“Because he wants us to see the proof that he tricked you. He wants us to believe he’s better than us.”
“Yes,” I agree, “but it’s more than that.” I quote the poem he’d left with Summer:
“Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master.
He wants us to see him as a master while showing us that we are not.”
I say “we,” but in my mind, I hear me. This was about me. He wanted me to see him as a master. This has become about me.
Chapter 74
There is nothing more suffocating than becoming the interrogated when you are normally the interrogator. Nothing like sitting in a cold box of a room with a two-way mirror and cameras, while who-knows-who watches you. I’m alone in that room, pacing to keep from picturing that poor boy’s face, when my union-appointed attorney, a pretty woman with long dark hair, walks into the room.
“Nicole Richmond,” she announces, shutting the door behind her. “I’m your attorney, here to shut down their bullshit.” Even in her two a.m. outfit of jeans and a T-shirt, she owns a take-no-prisoners attitude, and I like it. “They shouldn’t even be interviewing you tonight and they know it. They also know I think it’s bullshit.”
Oh yes, I think. I definitely like her.
“I’ve heard the general story,” she says, and then getting right to business, adds, “Now I want to hear it from you.”
I tell her everything, and when I’m done, she contradicts her tough side by hugging me. That’s what people do in these situations. They hug you. After my father died, I wanted to carry a sign that said “no hugging.” It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, I do, but every hug starts to feel like pity, and it can be easy to wallow in pity, to weaken yourself. Hugs make you cry. I’d rather take action. I’d rather do something to make a difference.
Hug behind us, my new attorney lets everyone waiting to attack know that we are ready.
The first person to enter the room to question me is Evan. He’s dressed in jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt that somehow humanizes him. There’s stubble on his jaw, and he runs a frazzled hand through his hair when I’m not sure I’ve ever known him to show disorder in any way. Nothing about his actions are those of a man here to intimidate. “I walked the crime scene,” he says, claiming the seat across from me.
Just hearing it called a crime scene rips out a piece of my heart.
“I also watched the security feed Wade brought us,” he continues. “Just to get this out there. No one believes you did anything wrong.”
“We’re going to hold you to that,” Nicole chimes in.
He flicks her an irritated look. “I’m sure you will. Save the claws for someone else.” His attention returns to me. “I’m going to let the team here take your statements. I’m here for one reason. This asshole, The Poet, he did this, not you.”
There it is, that cringe-worthy statement that stalks me the way The Poet himself stalks me.
“I’ve been calling judges,” he continues, “trying to get a warrant, but everyone is afraid of this right now.”
I lean forward. “There’s a serial killer in our city. What more is there to be afraid of, Evan?”
“A lawsuit is coming at us after tonight,” he says. “They don’t want another from Newman.”
“They? You mean the mayor, who’s protecting his donor and his own ass?”
“Newman filed a restraining order against you and then you killed a young boy. It looks bad.”
“You just said she didn’t kill the boy,” Nicole points out. “And why wouldn’t a serial killer want a restraining order against the detective trying to stop him from killing?”
“She’s right,” I say, loving this woman. “I was breathing down his throat, so he came at me to take the heat off him. And it worked. I’m on administrative leave, sitting here, instead of working on this case. I guess I should be glad, though. He killed the last cop hunting him. At least I’m alive.”
“I’m not the enemy here,” Evan says. “I’m just telling you where we are. There’s going to be a press conference tomorrow. We’ll downplay the threat because we have to avoid panic. And we’ll let this cool down and go back at the warrant. That gives you time to gather more evidence.”
“And him more time to kill.”
“Get me something that isn’t circumstantial, and I’ll get past this wall now.”
“That’s what you were supposed to help with. We need electronic surveillance.”
“I can’t get that for you now.”
The door opens and Raymond Winter, the chief and my godfather, joins us with a command. “We need the room.”
The chief’s an imposing man and not just because he’s tall and muscular. His features are sharp, his eyes a piercing blue so penetrating they could cut through any level of bullshit right to your soul. He’s a man who owns a room just by walking into it like he owns this one now.
Evan stands up. “Chief,” he greets. “We’re on her side.”
“You better be,” he says, his voice all gruff authority when he has none over Evan.
The two men shake hands and exchange a few muffled words I can’t make out before the chief holds the door open for Evan, who quickly departs.
“Nicole,” he says, and her name’s clearly a warning.
“Chief, I can’t—”
“This isn’t official. She’s my damn goddaughter. We need the room.”
“Oh.” She looks at me in shock. “You didn’t tell me he was your godfather.”
“She doesn’t throw me around like a weapon,” the chief explains for me, pride in his voice.
Pride I don’t deserve this night. Nicole eyes me and I nod. She gets up and walks to the door. “The cameras are off?”
“They’re off,” the chief assures her.
She leaves and when the door shuts, I stand up. The next thing I know the chief is in front of me, pulling me into a bear hug. “My baby girl.”
My teeth clench. This is a test. His way of figuring out how ruined I am, how likely to be dead in the water, incapable of wearing my badge in the future. I will not fail. I’m not dead in the water. I want justice for that little boy. I want The Poet, and tears, at least not the public kind, will not make that happen.