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The Killing Dance :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 26 из 285Butwhy did you go to your apartment?"
"I was going to get a screwdriver to help install the television."
"You keep a lot of tools, Ms. Blake?" He wrote something on his notepad. I was betting it was a doodle.
"No, detective, but I've got a screwdriver."
"Did Mrs. Pringle ask you to go get this screwdriver?"
"No, but she'd used it when she bought her stereo system." Which was true. I was trying to keep the lies to an absolute minimum.
"So you assumed she'd need it."
"Yes."
"Then what?" He asked like he'd never heard the answer before. His black eyes were intense and empty, unreadable and eager at the same time. We were coming to the part that he didn't quite buy.
"I unlocked my door and dropped my keys. I squatted down to pick them up and the first shotgun blast roared over my head. I returned fire."
"How? The door was closed."
"I shot through the hole in the door that the shotgun had made."
"You shot a man through a hole in your door and hit him."
"It was a big hole, detective, and I wasn't sure I hit him."
"Why didn't the second shotgun blast take you out, Ms. Blake? There wasn't enough left of the door to hide behind. Where were you, Ms. Blake?"
"I told you, the blast rocked the door inward. I hit the floor, on my side. The second blast went over me."
"And you shot the man twice more in the chest," Detective Branswell said.
"Yes."
He looked at me for a long moment, studying my face. I met his eyes without flinching. It wasn't that hard. I was numb, empty, and distant. There was still a fine ringing in my ears from being so damn close to two shotgun blasts. The ringing would fade. It usually did.
"You know the man you killed?"
Catherine touched my arm. "Detective Branswell, my client has been more than helpful. She's told you several times that she did not recognize the deceased."
He flipped back through his notebook. "You're right, counselor. Ms. Blake has been helpful. The dead man was James Dugan, Jimmy the Shotgun. He's got a record longer than you are tall, Ms. Blake. He's local muscle. Someone you call when you want it cheap and quick and don't care how messy it is." He stared at me while he talked, studying my eyes.
I blinked at him.
"Do you know anyone who would want you dead, Ms. Blake?"
"Not right offhand," I said.
He closed his notebook and stood. "I'm going to recommend justifiable homicide to the DA. I doubt you'll see the inside of a courtroom.
"I was going to get a screwdriver to help install the television."
"You keep a lot of tools, Ms. Blake?" He wrote something on his notepad. I was betting it was a doodle.
"No, detective, but I've got a screwdriver."
"Did Mrs. Pringle ask you to go get this screwdriver?"
"No, but she'd used it when she bought her stereo system." Which was true. I was trying to keep the lies to an absolute minimum.
"So you assumed she'd need it."
"Yes."
"Then what?" He asked like he'd never heard the answer before. His black eyes were intense and empty, unreadable and eager at the same time. We were coming to the part that he didn't quite buy.
"I unlocked my door and dropped my keys. I squatted down to pick them up and the first shotgun blast roared over my head. I returned fire."
"How? The door was closed."
"I shot through the hole in the door that the shotgun had made."
"You shot a man through a hole in your door and hit him."
"It was a big hole, detective, and I wasn't sure I hit him."
"Why didn't the second shotgun blast take you out, Ms. Blake? There wasn't enough left of the door to hide behind. Where were you, Ms. Blake?"
"I told you, the blast rocked the door inward. I hit the floor, on my side. The second blast went over me."
"And you shot the man twice more in the chest," Detective Branswell said.
"Yes."
He looked at me for a long moment, studying my face. I met his eyes without flinching. It wasn't that hard. I was numb, empty, and distant. There was still a fine ringing in my ears from being so damn close to two shotgun blasts. The ringing would fade. It usually did.
"You know the man you killed?"
Catherine touched my arm. "Detective Branswell, my client has been more than helpful. She's told you several times that she did not recognize the deceased."
He flipped back through his notebook. "You're right, counselor. Ms. Blake has been helpful. The dead man was James Dugan, Jimmy the Shotgun. He's got a record longer than you are tall, Ms. Blake. He's local muscle. Someone you call when you want it cheap and quick and don't care how messy it is." He stared at me while he talked, studying my eyes.
I blinked at him.
"Do you know anyone who would want you dead, Ms. Blake?"
"Not right offhand," I said.
He closed his notebook and stood. "I'm going to recommend justifiable homicide to the DA. I doubt you'll see the inside of a courtroom.