Backhouse’s chin dropped to his chest. Then he raised it so he could stare at her.
Heat pointed to the bandage on her forehead. “Bet you wish you hadn’t missed me, huh?” Watts put a hand on his client. “Do not answer that. Do not say anything.”
“Really? Because I’d like a statement.” Nikki took the yellow lined pad she had brought in and slid it in front of Backhouse with a ballpoint. “If you cooperate, it’s all going to go a lot easier for you.”
The lawyer wagged his head no.
Heat tilted her head toward Rook. “Tell you what. Your version in your own words would make for a hell of an article.”
“Oh, sure,” said Rook sitting up straight. “I’ll still do the piece on the safety defect. You care about that, I know. But imagine how many more people it would reach, I’m talking worldwide, if your story—this story—were part of it?”
Backhouse was teetering. His lawyer said, “Wilton—”
“Ethan, shut up, I’m trying to think. This is why Uncle Ray says you’re an asshole.” When the attorney slumped back with his arms crossed, Backhouse looked from the evidence bag to Nikki, then to Rook, clearly at the tipping point.
Rook, who had also seen the Assange poster in his office, said, “I think there’s only one question to ask here, Wilton. WWJD?” As they all looked to him with puzzled faces, he finished with, “What Would Julian Do?”
Backhouse shoved the pad away. But then, just when it seemed he was finished, he said, “I’d rather just tell it. Do you still have your recorder?”
“Unless I dropped it in the car last night—just kidding.” Rook took his Sony digital out and turned it on so Wilton Backhouse could tell his whole story for the record.
Cop humor. There is nothing like it.
After Heat and Rook had wrapped the interrogation and entered the homicide bull pen for the first time that morning, every detective there was wearing a teeny Band-Aid on his or her forehead. Such is the wry coping mechanism of your police professional. Even after a beloved comrade’s life-or-death ordeal—or, maybe, especially after one—sarcasm trumps sentimentality.
Heat played the game, showing her love by ignoring the display until they all just broke into laughter. So much better than people with guns, hugging.
A full recap wasn’t necessary, since the squad had already witnessed the lengthy debriefing of Wilton Backhouse from Observation. In a rare display that could only be considered a mercy kiss for going the extra distance after his ordeal, the detectives gave props to Rook for his interview.
Holding up his end in the sardonic spirit of the day, Rook thanked them by saying, “You know, I’d like to think there’s more at stake here than achieving justice. It’s really about getting me that next Pulitzer.”
“That would be a lot funnier if it weren’t true,” said Feller.
Raley asked, “Does this mean we owe Tangier Swift an apology?”
“Yeah, but instead of flowers, I’d like to send Mr. Swift a dozen of these.” Rook flashed the finger with the arm that wasn’t in a sling. “And don’t tell me this is my Area Fifty-one wacko speculation. Wilton Backhouse denied kidnapping me, and I believe him.”
“Well, he sure doesn’t have the infrastructure,” said Ochoa. “Look who he settled for: Maloney.”
Rook nodded. “But who does have it? Exactly. I don’t have proof yet. Meanwhile, I’ll just bide my time and enjoy my legally prescribed painkillers.”