“Is it safe to assume you haven’t said anything to this upstanding public servant or his colleagues?” A deep voice, all bass. His manicured fingers triggered the latches on his briefcase; he reached inside, removed a notepad and pen, then closed the case. “Never mind, don’t answer that.” He turned to Dobbs and Wilkins. “Gentlemen, can you give me a moment with my client?”
Dobbs nodded reluctantly and stood. When he reached the door, he knocked twice, then turned back to me. “I know you’re guilty, Michael. Know how I know?”
I only looked at him.
“You never once asked me how she died.”
The man in the gray suit raised his hand. “No need for jabs, Detective. You’ve traumatized my client enough. Out. Both of you.”
An officer opened the door and stepped aside. Young guy, short dark hair.
Wilkins smirked and seemed about to say something, then apparently thought better of it. He pushed past Dobbs and went out the door. Dobbs lingered a moment longer, his eyes still locked on me, then he left too. The door closed behind him.
The man in the gray suit dropped into Dobbs’s seat; the frame groaned under his weight. “An overdose of propofol.”
“What?”
“That’s what killed the girl in your bathtub. An overdose of propofol. She was injected here.” He touched the left side of his neck. “It’s a drug typically used by anesthesiologists, a sedative.”
“I know what propofol is.”
He frowned. “I wouldn’t tell anyone else that. Ignorance is bliss, and you, my friend, need some bliss.”
“Who are you?”
“Philip Wardwell. Our firm has done a significant amount of work for your father over the years. After you spoke to your sister, she talked to your mother, who in turn called our New York office,” he said. “I’m based in Los Angeles, so I was dispatched.”
I lowered my head and ran my hand through my hair. “I didn’t want my mother to find out about this. Megan shouldn’t have said anything.”
Wardwell shrugged. “Well, she did, and I’m here. I plan to help you avoid a jail cell for the foreseeable future—try not to get too dizzy with gratitude.” He flipped through several pages of notes on his pad. “I just spent the better part of an hour reviewing the evidence with those two detectives. It is substantial but primarily circumstantial.”
“Primarily?”
“They have one witness. One of Tepper’s neighbors, a Velma Keefe. She told them she saw you with Alyssa Tepper twice—two days ago and last week. Says she passed you both on the stairs. She ID’d you from a photo lineup.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve never met Alyssa Tepper. Somebody is trying to set me up,” I insisted.
He gave me a sideways glance, then returned to his notepad. “They told me about your field trip to Tepper’s apartment. If we need to discredit this Keefe woman, we can say she saw you when the police brought you through. I’m not worried about her.” He flipped the page. “I saw the photographs, video, clothing. They’re rushing DNA on a number of the items they pulled out of there. Did they tell you what they found in your building? Beyond the items that were near your bed? Did they tell you about the garbage chute?”
I shook my head.
“They pulled out a trash bag, same brand as under your sink. The bag was stuffed full of women’s clothing, Tepper’s size. One of the blouses, purple with white trim, matches her outfit in one of the photographs with you they found at her place.”
I had no idea what to say to that so I said nothing.
When it was clear I wasn’t going to respond, Wardwell went on. “They found a phone too. A disposable cell. The log showed calls and texts dating back nearly three months.”
“Not with me.”
Wardwell said dismissively, “Circumstantial, anyway.” He placed his pad and pen back inside his briefcase and snapped the lid shut. “The phone was wiped clean, no prints. Nothing on the bag itself or any of the items found inside. They’re pulling a warrant to check your truck at Nadler. I imagine they’ll have that by the time the sun comes up.”
“This is crazy,” I muttered. “What do we do next?”
Wardwell stood and knocked twice on the door. “We get you out of here.”
The door opened and the dark-haired officer looked in. “Yes?”
Wardwell grabbed the man by the collar, pulled him inside, and slammed his head against the cinder-block wall three times. The officer crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his ear.
Chapter Ten
Michael
What the fuck!” I jumped up from my seat and backed into the corner.
“Get his gun,” Wardwell said, sliding the toe of his shoe into the doorway before it could close and lock us in.
I shook my head. “No way.”
Wardwell rolled his eyes. “You’re some kind of Boy Scout now? We don’t have time for a crisis of conscience.”
He jammed his briefcase into the opening, freeing his shoe, then knelt down beside the unconscious officer.
“Is he dead?”
Wardwell stood with a grunt, fumbled with the leather strap on the officer’s gun, and pulled it from the holster. He tucked the gun under his belt at the small of his back and smoothed his suit jacket down over it. “Walk directly next to me, don’t make eye contact with anyone but me. Look like you belong, and nobody thinks twice.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Do exactly as I say, or I’ll start shooting people. It’s a Glock twenty-two—fifteen rounds in the magazine, another in the chamber. I’m a good shot. I’ll take out at least five to ten people before someone gets a bead on me. You want that on your head?” Wardwell picked up his briefcase and held the door open. He quickly glanced into the hallway, then back at me. “Come on, move.”
I went.
I knew I shouldn’t but I went anyway.
I stepped out into the hallway, fully expecting a dozen cops to jump me. A female detective walked by, her head buried in a folder, gun slapping at her hip.
Wardwell pressed his free hand against my back and steered me to the left. At the end of the hall, he turned us to the right. “Good,” he said in a low voice. “Keep moving. Make a left up ahead.”
Wardwell was leading us deeper into the building, in the opposite direction from Dobbs, Wilkins, the officer who took my prints.
“End of this hall, make another right.”
We passed a janitor emptying trash cans, lost to some song in his earbuds.
Two more lefts.
A right.
A service elevator.
Wardwell pressed the button. “Almost there.”
I started to turn, see what was behind us.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t.”
The doors opened.
We stepped inside.
He pressed the button marked P2.
When the elevator doors opened again, we were in the parking garage. “The blue Ford, over there to your right.”
The level was only about a quarter full. I spotted a Ford Escort parked beside a concrete support pole. A wreck of a car, at least fifteen or twenty years old. The hubcap was missing from the right front wheel. Faded navy-blue paint, pocked with dings and dents and patches of rust.