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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 isnotgoing 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?”
“Don’t answer that.” Rousseau shot Jonas 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 that 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.