Conklin held the elevator door for me, then reached over and pressed the button for the seventh floor.
I stared up at the row of floor numbers as I collected my scattered thoughts. A couple of minutes from now we would be talking to Randi White Barkley and her attorney, Lynn Selby. We had a hint of leverage, knowledge that someone in the Barkley household played a suspicious video game. It wasn’t much and it was late in coming. Still.
I played it out inside my head, our ADA addressing the judge, saying, Your Honor, we’re charging Miranda White Barkley with shooting two rounds over law enforcement’s heads and possibly playing a violent video game.
Yeah, right.
The doors slid open, and we walked out onto the worn gray tiles and crossed to Bubbleen Waters, desk sergeant and local karaoke singer of note. We exchanged greetings, and Sergeant Waters presented the log. I signed us in, and we followed a guard along a long corridor ringing with inmate voices and the clanging of doors and the echoing sounds of our footsteps.
We stopped at the gate to the small, barred room with a table and four chairs in the center, and the guard let us in.
Randi didn’t look up. She wore the standard orange jumpsuit and cuffs and had braided her hair into one long plait hanging down her back. She’d gotten help, no doubt, as her wounded arm was bound in a bulky and conspicuous bandage.
Randi’s attorney, Lynn Selby, was a public defender with a future. She was blond, with pale-pink lipstick and a light-gray suit, but I knew her, and although she looked like a pussycat, she had a bulldog’s bite.
There were stiff greetings all around, and after we’d taken our seats, Selby said sweetly, “Assuming there are no new charges against Mrs. Barkley, your forty-eight hours expires in an hour.”
“How’re you feeling, Randi?” I asked.
“Peachy,” she said.
I smiled at the sarcasm.
Selby said, “Please address your questions to me, and quickly please. I want to get my client out of here.”
Randi White had done two tours in Afghanistan. She’d been trained to withstand interrogation, to give up nothing but her name, rank, and serial number. And along with her military programming, she also had a guard dog of a lawyer to protect her from us.
I said to Selby, “Lynn. Randi knocked out her bedroom window and threw two rounds at our marked car. She knew we were police. That’s reckless endangerment to start with. She has admitted to providing cover so that her husband, Leonard Barkley, could escape. He’s a suspect in a double homicide. That makes Randi an accessory.”
“Come on, Lindsay. Accessory to helping her husband run away? He’s a psychological mess due to his time in our armed services. She fired blanks. Over your heads. On purpose. You know that. Furthermore, Randi White Barkley is the only person who was injured in this assault on her home and on her person. That’s a lawsuit against the city waiting for me to dictate it to my transcriber.”
“Take it down a notch, will you, Lynn? I haven’t asked her a question yet.”
“Go ahead, Sergeant.”
As we’d planned, I said, “Rich, why don’t you take it from here?”