Page 41 of Concealed in Death

“I’d take a fifth, I had the scratch for one. Come on.”

“And Mook objected to you taking a taste of her major tits?” Eve suggested.

“Got real pissy, started carrying on, said it was like rape or something. I never had my dick out. I got witnesses. I never took the slugger out of the dugout, but she says she’s going to call the cops. Next thing I know, you’re coming for me. How’d you get there so fast?”

“I’m like the wind.”

More cops, more Clip types piled on as the elevator climbed, but Eve stayed on, taking the time to work out her game plan.

She’d settle for a conference room if the interviews were booked, but when she hauled him along the corridor, she found A empty. She pulled him in, pushed him into a chair.

“Sit there,” she ordered, and went out again.

“That’s your prime suspect?” Roarke asked.

“He fits some of the bill, and yeah, he seems pretty stupid. But he’s drunk. Either way, I need to go a round with him.”

“I’ll occupy myself and arrange to have your vehicle fumigated.”

“You always do—and good idea. He’s too drunk for this to take long.”

“Understood. Just let me know when you’re done.”

“Before you occupy yourself, how about getting me a tube of Pepsi. And yeah, I’m still boycotting Vending. Those machines hold a grudge, but they’ve got nothing on me.”

He obliged, handed over the soft drink tube. “If you’re reasonable with them, they’re reasonable with you.”

“Not in my experience.” She pulled out her comm, officially booked Interview A as Roarke wandered off.

Clipperton could sit and sweat a few minutes, she decided, and went to her office, put together a file.

By the time she walked back into Interview, Clipperton had his head on the table. His snores pulled the ugly paint from the walls.

“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, entering Interview with Clipperton, Jon. Wake up!” She sat across from him, set her files down, gave his arm a brisk shake. “Wake up, Clipperton.”

“Huh?” He lifted his head, stared at her with droopy, blood-shot eyes.

“Do you need or wish the assistance of Sober-Up before we begin the interview?” She rattled the small tin she’d brought in with her.

“I’m not drunk.” He attempted to poke out his chest in outrage. “I’m just tired. A guy works all day like me, he gets tired.”

“Yeah. Do you understand refusal of this aid, as offered, negates any future claim that this interview was conducted while you were impaired?”

“I’m not impaired, okay? Can’t a guy take a quick nap after a hard day?”

“Your choice.” She set the tin aside. “I’m going to read you your rights, for your protection. You’ve been down this road before. You have the right to remain silent,” she began.

“I didn’t do anything!” Clipperton claimed.

“We’ll talk about that. Do you understand your rights and obligations?”

“Yeah, yeah, but—”

“Were you employed as a carpenter’s helper by Brodie Fine fifteen years ago?”

“Done some work for Brodie, sure. Did some a couple weeks ago.”

“And did this work—fifteen years ago—include a building on Ninth Avenue, then known as The Sanctuary?”

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