“Did you really ask Jodi Bollendorf if her dad died ‘under mysterious circumstances?’”
I sigh into the phone. “It’s my job, Christine.”
“To do what? Ruin my life?”
“No. Find out the truth.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Yes. I think you are.”
“You think I am?”
Okay. Bad choice of words.
“Can you swing by the police station and talk to us?” I say. “Or, if you like, we can come back to my apartment and …”
She cuts me off. “The police station.”
“Great. Say in half an hour?”
“No. My lawyer can’t be there till three.”
“Your lawyer?”
“Harvey Nussbaum.”
“You hired a lawyer?”
“It is her right to consult with an attorney,” says Ceepak, who’s, of course, listening to my side of the conversation. “And to have that attorney present during questioning.”
Great. My partner’s giving me the Miranda warning.
“Okay,” I say. “Three o’clock. Bring Harvey.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought we were …”
“What?”