Defensive Wounds by Lisa Black Read Free Book Online

Come and get me there.”
    Rachael passed the ALS back. Theresa first stored her equipment and evidence in the county station wagon and then went in search of the other family member present.
    Every available Homicide detective had been assigned to assist, which was how Frank Patrick came to be sitting in the Ritz-Carlton’s Ambassador Room. The Ambassador Room had been designed for seminars given by very well-to-do corporations or perhaps for the elegantly understated second wedding with a limited guest list. Walls the color of a pale burnt sienna contrasted with rich bronze draperies. Sheers underneath blocked the harsh world outside, creating a quiet haven of good taste. Apparently the conference hadn’t needed this room; tables were set up with matching but unblemished tablecloths, each chair in place. The ten or so people in the room hovered at one end of it, around uncovered tables with mismatched folding chairs. The hotel would give the police a room to work in so long as they didn’t mess up the place settings, like Frank’s mother protecting the dining room on a bridge-club day.
    Normally, witnesses would not be questioned in the same room, but with a pool this size, speed and efficiency were of the essence. Cops kept their voices low, and the attorneys were doing the same. His partner, Angela Sanchez, had arrived as well, and now the olive-skinned woman with shoulder-length raven hair sat across from a young attorney, leaning away as he zoomed in on her pert nose and scoop-necked T-shirt. Good luck there, pal, Frank thought. Half the force had already tried, with no more success than that turn-of-last-century’s baseball team, the Cleveland Spiders.
    His cousin appeared in front of him, with a weary look and a smudge of black powder on both her chin and the ivory blouse. “Getting anywhere?” she asked.
    â€œThese are defense attorneys.”
    â€œRefusing to talk without, what, an attorney?”
    â€œNo,” he sighed. “Obviously trying to confuse me, they’ve all been pretty forthcoming. At least half of them are from out of town, so maybe they’re more willing to let their guard down and set a dangerous precedent of cooperation. Except for the last guy, and him only because he doesn’t want his wife or his boss finding out where he spent his expense account last night. Otherwise they’ve been surprisingly open. The last sighting of Marie Corrigan, so far, seems to be five-thirty last night, in the bar. A group of them, all from different cities and all men—no surprise there—bought her drinks and planned to go over to East Fourth, hit Michael Symon’s place for dinner, and then do the bars. Marie left to powder her nose and never came back. They drank for another hour, then figured she’d ditched them and staggered off to East Fourth on their own, but, being from out of town, they headed west instead and wound up at Brasa’s.”
    â€œWhich is just as good, assuming their expense accounts can keep up. And they never saw Marie again,” Theresa said, as if to clarify.
    â€œAccording to them. I’ve gotten five other statements from people who recognized her photo, having been in the same audience at this or that lecture. They have quite the agenda. Today they had ‘How to Make Not-Guilty Happen,’ ‘Criminal Defense in a Down Economy,’ and ‘Defending Child-Pornography Cases.’ ”
    â€œSounds a lot racier than forensic conventions. We have things like ‘The Life Cycle of the Cochliomyia .’ ”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBlowfly.”
    â€œOh. There’s also ‘Forensic Science in the Courtroom,’ ” he added, reaching over to rub the powder off her face with one thumb. “Maybe you should sit in on that.”
    â€œMaybe I should. What did the five other people say about Marie?”
    â€œNever saw her after the sessions were over.”
    â€œSo