The ride to the precinct was a quiet one. Detectives Landon and Brunetti didn’t say a word, and neither did Valencia. Upon arrival at the precinct, Valencia was escorted to a room to be interviewed and was told that somebody would be with her shortly. It was a little after eight when the door closed, and it was nine-thirty when it opened again.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, Ms. DeVerão. I’m Detective Victoria Gutiérrez and this is my partner Detective Bryant,” she said, and the detectives took their seats across the table from Valencia.
“Did you want to have a lawyer present for this interview?” Bryant asked.
“I would like to know what this is about?” she said calmly, but on the inside Valencia was shaking. She knew exactly what this was about. Even though she didn’t kill Coleman, she was there the night he was murdered.
“We’d like to ask you some questions about Coleman Patterson,” Gutiérrez said, and Valencia smiled as brightly as she could.
“Coleman is a client of mine,” she began, trying to sound as relaxed and calm as she could, under the circumstances. “I run a technology firm and I do some consulting work for his company.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Two, more like three years now, I’m guessing.”
“And how would you describe that relationship?” Gutiérrez asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Was it just a business relationship, was it personal … a mix of both, maybe,” Gutiérrez said, allowing her voice to drop.
“I would say that it is a mix of both at this point.”
Bryant leaned forward. “So, the two of you were more than friends. Ever been to his house?”
“I have. And I am not sure if I’m comfortable with what you’re implying when you say, ‘more than friends’ in that tone of voice, Detective Bryant.”
Gutiérrez glanced at her partner. “How would you describe the relationship between you and Mr. Patterson?”
“We are friends who share an occasional glass of wine and talk about politics and global finance. But there is nothing intimate or physical, if that’s what you were implying,” she said, looking at Bryant before turning to face Gutiérrez. “And you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Gutiérrez asked, ignoring her question. She would answer it in due time.
This was the question that concerned her—how to answer this one question. It could mean the difference between her walking out of there or asking to speak with a lawyer. Should she tell them that she was there on the night of the murder? Did they already know she was there and were waiting to spring their trap?
“It’s been a couple of weeks. I’d have to check my calendar to be sure, but we have gotten together recently to deliver a proposal. And here again, you still haven’t told me what this is about.”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Patterson is dead,” Bryant dropped without emotion.
“Oh, my god,” Valencia said, quickly covering her mouth.
“He was murdered this past Sunday evening at his home,” Gutiérrez said, with just a bit more compassion than her partner.
Valencia sat quietly with her head down for a second or two and was able to force out a tear before she faced the detectives. When she looked up, there was a picture of Coleman’s body on the table in front of her. She glanced at it quickly and looked away.
“We found a fingerprint in the house that matched yours, Ms. DeVerão,” Bryant said, “and a number of his neighbors told us that they’ve seen you there a number of times in the past.”
Valencia wiped away a single tear and looked at Gutiérrez. “Yes, as I told you, he and I are friends,” she began, careful to refer to him in the present, rather than past tense. “I’ve been to his house many times over the years and we drink wine and talk—” Valencia paused as if she was getting emotional, and there was a part of her that was. Even though he was her blackmailer, they did have something of a curious friendship. “I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in.”
“Take your time, Ms. DeVerão,” Gutiérrez said.
“Can you tell me where you were on Sunday night, Ms. DeVerão?” Bryant asked.
“I was at home preparing for an important meeting that I had Monday—” Valencia stopped as if she just realized something. “Am I a suspect?” she asked indignantly. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“No, Ms. DeVerão, you are not a suspect,” Gutiérrez said.
“Not at this point,” Bryant said.
“These are just standard questions we ask. This way we can eliminate you as a suspect.”
Valencia nodded. “I understand. I was at home preparing for an important meeting that I had Monday morning.”
“Can anybody verify that?” Bryant asked.
The way that he was coming at her, made Valencia believe that he wasn’t buying a word that she was saying.
You killed him, pretty lady, and I’m going to prove it, was the vibe she was getting from him.
But she stuck to her story, wondering once again why she didn’t call the police that night, instead of running out of there.
“No, sir, Detective Bryant. I was at home working alone.”
“Did Mr. Patterson ever express to you that he had any problems with anybody?” Gutiérrez asked.
“Not that I can recall. He has mentioned a number of times over the years how competitive the art collection business was, and the extremes that people would go to, to get a valued piece, but no, Detective Gutiérrez, Coleman never said anything about his life being in danger.”
When Detective Bryant sat back and began fidgeting with the papers in front of him, Valencia relaxed a little, because she knew that she had gotten through this; at least for the time being.
“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us, Ms. DeVerão. And I am sorry for the loss of your friend.” Gutiérrez stood up, and Bryant gathered the papers together and then he stood up too. “If you think of anything that you think is helpful, please give me a call. I’ll have an officer take you home,” she said, and followed Bryant out of the room.
A short time later, an officer came in the room and he took Valencia back to her car, which was still parked at La Grenouille. On her way home, she called Geno to explain what happened.
“Did you kill him?” Geno asked.
“No, Geno, I didn’t kill him.”
“I guess that’s why they let you go.”
“You think?”
“Anyway, after they dragged you out of there, I got our meal to go, so if you’re hungry … I would be happy to bring it to you.”
“Very subtle, Geno,” she laughed. “But I am hungry, sooo …,” she said, gave him her address, and he promised to be there in an hour.
When she got home, Valencia took off the Alexandre Vauthier rose print dress, and took a quick shower to wash the grime of the precinct from her body. Once she had dried and oiled her body, Valencia changed into an Issey Miyake jumpsuit and prepared to receive her guest. A part of her wondering if she were going to allow him to seduce her.
When the doorbell rang, Valencia got up to answer it with her mind made up. After the night that she’d had, she needed to be loved, and loved right.
And you have just the skillset needed to get the job done, she thought, but when she opened the door, there was nobody there. Valencia stepped outside and looked around before turning to go back in the house. She stumbled a bit but was able to catch herself. Valencia looked down to see what she had almost tripped over and saw a large envelope on her porch. She looked around again, before stooping down to pick it up and go inside.
Valencia closed the door, opened the envelope, and found that it contained four pictures. One of her leaving Coleman Patterson’s house, one of her running down the stairs, another was of her getting in the car, and the last was a clear image of her license plate as Valencia drove away from the house. The envelope also contained a phone.