‘Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mr. Novelle, around two-thirty in the afternoon?'
'Yesterday, I was in London. I’ve been in the UK for the past five days. Got back around three this morning. I was across the Atlantic when you called me, Detective, and when my father was killed.’
I press my spine against the back of the plastic chair, surveying the detectives right back. ‘As for using my name to get information, well, I assumed you'd be able to provide additional details on what exactly happened to my father and Joseph Banderville yesterday.'
'London?' she asks. 'Business or pleasure?'
'Pleasure. Early birthday present for my stepsister, Marguerite.'
Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and it's telling that she hasn't spoken to Andrew directly. Clearly, I’m her prime suspect.
'And is there anyone who can corroborate this?' Spencer asks.
'Of course. Marguerite herself. Our friends, Maverick Shaw and Eric Blake, were with us, and the flight manifest.' I give the detectives a tight smile. ‘If you can get a warrant.’
Ander’s eyes narrow even further. ‘A warrant won’t be a problem, Mr. Novelle.’
'Mr. Novelle,' the other detective pipes up, 'what do you know about the death of Joe Banderville?'
I shrug. 'What everyone else knows, I guess. What I saw on the news. Died of an overdose in some club in New York somewhere. I didn't know the man well. Though I did hear that his brother, Marcus, isn’t all that upset about being the head of the family now.'
'But Joe was engaged to be married to your stepsister. Isn't that right?'
I shrug again. 'Like I said, I met him a few times. Marguerite was meant to be marrying into their family. Business marriages between wealthy families aren’t odd for this town.'
'No, of course not,' the detective acquiesces. 'But there are witnesses who say that there was some bad blood between you.'
I lean forward, drawing myself up in my chair. ‘Marguerite and I are close. I didn't think he was good enough for her. You know how it is. Big brother syndrome and all that.'
The detective writes something down on his notepad.
'And this stepsister. Marguerite Novelle, twenty-three years old.’
He pauses as he opens a file, and I see Daisy’s photo in it as a younger girl from the first time they arrested her for the death of Larson.
'Arrested,' he says, 'when she was thirteen?'
'I barely remember that,' I say. 'I was just a kid myself.’
‘For murder, isn't that right?'
My lawyer interjects. 'That was over a decade ago. As my client said, he was a child around the time of Miss Novelle’s arrest. His memories will be hazy at best, incorrect at worst.'
'I'm just trying to ascertain whether or not Miss Novelle is, well, to put it bluntly, a danger to the public in any way. She was in some kind of institution. She only came back a few months ago. Isn't that right?'
I sit back in my chair. 'That's right. My father had her brought home.'
'It's very odd,' he says, turning pages in the file, 'that she was sent away instead of incarcerated at the juvenile detention center outside of Richmond.'
I keep my expression open even though I’d like to reach across the table and hit this guy right in the jaw.
'Like I said, Detective Spencer, I was a kid, and my father was known to make backroom deals,' I say.
'And what about you, Mr. Novelle? Are you known to make deals?'
I force out a chuckle.
'I'm a science major,' I answer. 'Business isn't really my thing.'
