No comment.
"If his robe wasn't nearby then I don't think there was a woman up there. He'd never open the door in his shorts for a woman without his robe."
"I won't discuss the crime scene."
"Okay, so anyway you have my thoughts, no robe the shooter was a man; if a robe nearby then could be either man or woman."
"Maybe there wasn't sex up there the day of the murder, but we do know he was having an affair."
"Geez Louise, I've already told you the affair was with Elena Duarte! If you've unidentified prints around Towson's apartment, they're Elena's, period. Take it to the bank. What more do you want me to do, hand you her DNA?"
He saw the smirk on her face and slowly said, "What?"
She opened her purse and took out a small brown paper bag. She held it up high with two fingers, swinging it back and forth like a treat held above a pet. "What'll you give me for it, handsome?"
He reached for the bag. She pulled it away, out of reach.
"What's in there?"
"A tissue with her tears on it and most likely some of my DNA as well. You can put mine among your souvenirs, no extra charge."
That brought him straight up in the booth. "My God, you're a genius. Give it to me."
"What are you going to give me for it, big boy?" She moved it farther away.
He leaned back. "Her DNA might not be on there, even if she cried. And, there's been no chain of custody. It's not usable as evidence-."
"And blah, blah, blah, but you'd like to have it just the same, wouldn't you? But if you don't, I'll just wipe up this spot here on the table." She started to move her cup, enjoying the look on his face.
He lowered the tone of his voice, "No, I want it. Now hand it over. If you withhold-."
"Oh, shove it, Detective!"
He burst out laughing. "Okay, you win. I owe you."
She set the bag down in front of him.
He took the bag and stood to leave. "Actually, I enjoy talking with you. I wish we had more time."
"Like after you convict my brother there'll be more time for us to talk?"
"No, the circumstances of our first meeting would have had to be different."
"We're in a bookstore and I accidentally drop a book. You pick it up. Our eyes meet. Your knees go weak. You stagger back helplessly and knock over a cart of books. With a sheepish look on your face, you realize you've forgotten your own name, which doesn't matter because you're unable to speak anyway."