Page 168 of Random in Death
“I’m the boss.” He shrugged. “I wear what I like.”
True enough, she thought, and went in to peruse her closet. Black and white, she decided. The absence of color made a statement, too. Black pants, thick-soled laced boots, white tee, black leather vest.
“A woman of power and authority. He’ll detest you,” Roarke said when she came out.
“Counting on it.”
She strapped on her weapon, grabbed the rest. “Let’s do this.”
In the car, she contacted APA Cher Reo.
“He’s got the money for a solid lawyer.”
Reo, who’d somehow worked her fluffy blond hair into a short, stylish braid, nodded. “And he’s got one. Marshall Derwood. He’s very good, and he’s also not even a little bit stupid. I’ve spent the last hour going through the evidence, the statements, and I’m not finished. Holy mama, Dallas. Derwood will know we’ve got this locked.”
“He could try for insanity.”
“He may try, but he won’t get it. I just got off with Mira, and she agrees. She’ll factor in what she observes in Interview, but with what we have, he doesn’t reach the bar of legal insanity. He certainly will try to deal down given Bryce’s age, but—”
“No.”
“And agreed. Two girls the same age are dead, two others were attacked. He spent a couple years on this so-called project. The boss is in full agreement. He’s tried as an adult. He’s a stone-cold killer, and I don’t give a skinny rat’s ass for his feels about how the girls won’t bang him.
“You play him,” Reo added, “and we’ll lock his teen-killer ass away.”
“There’s a deal. See you at Central.”
When they got there and she walked into the bullpen, she paused. She didn’t even let Jenkinson’s frosted pink-and-blue-cupcake tie bother her.
“Santiago, Carmichael?”
“Caught one, about four hundred hours. Pity the saps.”
She actually did. “Pass it to them if I’m not around when they come in. Good work on the Bryce investigation.”
“Are you taking him this morning?” Baxter asked.
“Ten, Interview A.”
“Fry him up, boss.” Jenkinson grinned. “Fry him up good.” Then he pointed at Roarke. “No suit?”
“After I fry him up,” Eve said, “I’m taking a couple of days.”
“You got it coming.”
“Detective Sergeant, after we fry him up, take Detective Peabody off the roll for the rest of the week. On call, off the roll.”
“Yes, sir. She’s got it coming, too.”
Eve went into her office, organized her thoughts, put more files together, then sent a just-arrived Peabody down for evidence boxes.
Reo, with the braid and in a slim red dress, breezed in.
“Coffee.” Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the AutoChef. “I just had a brief conversation with Marshall Derwood. It appears Dr. Bryce had an even briefer one with his son. I don’t know what was said, but the doctor was visibly shaken. I saw that for myself before Derwood asked him to leave us alone.”
“He saw the monster.”
“That may be. Derwood broached diminished capacity. Sixteen, frontal lobe’s not fully formed, mother was an addict, OD’d, busy father, bullied in school.”