Here we go. I stand in the doorway, as nonchalantly as I can manage. “Detective Candide, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
“You.” Her voice is cold, but I can hear the tremor of anger behind it, and in the tension across her jaw.
“Can I help you, Detective?”
“You and I are going to talk. Now. So either let me in or get in the car and we’ll go down to the station.”
I think about that. I don’t particularly want her to see the inside of my house, the lonely card table and camp chair. And if I go to the station I might get a chance to see Takahashi, or find out how their investigation is proceeding. Plus, points for cooperation.
“The station it is, then,” I say and step out onto the porch with her, locking the door behind me. I’ve surprised her, and she scowls. But she stomps back up the steps and opens the rear door. I oblige by getting inside, and she commandeers the driver’s seat.
We are quiet on the way across town. Conversation seems to be a no-go, and I don’t want to give Candide the power to ignore me. The back of the car is spic and span—no trash, no scuff marks on the back of the front seats, no slits in the upholstery. The grill between the front and back is black and shiny. Nice. The SUV still has that new car smell, and I inhale appreciatively. My own car is well beyond its salad days; it’s about ready for the compost heap.
Candide regards me in the mirror before turning her attention to the road. In a few minutes, we pull up in the parking lot of the station, and she ushers me in the back door.
The interview room is typical, made to be intimidating and uncomfortable. But I know the drill, and sit back in the folding chair with my legs crossed. I consider waving at the one-way mirror, but decide that wouldn’t go down well. Candide sits across from me, notebook at the ready, pen beating a tattoo on the worn formica of the table.
She begins without preliminaries. “Why did you interview the Reverend Seth Takahashi?”
Here we go. Maybe I can learn something here. A little quid pro quo. “I’m talking to him in connection with the murder of Victoria Harkness. Why did you arrest him?”
She blinks. “He’s not arrested.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Then your sources are unreliable. And you have no business interfering in an ongoing investigation. So, again, why were you talking to him?”
“I was hired by the Church of the Spirit to find out what happened to their founder. Seth Takahashi had expressed some adverse sentiments to Harkness’s teaching. I was following up. Like you, apparently.”
“You’re interfering. Who knows what damage you’ve done, what misinformation you’ve spread. This is an ongoing police investigation, and you are muddying the waters. I can charge you with obstruction of justice.”
I snort in disbelief. Her tactics are beyond heavy-handed. Is this her own call, or Olafson’s? Regardless, I know the law. So I say, “I’ve offered him neither payment or engaged in threats of force. I have not encouraged him to lie or to commit a crime. I’ve simply asked him questions. Ergo, I have done nothing wrong. You’re free to do the same.”
“Our work is not your business. I want you to stay away from potential witnesses or informants. You could contaminate or prejudice testimony, and I won’t stand for it.”
“Come on, Detective. Freedom of speech, and all that. You’ve detained Takahashi, so you must have something to link him to the crime. What is it?”
She glares. “None of your business.”
“You got more out of him than I did, if he admitted something to you. So you can’t be overly bothered by my visit with him. Or maybe you have some evidence.” I lean forward, hands clasped. “We shouldn’t be antagonists, we should be allies. After all, we’re all on the same side. Trying to put the bad guys away.”
She takes a deep breath, as though to steady her temper. “Why do you think her death isn’t an accident?”
“Why do you think it was?”
“I’m asking the questions. Why are you investigating?”
“Because I’ve been hired by the Church of the Spirit to do so.”
“If they have some reason to believe it, they need to talk to us.”
“Have you gone to them?”
There’s a pause, then Candide says again, “None of your business.”
“Never mind — I know you haven’t, because Claire or Daniel would have told me so.”
“Who else have you been talking to?”
“Her mother. People who knew her. Following standard operating procedure.”
“What have you found out?”
“I don’t have to answer, not without a court order. The information belongs to my client.”
“You were a cop. Once. If you know something, you have a duty to tell us. Or risk being an accessory.”
“Do you want a catalogue of unimportant factoids? Because that’s what I’ve got. Stop trying to threaten me with fake charges. I know the law. Better than you, apparently.”
She doesn’t answer, just looks at me. We engage in a silent battle of wills, neither willing to give an inch.
The door to the interview room opens, letting in a gush of fresh air. Steve Olafson fills the frame, his sleeves rolled up to expose his thick forearms.
“That’ll be all, Jane. I’m taking over.”
Face white, Detective Candide gathers her things and stalks out the door without a backward glance.
Ouch. It may be SOP to change out interrogators, keeping them fresh as the perp gets worn down, but it seems a little soon for that. I don’t blame Jane for being annoyed.
Olafson takes Candide’s place at the table. “Ms. Lake, you are in some trouble.”
I lean forward and interlace my fingers. “Detective, I’m on a job, hired by
