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“You can. Whether or not I take offense, though, remains to be seen.”
“Okay. If the suspect here wasn’t a jazz musician and all of the pieces of the puzzle were the same, would you be so hesitant to go ahead and speak with them? Would you be so willing to assume it’s not them?”
The question didn’t anger her, but it did make her a bit resentful. Did Frank really think she was that biased?
“Probably,” she said. “Right now, I’m more interested in a witness who was so quick to say Carter murdered someone and then made off as quick as he possibly could. That seems weird to me.”
“Yeah,” Frank conceded. “I thought so, too. I mean, I don’t expect that he’d hang around after questioning, but to be in such a hurry after supposedly witnessing a murder…I don’t know. Maybe he was worried his so-called good name would be sullied if it was caught up in a murder investigation taking place in Harlem.”
“So let’s see if we can’t get his name and have a little chat with him. Maybe after that, we’ll talk to Carter Epps.”
She caught the flicker of a smile at the corner of Frank’s mouth. She’d seen it before, usually coming in a moment when she surprised or impressed him. It made her confident, sure, but she also wondered when he’d stop being so impressed and simply see her as his equal.
Together, they got into the car and headed back to the precinct. Before pulling away from the curb, Ava looked back out at the club, wondering what sorts of secret conversations the band was having now that they were gone.