Grant gave her a dumbfounded look. Joe watched him anxiously, wondering how he would react. Then Grant began nodding. “You think I did it,” he said, glaring at Marilyn and Jerry. “You think I killed him! My own brother!”
Jerry stepped forward. “Madsen—”
“Fuck you!” Grant snarled. “Fuck all of you!”
“Grant!” Joe sharply admonished.
Seeing his uncle’s disapproval, Grant felt the heat in his veins dissipate slightly, replaced by intense dread. His breaths came in panicked gasps, and he glanced back and forth from one appalled face to another. They were disgusted by him because he was part of them—the criminal element, the Mafia. He was born into evil. He knew it, and they knew it. It was in his blood.
“Just fucking arrest me and get it over with,” Grant muttered. “You’ve already made up your minds about me anyway!” His eyes flared. “It’s fucking useless to pretend I can make it out here. I clearly belong in there, with my father.”
Grant looked at Joe, the only family member he had left. “They’ve taken everything from me!” He suppressed a cry. “They’ve taken everything,” he continued, his raspy voice growing softer. “What’s the difference if they take my freedom again? It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Hey!” Joe crossed the bridge and grasped Grant’s biceps, forcing him to look at him. “It matters to me, damn it! It tore me up when you were in prison, and I’m not going to let it happen again. Now you sit your ass down and you talk to the detective, and she will figure out that you’re innocent—that you’re a good man despite your bad family.” Joe’s imploring eyes locked on the matching blue of his nephew’s, and he shook Grant with each word. “You stop this little pity party right now! You got it?”
Grant swallowed. Slowly he nodded, and his voice sounded more like himself as he replied, “Yes, sir.”
Realizing he had his nephew in a vice grip, Joe released his hold and stepped back, trying to regain his bearings. He pointed to the seat by the controls and ordered, “Find some leather.”
Grant quickly slid into the chair and folded his hands in his lap, his back perfectly straight, eyes forward.
He sat in his chair expectantly awaiting his interrogation, but Marilyn thought for a moment before she began. Madsen was probably furious with his brother for making him take the fall for the Great Lakes heist, but he also seemed devastated by his death.
“Mr. Madsen, um, Commander Madsen, I’d like you to wait down below while we question your nephew.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nodded.
“Just tell them the truth, Grant, and you’ll be okay.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Joe left, Marilyn sat on the console in order to be eye-level with the suspect. She wanted him to feel at ease, but he certainly looked anything but peaceful at the moment. After a perfunctory reading of his Miranda rights, she said, “Mr. Madsen, I’d like to ask you some questions. Are you capable of responding at this time?”
Surmising she must think he was a total wimp, he quickly nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then please account for your activities the past two days.”
Jerry watched Grant carefully as he responded.
“Starting when, ma’am?”
“How about Wednesday night?”
“Um, Wednesday night was when Sophie—Sophie Taylor? Do you know her?”
“Yes, Mr. Madsen. We were at her father’s questioning her before we came here.”
Grant was incredulous. “Questioning her? Surely you don’t believe Sophie killed Lo, ma’am.”
“I’ve learned not to rule out any possibilities too soon. But it surprises you that we questioned Sophie Taylor? You think she’s innocent?”
“Of course she’s innocent,” Grant said. “She’s one of the most honorable individuals I’ve ever met.”
Marilyn hesitated a second before continuing with the next statement that flowed naturally from her detective’s brain. It would be a potentially low blow to pit the two suspects against each other, but such a technique often worked to nail the killer. And Marilyn always got the killer. Taking a deep breath, she went for it. “Funny, she didn’t say the same thing about you, Mr. Madsen. In fact, when I asked Ms. Taylor if she thought you should be a suspect, she didn’t give me a clear answer. I think she believes you killed your brother.”
Grant’s face fell, and he dropped his head with hopelessness and shame. Sophie thought he was capable of murder?If he hadn’t realized it before, he now knew he’d lost her forever.
Jerry’s mouth tightened as Grant folded over in agony. Marilyn had taken some creative liberties with that last statement.
Marilyn felt a little guilty watching Grant react to her cruel words, but like a good detective, she soldiered on. “Do you wish to change your earlier statement about Sophie being completely innocent?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” Grant choked out.
“Okay then. You were saying about Wednesday night?”
Grant closed his eyes and nodded, clenching his teeth. “She, um, Sophie, cooked me dinner, and we were having, uh, dessert when Logan showed up.”
Scribbling notes, Marilyn urged, “Go on.”
“Sophie had just told me about the man who stashed money and guns in her office, leading to her arrest, but I had no idea that man was Logan. And Sophie had no idea Logan was my brother. That all changed when he showed up. We all figured out the connection—and Sophie ran out of there as fast as she could.
“Logan actually didn’t know Sophie went to prison and lost her license because of him. What a freaking idiot.” Then realizing he’d insulted a dead man, Grant added, “Sorry.”
“You were angry with your brother for what he did to Sophie?”
“I was furious, ma’am,” Grant said.
“You two had a fight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“He gave you that shiner?”
Grant brushed his fingertips across the bruise, and suddenly his eyes got big. “I know how this looks, but I didn’t kill him, I swear!”
“Relax, Mr. Madsen,” Marilyn said. “I was already aware of the bruise from Officer Stone. You told him about it on Thursday morning, remember?”
Grant nodded, relieved.
“Did your brother hit you anywhere else, Mr. Madsen?”
Grant reluctantly nodded again. “Yeah, on my side.”
“May I see the damage?” Marilyn asked. It was a routine question, but she could not deny her eagerness to see the sculpted body hidden beneath his white button-down shirt.
Grant loosened his shirt from his black pants and lifted the shirt-tail to reveal an angry deep-purple contusion over his left ribcage.
Jerry whistled through his teeth. “Maybe you should see a doctor about that, Madsen.”
“I’m okay,” he countered, tucking his shirt back in. His father had done worse to him as a kid.
“The bruises on Mr. Barberi’s face—you gave those to him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Did you hurt him anywhere else?”
Grant looked sick. “I punched him in his stomach once, but he probably didn’t even feel it. He was the muscle in the family—he fought for a living.” As Marilyn noted this information, in a small voice Grant asked, “Did Lo feel any pain, ma’am?”