Swithen visibly relaxed, slumping in his chair. “How long is this interview going to take?”
“Usually an hour or two.”
“Let’s not dance. Let’s be two guys here. It’s all about a bit.”
“Excuse me?”
“A bit, a piece.”
“Elucidate.”
“A piece, a bit, a bitch, this girl—Rain Fishman.”
“Her name is Rain, like the weather?”
“Yes. So tight and right.”
“Tight and right?”
“Rain. She’s mine and everyone knows it.”
“You’re engaged to her?”
“Who does marriage anymore?”
“What does Branden have to do with Rain?”
“He’s a notorious poacher.”
“You mean he makes moves on other guys’ women?”
“He’s poached more than the egg cook at a country-club brunch.”
“Do you think he poached Rain?”
“What do you think I think?” Swithen asked.
“If he’s gone after a lot of women, a lot of men must hate him.”
“Oh, he’s well and widely hated.”
“So someone assaults him. Why did the police come to you?”
“Branden told them I did it.”
“The victim says he saw your face?”
“You’ll demolish him in court.”
“How will I do that?”
“He’s brain-damaged.”
“The brain damage came from the assault?”
“Funny how a lug wrench can muddle your thinking.”
“The weapon was a lug wrench?”
Swithen blinked slowly. “Or maybe a fireplace poker.”
“What do the police say the weapon was?”
“They don’t say. They don’t have it.”
“They’ll have pictures and measurements of the victim’s blunt trauma.”
“The police are very professional here,” Swithen agreed.
“They find the lug wrench, they’ll match it to the wounds.”
“And there’s the blood on it, too,” Swithen said.
“Lug wrenches aren’t porous. The assailant would wash it clean.”
“What if it didn’t belong to the assailant?”
“Are we playing what-if now?” Liddon asked.
