Page 14 of Nothing Left

Juliette stepped forward, tapping on the second door, speaking in clear Spanish. "Diego, we are investigating the murder of your girlfriend. I hope you are willing to help us and to help her. We need to ask you a few more questions."

There was a pause. Then, the door swung open and revealed a young man with dark hair, trendily cut in a spiky style, and a glower on his otherwise handsome face. “Fine, come in. But I have nothing to add to what I have already said."

Juliette led the way into the bedroom. It was as tiny as she'd expected. There was room for a bed and a desk. Three FBI agents added to the mix, creating a squeeze.

"Do you want to wait outside?" she asked Sierra, giving her a meaningful glance. Perhaps she could chat to the blond man while the two of them were trying to extract information from the unwilling Diego.

"I'll do that," Sierra said, giving Juliette a meaningful glance right back again to show she'd understood the aim of this.

Juliette closed the door and stood, pressed against the wall. There wasn't even room for a cupboard. Diego’s clothes were on shallow shelves and a hanging rail in the corner.

She didn't know whether his unwillingness to talk was because he was hiding something or whether he was genuinely traumatized by what had happened.

"Diego, I'm sorry for what you've been through," she said sympathetically. Again, her father's diplomatic skills, which were ingrained in her, came to the fore. You caught more flies with honey than vinegar. Creating a rapport, if she was able to, would get her further. Even if he was the killer.

He sat on the bed, looking suddenly exhausted, and now, she saw a flicker of emotion from behind the defiant front.

"I am so upset, so devastated," he said, this time in English. "That whole night, it was just a mad time. It started as a party, as fun. And it got out of control and ended in a disaster. I still do not know how!" His voice rose in an agonized crescendo.

Juliette nodded, "I understand. Can you tell me more about the party? Who was there? What happened?"

"We were with a group of friends in the nightclub," he said. "We drank too much, it was very festive, and I remember thinking we are all going to suffer tomorrow. The girls, they could hardly walk by the time we went home, but it was funny. At the time, we were all laughing. Myself and Enzo, my friend, came back with them. Enzo tried to make coffee and broke the pot. Heather smashed a glass. Everyone was too drunk, way too drunk."

"And then?" Juliette asked as he frowned.

"Then I went to bed. Heather came with me, but after just a few minutes, she said she was about to throw up. I helped her out of bed and she ran for the bathroom. I wanted to go and help her there and make sure she was okay, but I was so tired and so drunk. The room was spinning.” He paled briefly at the memory. “Listening to her, I suddenly started wanting to throw up too, and there was only one toilet, which was already in use. So instead, I just forced myself to lie still and breathe deeply, and then I fell asleep, and the next thing I knew, she was screaming."

He shook his head, frowning deeply.

"Were there any fights during the evening?" Wyatt asked.

"No. We laughed a lot; we maybe argued some. But fighting? No. I think Samantha was upset about something, but it might have been the coffee pot."

"You used to date Samantha?" Wyatt pressed.

"Don't make out like I am the killer!" he snapped, his defensiveness surging as he glared from one of them to the other. "Just because I am the ex of one woman and the boyfriend of the other, does that make me a killer?"

"It's a fair question," Juliette explained calmly. "If you're not the killer, and there were no fights that night, it shouldn't be a problem to answer it. But you can see why I have to ask, can't you?"

"I still don't think it's necessary," he grumbled.

"No fights?"

He shifted uneasily. "Look, back when I started dating Heather, then yes, Samantha was mad. But not for long. She was a pretty woman and could have any man she chose. Enzo, my friend who came back with us, he liked her. A lot. I remember hoping they would get together. She didn’t seem as interested as him, though."

Juliette took careful note of that statement, knowing it might be important.

"And you heard nothing after Heather left to go to the bathroom?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I didn’t wake again after I went to sleep. Too much drink does that to me."

"And the drugs?" Juliette asked, her voice hard. But he shrugged.

"I don't take drugs. I didn't take any of those tablets that the others shared."

It was a surprising confession, but the way he said it, Juliette found herself believing him. It was like this statement was important to him and a part of who he was.

"Was the apartment locked?" Wyatt asked.

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