Free Moment of Truth by Lisa Scottoline Page A

photos of it. Brinkley glanced automatically at the floor. It had been swept up. “Goddamn it!” he finally exploded.
    “What’sa matter?” Kovich asked, appearing at his side.
    “They fucking collected the broken glass! I wanted to see where it fell!”
    “You got the pictures, and they’ll test everything. You know that. We’ll get the reports.”
    “They couldn’ta waited?” Brinkley flipped through the Polaroids, seething. The focus was fuzzy. He couldn’t tell squat from the photos. “We’re gonna miss shit!”
    “Nothing to miss, Mick.” Kovich spread his bulky arms, gesturing at the dining room as expansively as if he owned it. “We got the doer. What’s to miss?”
    “When does Newlin throw up?”
    “Who cares?”
    “Me! Bad guys don’t throw up after.”
    “Calm down, bro. This ain’t your typical bad guy, I’ll give you that. Okay, I’ll give you that. You’re right, but listen and stop bitching. This is how I think it went down.” Kovich punched up his aviators at the bridge. “What we got is a guy, a regular guy, a regular
rich
guy who lost it. A lawyer who saw a move and took it without thinking. He’s not a punk, so he tosses ’em after. Or like he said, when he sees he ain’t gonna get away with it. He’s not upset he did it, he’s upset he’s goin’ down for it. Like you said, he’s a
lawyer
.”
    Brinkley considered it. “So you don’t think he’s the type either.”
    “Not the normal type doer, I know.” Kovich stood closer. “But whether he’s the type or not, you know that don’t mean shit, Mick. Newlin did it, all right. Just ’cause he’s sorry later, or it freaks him out, or turns his stomach, or it’s the one time in his life he breaks the law, he don’t even jaywalk before he knifes the wife, don’t mean he’s innocent. I like him, Mick. I really do. He’s our boy and everything here jives with it.”
    Brinkley scanned the crime scene wordlessly. He had to admit Kovich could be right. It was all consistent. The dinner table, set for two. The Scotch glasses. The appetizer platter, untouched.
Cold filet mignon, her favorite
, Newlin had said. The outside of the meat was seared black and the inside was a spongy, tender pink. It was served cold and sliced, and next to it sat a dollop of speckled mustard and knotted rolls with shiny tops.
    Kovich followed his partner’s eyes. “Jeez, I haven’t had a steak like that in a year, not since Billy retired. Remember we took him downtown, to The Palm? Jeez, I love The Palm.”
    “No.” Brinkley stared at the platter. Next to the mustard was a large pool of gloppy, smooth goo. A tan color. It didn’t look like a dressing for the steak. “Look at that, Kovich. That’s hummus.”
    “What?”
    “Hummus.” Brinkley knew it because of Sheree. When she turned Muslim, she started eating all sorts of shit. Out went the greens and pork ribs, in came the bean soup and whole wheat bread. “It’s a dip, made with chickpeas and tahini.”
    “
Tahini?
Isn’t that an island, like Hawaii?”
    “No, it’s a paste. From sesame seeds.”
    “Looks like baby shit.”
    “Tastes like baby shit.”
    “You eat that?”
    “Only to save my marriage.” They laughed, then Brinkley stopped. “It ain’t the kind of appetizer most people put out.”
    “Like cheese balls.”
    “Right.” Brinkley didn’t know what a cheese ball was, but didn’t ask. Kovich ate trash. Ring-Dings and hot dogs. “Like cheese balls.”
    “Okay, so?”
    “So why they serving hummus with meat? Wife’s got the appetizer out and she’s waiting for Newlin to come home to dinner.” Brinkley shoved the Polaroids into his pocket and waved at the platter, thinking aloud. “Newlin says the wife likes filet. We know she likes Scotch. They Scotch and meat people, dig?”
    “I guess, Bill.”
    Brinkley let it go. He felt like he was onto something, whether it was something that mattered he didn’t know. “So why they got hummus, too? Meat