Consigned to Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

you’re not a suspect per se, you’re certainly a person of interest. I made an appointment for us to meet with him at noon tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at your office at eleven-thirty and we can talk en route.”
    I agreed to the plan, went home, got the Bombay Sapphire out of the freezer, and made myself another martini.
     
     
    Cathy looked up when we entered promptly at noon the next day, but didn’t speak. Chief Alverez was standing at a file cabinet near the back, and when he saw us, he closed the drawer.
    “How you doing?” he asked me, after greeting Max.
    He led us into the same room we’d been in yesterday, and I selected the same chair.
    Alverez turned to Max, and said, “We have some new information.”
    “What’s that?” Max asked.
    “Fingerprints.”
    Max and I waited for Alverez to explain. Still speaking to Max, he added, “As we expected, Josie’s fingerprints were everywhere. We learned she’s pretty darn thorough. We found her prints under furniture, on the back of picture frames, and inside drawers.”
    “Makes sense,” Max commented. “She’s a professional appraiser.”
    “Yeah,” Alverez agreed. “But we also found her prints someplace they shouldn’t be.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Max asked. “Where’s that?”
    “On the knife that was used to kill Nathaniel Grant.”

CHAPTER THREE
    M ax gripped my shoulder. “Josie,” he said, keeping his eyes on Alverez, “don’t say a word.”
    “But I can explain,” I protested.
    “Say nothing.”
    He looked determined and grim, and I shivered. I nodded slightly, signaling that I’d do as he asked.
    Max squeezed my shoulder again. I couldn’t tell whether he was offering support or thanking me for doing as he instructed. He turned back toward Alverez, picked up his pen, and queried, “Fingerprints on the knife?” His voice was calm, his tone pleasant.
    I kept my eyes lowered and sat, silent and still.
    “Yeah,” Alverez said, nodding. “That’s right.”
    “Where?”
    “On the handle.”
    “Distinct? Complete?”
    Alverez glanced at his notes. “According to the tech guys, there wasn’t enough ridge detail for an ID from most of the prints. But there was one clear index print from Josie’s right hand. A sixteen-point match.”
    “What does that mean?” I asked.
    “It means your print is on the knife. For sure.”
    Max patted my arm to calm me. “It sounds as if the knife had been wiped, but not thoroughly.”
    “Apparently,” Alverez agreed.
    “Okay, then. Would you excuse us for a minute? I want to talk to my client privately.”
    “Sure,” Alverez said. His chair made a loud scraping noise as he pushed back. The door closed behind him with the same disconcerting click I’d heard yesterday. Max cleared his throat and flipped to a fresh page on his yellow-lined pad.
    “Okay, Josie,” Max said, his pen at the ready. “Explain why your fingerprints are on the knife.”
    I looked down at my lap, unable to think in sentences. Now that I had permission to speak, all that came to mind were words of outraged protest. I wanted to shout and rail and pound the table.
    “ Now , Josie. We don’t have a lot of time.”
    His admonition helped me focus. “Do I need to whisper?” I asked, remembering Max’s instruction that I was to whisper when I wanted to talk to him privately.
    “No,” he said. “When we’re alone like this, you’re free to talk naturally.”
    “Okay.” I paused to think. “It was Thursday of last week,” I said, “the second time I was there. We’d settled on our next appointment and I was saying good-bye when Mr. Grant asked me to have some tea.” I shrugged and flipped a hand. “So I did. We went into the kitchen. I thought it was very sweet of him. I cut the cake.” I shuddered. “That must have been the knife that was used to . . . that must have been the knife.”
    “How was it that you cut the cake?” Max asked, keeping me focused.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well,” Max asked,