’t even remember how I got here. But I was outside in the car. I called Young, and told him I’d been delayed again, that we needed to reschedule. I came inside, there was no one here. I took a sedative and went to bed.”
Eve let the silence hum a moment. “Let’s see if I’ve got this. You were on your way to a meeting, took a wrong turn, and saw a woman brutally murdered. Then you drove away, canceled your meeting, and went to bed. Is that accurate?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
“It didn’t occur to you to get out of your car, to see if she could be helped? Or perhaps to use your ’link to notify the authorities, the MTs?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I was shaken.”
“You were shaken. So you came here, took a pill, and went to bed.”
“That’s what I said,” he snapped out. “I need a drink.” With sweaty fingers, he fumbled for a control. “Vodka,” he ordered. “Bring the bottle.”
Eve let him stew until the server droid arrived with a bottle of Stoli and a short thick glass on its tray. She let him drink.
“There was nothing I could do,” he mumbled, goaded, as she’d intended, by her silence. “I wasn’t involved.”
“Your mother was murdered a few weeks ago by the method you’ve just described to me. And this didn’t involve you?”
“That was part of the problem.” He poured again, drank again. Shuddered. “I was shocked, and—and afraid. Violence isn’t part of my life, Lieutenant. It was part of my mother’s, a part I could never understand. She understood violence,” he said quietly. “She understood it.”
“And did you resent that, Mr. Angelini? That she understood violence, was strong enough to face it? Fight against it?”
His breathing was shallow. “I loved my mother. When I saw this other woman murdered, as my mother had been murdered, all I could think of to do was run.”
He paused, took a last quick swallow of vodka. “Do you think I don’t know you’ve been checking on me, asking questions, digging into my personal and professional lives? I’m a suspect already. How much worse would it have been for me to be there, right there, at the scene of another murder?”
Eve rose. “You’re about to find out.”
chapter fourteen
Eve questioned him again, in the less comforting surroundings of Interview Room C. He’d finally taken up his right for counsel, and three pinstriped, cold-eyed lawyers ranged beside their client at the conference table.
Eve had privatedly dubbed them Moe, Larry, and Curly.
Moe apparently was in charge. She was a tough-voiced woman with a severe bowl-cut hairstyle that had inspired Eve to christen her. Her associates said little but looked sober and occasionally made important-looking notations on the yellow legal pads that lawyers never seemed to tire of.
Now and again Curly, his wide forehead creased, would tap a few buttons on his log book and murmur conspiratorially in Larry’s ear.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” Moe folded her hands, which were tipped with wicked looking inch-long scarlet nails, on the table. “My client is eager to cooperate.”
“He wasn’t,” Eve stated, “as you’ve seen for yourself from the first interview. After recanting his original story, your client admitted to leaving the scene of a crime and failing to report said crime to the proper authorities.”