morning, roy. how d'you feel? roy tries to rise again, swoons.
whoa. take it slow.
i'm detective bishop, this is detective holt. doctor'll be in in a sec. roy processes this, feels his bandage again. bishop fishes in his jacket, pulls out an evidence bag containing a bullet fragment.
you were given a pretty close haircut the other night, roy. this little fella took out about half an inch of your skull.
you got lucky, roy. wish we could say the same for chuck. roy remembers slowly, wisely keeps his mouth shut.
you have the right to remain silent. anything you say can and may be used blah blah blah blah.
roy: where's frank?
frank mercer. your partner. we've spent the last couple days in your home and his. there's not a lot we don't know.
you guys led interesting lives. in fact, there're some bunko cops eager to talk to you when we're done. where is he, roy? roy shakes his head: he doesn't know.
okay. how about this: where's angela? roy stonewalls.
she's not at your place, she's not in san pedro at, uh --
her mother's near hysterical. roy reacts.
they brought you in two nights ago. roy thinks, then:
why?
he did shoot you.
you're sure about that? roy nods. bishop and holt exchange a glance.
that would make our job a lot easier. alas, the print we took off your .38 was a little small. where is she, roy? your little girl killed a man, roy. that's right. chuckie didn't make it. holt goes to the window, yanks up the blinds. roy winces in the glare.
your daughter's wanted for murder. you're under arrest for accessory. it's not good, roy. but it could still get worse. where is she? roy's mind races. figuring some way to make this right again. then:
you know where she is? roy nods. bishop considers it.
what's his number?
that's not how it works, roy.
technically, he's not. that refers to testimony you might give based on confidential information. there's no privilege says i gotta leave you two alone together.
five minutes.