Until they reached the third floor, where the security guard met them at the entrance to Jonas’s room. “His lawyer is with him,” the guard said.
“His lawyer is dead,” Johnson said.
“Not Margrove. He’s got a new one. Woman.”
“Already?” Johnson said. “He works fast.”
“As I said, she’s in his room.” The guard hitched a thumb into the direction of the open doorway. “A real ballbuster.”
Johnson stiffened. “Is she?”
“Sorry . . . but . . . yeah, she is,” the guard said. “She’s not letting him talk to anyone.”
Thomas didn’t wait, just strode through the open doorway, where he found Jonas McIntyre, beard shadow dark over sallow skin, a few bruises visible on his face, lying on the hospital bed, the head of which was partially raised. An IV stand was still connected by a narrow, clear tube to his wrist, a computer display at an angle as it monitored his vital signs.
Standing next to him, deep in conversation, was a slim fortysomething woman in a black power suit, pink blouse and matching heels. With sharp features, rimless glasses and short blond hair, she glanced up when Thomas approached and the smile she’d offered Jonas froze icily in place. “This is a private room.”
Thomas already had his badge out and was starting to introduce himself. “I’m Detective Cole Thomas and this is Detective—”
‘I don’t care who you are, my client is a patient in this hospital and as such will grant no interviews. Not to the press, not to the police, not to anyone.”
“And you are . . . ?” Johnson asked.
“Alex Rousseau.” She fished into a pocket of her jacket, snapped out a crisp business card and handed it to Thomas. “Not Alexis. Not Alexandra. Just Alex.”
“You’re from LA?” Johnson asked, eyeing the card in Thomas’s hand.
“I’ve got an office in Portland.”
“We need to ask your client some questions about his previous attorney’s homicide.”
“In good time,” she said. “As you can see Mr. McIntyre is still under doctor’s care.”
“It’s okay,” Jonas said, his voice a rasp.
“Oh, no.” She was shaking her head. “I wouldn’t advise talking to the police until—”
“I just want to get it over with,” he said, his gaze holding Thomas’s as he pressed a button and with a click and hum, the head of his bed elevated so that he was sitting more upright. “I’m going to give a statement. No questions.” He glanced at his attorney, whose lips were pursed into a disapproving knot, but she did give a curt nod.
“I did not have anything to do with Merritt Margrove’s death. I was supposed to meet him. It was prearranged. 10:00 a.m. Margrove picked the place and time as he wanted the meeting to be private. I was dropped off by Mia Long, a friend of mine, and I told her to leave. She did. I knocked. No answer. I went inside and Merritt was lying by the couch on the carpet. Already dead. His throat slit. I was about to leave when I heard a car. It was my sister. While she went into the cabin, I went outside and hid in the back seat. She was driving off the mountain when I let her know I was inside her Jeep. A few minutes later she nearly hit a deer and then there was the accident. We both saw the truck and she hit the brakes. The next thing I knew I woke up here.” He paused. “And that’s all I’m saying.”
“We do have some questions,” Johnson said.
Alex Rousseau nodded. “I’m sure you do. And you can ask them later. My client is still recovering, still under doctor’s care. His health is his primary concern, so until he’s released, he won’t be saying anything more. You’re lucky to have his statement.”
Thomas wanted to challenge her, to assert his authority, but he’d always believed in catching more flies with honey rather than vinegar, and the ensuing investigation would go much more smoothly if Jonas McIntyre cooperated rather than becoming a brick wall.
“Fine.” Thomas found his own business card and gave it to the attorney.
“Wait a second,” Johnson said, unwilling to step away. “We have authority here. What can you tell us about the massacre?”
“Wait. What?” The cords in Alex Rousseau’s neck became visible, her words clipped as she said succinctly, “My client is not going to address this matter. He’s been absolved.”
“He wasn’t absolved,” Johnson argued, her eyes flashing, “But since he can’t be tried again for those homicides, why doesn’t he come clean and tell us what really happened that night?”