“Don’t answer that.” Rousseau shot Jonah a warning look. Then she turned her attention to Johnson. “Get out. Now. Both of you. Thank you for your time and your interest, but Mr. McIntyre needs his rest.”
Thomas said, “My partner’s right. We do have the authority here, but—” He glanced meaningfully to Johnson before adding, “We’ll give Mr. McIntyre a chance to recover.”
“Thank you.” Rousseau tossed Johnson a last withering glare.
Thomas walked out of the room with Johnson reluctantly on his heels.
Thankfully it wasn’t until they were inside the elevator car and descending to the first floor before she exploded. “What the hell was that all about?” she demanded, her dark eyes flashing. “We had our opportunity and you blew it. Just walked away! You know what she’s going to do, don’t you? ‘Just Alex’ Rousseau?” Johnson demanded, making air quotes. “She’s going to spirit our primary witness away and hide him somewhere! Probably Malibu or Brentwood or some other place in Los Angeles. I’m telling you she’s only on this case to get her face in front of a camera.”
“Maybe.”
“So then we’ve lost our star witness. And then what?”
“Subpoena. And I don’t think Rousseau would haul him over state lines.”
“You don’t know that!” Johnson was really ramping up. “And what the hell good will a subpoena do if we can’t find the bastard?” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Jesus, Thomas, aren’t you the guy who thinks Jonas McIntyre is guilty of murdering his goddamned family twenty years ago?”
“I do.”
“Then . . . ?”
The car stopped on the first floor. “Sometimes we have to play a waiting game.”
“Oh, right,” she said as the doors opened and they had to sidestep an elderly man with a walker. “And twenty years isn’t long enough!”
“Not quite,” Thomas said, refusing to think he’d made a major tactical blunder in letting Jonas McIntyre off the hook.
He had to go with his gut on this one.
CHAPTER 26
The detectives were waiting in an interview room.
Kara had imagined she would be confined in a small, cell-like cubicle with a two-way mirror, hidden cameras rolling, unseen eyes following her every move, searching for any nuance that might be at odds with what she told the officers. She’d thought the lighting would be harsh, the ordeal nerve-wracking. She’d heard about the whole good cop/bad cop routine and had expected to be grilled, the detectives intimidating, almost bullying her into saying the wrong thing.
As it turned out, she’d watched too many movies from the 1940s and 1950s.
She was ushered into a cement block room painted a pale gray. A table with four chairs sat in the middle of the room, a line of small windows tucked near the ceiling of one wall, the opposite covered with a double row of framed headshots of police officers in full uniform.
Two officers were waiting for her.
Her stomach tightened. She tried to shake off her anxiety. She wasn’t used to being around people, and she’d avoided any contact with the police for years. Yet here she was.
Introductions were quickly made, hands shaken, and she was offered a seat opposite Detectives Cole Thomas and Aramis Johnson. A bottle of water next to an empty paper cup and carafe of coffee had been placed before her.
Thomas was more relaxed than his partner, a tall man in an open-collar shirt, navy sport coat and slacks. He was clean shaven, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly clipped, his physique slim. His gold eyes were deep-set and intent. Hunter’s eyes. The kind that could track a small creature in a dark forest.
Johnson, his partner, was a striking woman, probably around five-seven or -eight, and exuded the confidence of a woman who was born beautiful but had to fight for every bit of respect she’d earned. Her smile was as tight as the band holding her curly hair in a sleek bun, her cheekbones prominent, her eyes so dark as to be almost black.
She was offered coffee and water, a soda if she wanted it, was told the conversation would be recorded, and the interview began.
“We’ve been looking for you,” Thomas said.
“I know. I was staying with a friend.” She didn’t elaborate and was already hoping to get out of here quick. The place was too institutional, the walls too high, and the cops made her anxiety inch upward.
Johnson asked, “What friend?”
“Does it matter? My house was besieged, reporters everywhere! I just needed time to pull myself together.”