“No—I mean, yes. I can.” While we sped west on Victory Boulevard, I told him about Forrest’s scene at the restaurant and my conversation with Jarret at dinner. Oliver kept his eyes fixed on the road, turning north onto Reseda Boulevard as I segued into the new info on Kyle, from the devil video to my steroid discovery.
“Geez,” he said. “Are you one of those people who can’t sit still? My youngest son always pokes around things, too. The kid is in constant motion. But he’s nine. What do they call it? Hyper…”
“The common term would be childhood. And in extreme cases, a developmental disorder called ADHD. No, I’m not impulsive or hyperactive.” I grimaced, irked by his lack of interest in my compelling new information. “You wanted other suspects for Carla.”
“I wanted the names on her suspect list. Do you pay your taxes?”
“Yes.”
“Then why the hell are you doing Pratt’s job for her?”
I crossed my arms. “Are you serious? She’d like to arrest me.”
“You done? Because now I’m going to tell you what you’re NOT going to do in the interview. And this time, if you want me to remain your lawyer, you’ll listen. No twitching, fidgeting, volunteering, or lying. Stifle headshakes and nods. No snide comments or any comments blaming the victim or the people you think are suspects. Don’t answer any questions without looking at me for permission first. Got that?”
“Got it. Do I need your permission to cough or sneeze?”
He let my comment pass without a flicker of reaction. “Everything you say will be recorded. If she tries to provoke you, don’t react, defend, or comment.”
“Do you give all your murder suspects this speech?”
“Only the ones who are innocent.” Oliver turned onto Vanowen, made a U-turn in the middle of the block and parked in front of the modern two-story West Valley Community Police Station. He switched off the ignition, then swung around to face me. “From now on, no more rogue investigations, Liz. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He opened his car door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with before lunch.”
The butterflies hit my stomach on the elevator ride from the spacious tiled lobby to the detective waiting room on the second floor. Oliver and I entered the empty reception area, a small lobby with six black metal chairs and a window to the street below. I took a seat facing the “WEST VALLEY DETECTIVE BUREAU” sign over the sliding glass reception window, my gaze flitting from the Wanted posters on the adjacent corkboard to the nearby exit.
While Oliver approached the officer behind the glass, I looked at my watch. We were on time. Checked it again. Same time. Oliver sat down next to me, tapping his thumbs to a silent beat. Two minutes, which felt like two hours later, a door next to the reception window opened and Carla beckoned us inside.
Oliver patted my knee encouragingly. “You’re gonna do great.”
We filed behind Carla past three gray cubicles down a small hall opening toward a massive room on the left with signs—“ROBBERY,” “GANGS,” “JUVENILE,” and “HOMICIDE”—hanging above clusters of empty desks.
She opened a door into a small conference room furnished with a cherry-laminated table and eight padded chairs. Oliver rolled out a chair for me and I sat, spine straight, conscious not to swivel or fidget.
Carla took a seat across the table with what appeared to be an eight-by-ten frame enveloped in a plastic cover, facedown in front of her. “I appreciate you arranging your busy schedules to come here this morning. Would you like some coffee or water before we begin?”
“No, thanks. We’re good,” Oliver said.
“Then let’s get started so we can enjoy the rest of the weekend. As you know, I’m investigating Mrs. Huber’s homicide and I have a few unanswered questions that I hope Dr. Cooper can clear up for me. How are you today, Liz?”
“I’m—”
Oliver nudged my knee.
I smiled at her to signify my good health and carefree attitude. The picture of calm—if she didn’t notice my quivering upper lip.
“Great,” she said. “I don’t think this will take long. I understand you weren’t at your office last week. Why?”
At Oliver’s nod I said, “I took the week off to finish unpacking while the plumbers were at my house.”
“And to spend time with Mrs. Huber?”
“No. I had no idea she would be in town.”
“Yet Mrs. Huber told several witnesses she came to visit you. Can you explain why?”
“She lied.”
Carla took out a notebook and flipped through the pages. A prop, I knew from Dad and Dave, to buy time or make me uncomfortable. She stopped on a page. “The morning of Mrs. Huber’s death, her husband called you, looking for her. According to Mr. Huber, you told him you hadn’t seen his wife since the prior morning. But here’s where I’m confused—Kyle Stanger heard you and the victim argue the night before at the Dodger game.” Carla closed her pad and stared at me. “So why did you lie to Mr. Huber?”
Chapter Twenty-seven