she was, by God, not guilty.
“Are you booking me? Should I call a lawyer?” she asked after they’d entered the precinct.
Oh, great. Now she was going to lawyer up. “If you want to call one, that’s fine, but you’re not under arrest. All I want to do is get on record what took place. It’s standard procedure.”
Mitch didn’t want to hang around here the rest of the night waiting for her attorney to show up and then be advised he’d have to either arrest her or turn her loose. He was ready to get down to business. “We’ll be in room three,” he notified Nick Simon, who was manning the desk.
He took Robin Andrews’s arm and guided her down the hall. He hoped her written statement and the following interrogation didn’t turn up anything new and he could simply release her.
Mitch didn’t want her to be guilty, and truthfully didn’t think she was, but she had a lot going against her. She had possible motive and opportunity. She had been at the scene, had the victim’s blood on her hands and prints on the weapon.
She was the spouse and the most likely perpetrator according to statistics, he reminded himself. Sure, she’d phoned it in herself, but as he had told her earlier, she could have done that to try to divert suspicion.
Mitch supposed it could be a crime of passion. A shot to the head. Weapon dropped on the floor by his body. The apartment had been trashed.
That last aspect bothered Mitch a little, however. The mess wasn’t exactly consistent with the tossing an angry wife might do after shooting her husband in a fit of anger. It looked more like a quick, frantic search. Maybe she’d been looking for something. But if she’d found it, where had she put it? And if she hadn’t found it, why had she called 911 and just sat there on the victim’s bed until they arrived?
Oh well, he would take her statement, read it, then do his best to find holes and inconsistencies.
Robin Andrews was an exquisite woman, a pale, slender blonde with aristocratic features, who, in spite of her height of around five-ten, appeared to be as fragile as thin crystal. But he couldn’t allow that to color his opinion of her one way or the other. He should be the last man on earth to be taken in by beauty and a look of vulnerability. Given a fit of rage, she could have shot her husband.
But she didn’t. You know she didn’t, said the insistent voice in his head. Gut instinct aside, Mitch intended to bend over backward to counteract that feeling, to leave no doubt about her innocence or guilt when he was finished with her.
“This way,” he directed, releasing her arm and pointing to the door at the end of the hall. She preceded him wordlessly and hurriedly, obviously wanting it to be over. He could tell by her body language that she was terribly afraid. The question was why? Fear that she’d be railroaded for a crime she hadn’t committed, or fear that she would let something incriminating slip out?
She had made no further mention of a lawyer.
He took his time seating her in the uncomfortable straight-back chair. “Just take it easy, Mrs. Andrews, and we’ll get this out of the way as soon as we can. Don’t you be nervous now. I’ll be back in just a minute.”
Mitch went down the hall to the coffee room and poured two cups of sludge that had been steeping for several hours by the smell of it. He loaded both cups with sugar and powdered creamer, then returned to the interrogation room.
“Here you go,” he said, placing one of the cups in front of her. She just stared at it, wide-eyed, then slowly cupped both hands around it, probably seeking warmth. The air-conditioning was working overtime.
Her long, elegant fingers were free of the blood now, but their tips still bore faint traces of the ink used to fingerprint her again when they’d first arrived. This time they’d taken three sets, for local, state and FBI use. He’d told her that was so they could distinguish her prints from any others that shouldn’t be there at the scene. The explanation hadn’t reassured her.
He had explained what the paraffin test was for and she had seemed almost eager to have that done again, assuring him they wouldn’t find any gunpowder on her anywhere. Of course, she might be under the impression water and soap would have washed it off.
Mirandizing her would probably scare her to death, but it was necessary. Kick might have neglected to do it. Mitch had to do this by the book in the event she broke down during questioning and admitted to the murder. So he began, trying not to sound too gruff. “You have the right to remain silent…”
She hung on his every word, nodding, and in the end, decided against calling an attorney or having one appointed.
The woman didn’t know any lawyers in Nashville. As far as he knew, she didn’t know anyone south of the Mason-Dixon line other than her dead husband and her mother in Florida.
Calling for legal counsel was the smart thing for her to do, and he had no right to prevent it or even discourage it.
“Do you want me to get a lawyer for you, Ms. Andrews?”
She glanced up at him and swallowed hard, meeting his eyes with a bravado he knew she was faking. “Are you sure I’m not under arrest?”
“No, ma’am, not under arrest, but you are in custody for questioning at the moment, so if you think you might say something that could incriminate you during this interview, you’d be wise to have legal counsel present.”
It was a mind trick, of course. He couldn’t, by law, say as much, but the implication was there. Ask for a lawyer and look guilty as hell. Waive the right and take your chance on outwitting the law. Mitch hated games, but he knew how to play them.
“No, I don’t believe I need an attorney,” she said, just as he’d expected her to. “I haven’t anything to hide, Detective Winton. Ask me anything you want to know. I’ll cooperate fully.”
He smiled at her, part of the act to put her at ease. Or was it? Reaching into the drawer of the gray metal table, he withdrew a tablet of lined blank forms and a ballpoint pen. When he had filled out the top portion, he slid the pad across the table to her and handed her the pen.
“Just write down everything you remember happening from the time you arrived at the airport.”
She eyed him warily and then stared at the writing instruments. “All right.” She picked up the ballpoint.
He watched her gather her thoughts, knowing that would be like herding butterflies at the moment. She was sleep deprived, barely over a case of shock and she was scared. He felt cruel for putting her through this, but he had no choice.
In the end, after she had written her statement and he had filled in the gaps by questioning her further, Mitch’s instinct assured him once again that she’d had nothing to do with Andrews’s death.
He had tried every trick he knew, even assuring her he could well understand how an estranged wife might fly off the handle and do something she would never consider doing without provocation. She’d looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, advocating murder that way. He had preyed on her conscience. Apparently it was clean as a whistle. Or nonexistent. He had accused her outright. She had stuck to her story like Scotch brand cellophane tape and, in an uncharacteristic flare of anger, flat-out demanded that he stop wasting time and get out there and find whoever had killed James Andrews.
If he was wrong about her innocence and she had killed the man, the physical evidence would have to point it out, because she had perfectly logical and believable answers to all his questions and accusations. Her reactions were totally consistent with those of an innocent. So she was that.
Or she was very, very clever.
They would have to keep her around until all the evidence was evaluated, of course, but at the moment there was nothing that would justify placing Robin Andrews under arrest.
The tests on her hands showed no powder residue consistent with her discharging a weapon. Her prints were on it, but not in a configuration that would indicate she had gripped