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Brice leveled his gaze at him. “Well, you didn’t go to the other one either. The lady at the front counter didn’t remember you. Yet one of their cups is magically in your garbage.”
“This is bullshit,” Novak swore, and Richardson held up a calming hand at his client.
“Where were you this afternoon between four thirty and six thirty?” Brice countered.
Richardson gestured for his client to answer.
“At Sands Motel, in my room.”
“Can anyone corroborate that fact?” Brice asked.
“Umm.” Novak started squirming and faced his lawyer, who nodded. “I was with a hooker.”
“A sex worker,” she murmured, unable to let the other term go. It wasn’t politically correct, and she had the insatiable need to keep things accurate.
“Where would we find her?”
“Just down the street from the Sands. She’s really skinny with red hair and smells like an ashtray. Goes by Lucy.”
“Okay, we’ll have a talk with her. It must have been at the earlier end of the time I gave you. We were told that you were at your parents’ old place around six thirty. Did we hear wrong?”
Novak wriggled in his chair and shook his head at his lawyer.
“What’s the relevance?” Richardson asked, stepping in.
Brice settled his gaze on Novak. “Why were you there?”
Novak rubbed his jaw. “I… I was just there because of sentimental reasons. That’s all. It was after… well, the hooker.”
“Sentimental reasons. Can you elaborate?”
“Maybe once you elaborate on the relevance,” Richardson slapped back.
“All right then. The thing is, your client has no need to be hanging around the place. One of our agents spoke with your client’s parents, and they had no interest in a reunion. They turned him away. That’s why he’s been staying at the Sands Motel.”
“Still waiting on the relevance.” Richardson tapped a hand on the edge of the table.
“We think he took this girl”—Brice pointed at Olivia’s face—“to that property and held her there for a time.”
A complete fabrication as there was nothing to support that. Elwood looked at her, and she shook her head, to which he gave a puzzled expression. She pointed into the interview room. He should know that interrogation was a game and if the criminals could lie, so could the good guys.
“I went for sentimental reasons!” Novak burst into tears.
Brice gave him a few moments to compose himself before continuing. “Which are?” he gently prodded.
“I grew up there.” Novak sniffled. “Everything wasn’t perfect, but it was all right. Jimmy could walk. I talked him into… into…”
The bank robbery where he wound up a paraplegic, Sandra finished in her head.
“My client needs a break,” Richardson said. “Or let him go. I still haven’t heard any compelling evidence against him.”
“Just one more question, and we can cut out for a break. Where did you get the Ford sedan from, Duane?”
“I borrowed it from a friend.”
“What friend? What’s their name?”
“No, Agent, you said one more question. He answered it,” Richardson shoved out.