Free Legal Tender by Lisa Scottoline

in that assault case in the Northeast. The defendants had been uniformed cops and Meehan had been a witness to the beating, one of three cops who stood by. He wasn’t charged and had evidently been promoted. I met his eye as he listened on the telephone, and he regarded me only coldly. I could expect nothing else. I’d embarrassed him on cross. Grady had been right. I’d have no friends here.
    “Ms. Rosato.” Detective Azzic appeared and motioned for us to follow him.
    “We’re coming,” Grady said. I squared my shoulders and walked with him into the squad room, past the small adjoining room whose open door was labeled Fugitive Squad. Inside, two detectives sat before state-of-the-art computer screens. It was the only place in the Homicide Division that looked as if it were in this decade.
    “We’re in Interview Room C,” Detective Azzic said, opening its door.
    Interview Room C was the way I’d remembered it from the old days, as small as the waiting room and just as filthy. A two-way mirror hung on the wall opposite a table with an office chair tucked under it. Another chair, a heavy steel one, was bolted to the floor on the other side of the table.
    “Have a seat,” the detective said, easing his large frame into the chair in front of the desk. He waved for me to take the steel chair, and I did. Grady stood by me, and we were joined by a tall, thin-lipped detective whose brown jacket hung loosely on his bony shoulders. He introduced himself as Detective Mayron and leaned against the wall, his crepe sole resting flat behind him. The cops usually questioned in twos on murder cases; one to watch while the other did the talking. I used to tell clients it was so they could play bad cop, bad cop.
    “Mind if I smoke?” Detective Azzic asked, shaking out a Merit from a short white pack.
    “Yes,” Grady said, and Azzic paused before lighting up.
    “You kidding?”
    “No. I’d prefer you didn’t.”
    Azzic half smiled and dropped the pack into his breast pocket, keeping the one cigarette out, unlit. “So, Ms. Rosato, we asked you here because you may have information that would help us understand what happened to Mr. Biscardi.”
    “She won’t be making any statements, Detective,” Grady said.
    Azzic looked up at him. “It would help if she could explain what happened last night between her and Mr. Biscardi.”
    “I appreciate that, but as I said, she’s not going to do it that way. She’s not making any statements. Kindly ask her a question.”
    Azzic leaned close enough for me to smell the nicotine clinging to his jacket. “Ms. Rosato, many witnesses help themselves more by just telling the story without the lawyers getting in the middle.”
    I almost laughed. “I am a lawyer, Detective, and I’m already in the middle.”
    Grady’s fingers dug into my suit so hard I felt it through my shoulder pad. “She’s represented, Detective. Please ask your first question.”
    “All right. We’ll do it your way, to start with.” Azzic crossed his legs and the steely edge of a gun in an ankle holster popped into view. He flopped his pant leg over it, but it didn’t dispel the intimidation factor and wasn’t meant to. “Ms. Rosato, you’re certainly familiar with the criminal law and police procedures, but it’s my duty to tell you your rights. You’ll have to suffer in silence.”
    “Go right ahead.”
    He went through my Miranda rights. I’d found them routine when they were read to my clients, but they took on an uncanny significance now that I was the one sitting in the chair bolted to the floor. I strained to relax and played a game with myself, trying to place Azzic’s accent. It was blunt, working class, with that pronounced
o
indigenous to north Philadelphia. I guessed Juniata Park or maybe Olney.
    “Let’s pick up where we left off,” Azzic said. “What was your fight with Mr. Biscardi about?”
    “It wasn’t a ‘fight,’ ” Grady interjected. “It was a discussion.”
    Azzic