When he opens the door, I get to my feet. “Where is Ian?”
“In the holding cell.”
A woman in civilian clothes enters. It’s the woman I saw with Mint when he reported our hijacking.
She indicates with her arm toward a door on the opposite side of the reception area. “Ms. Joubert, this way please.”
I follow her to a bathroom. The tiles are chipped, and the mirror is cracked. At least it looks clean.
She closes the door and says in a business-like tone, “Please remove your clothes. Underwear too.”
There’s no point in arguing. I expected this. I expect much worse. What’s killing me is not knowing what’s happening to Ian.
I undress, leaving my clothes on the vanity while she fits a pair of latex gloves.
After going through every item of clothing, she puts the pile back on the vanity. “You can get dressed now.”
I pull on my stained clothes with steady hands. I’ve rested long enough for my heartbeat to return to normal. They let me wash my face and hands when we arrived at the station, but I still have blood in my hair. My skin itches under my T-shirt where Wolfe’s blood has dried. I committed crimes. I’m not scared of facing the consequences. What I can’t face is that Ian has been caught because of me. If it wasn’t for me, he would’ve made it to the helicopter and gotten away.
When I’ve finished dressing, the woman escorts me back to the office where Hackman waits.
“Nothing,” she says to Hackman. “She’s clean.”
He nods.
She leaves with a mumbled, “It’s a pleasure, asshole.”
Hackman tilts his head toward the door. “You’re free to go.”
Wait. What? I must’ve heard wrong. “Excuse me?”
“You can go. We’re done here.”
I stare at him. “I don’t understand.”
The corner of his mouth tilts. “Mr. Hart claimed responsibility for the theft and murder.”
There’s a noise in my head like when you press a sea shell over your ear. “He did what?”
“We have a statement. We don’t need you any longer.”
I’m battling to process what he’s saying. “You’re letting me go?”
“That’s what I said.”
It doesn’t make sense. “What about my statement?” I haven’t admitted to anything yet, but I’m not letting Ian carry the blame alone. “What about my culpability?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and gives me a pointed look. “You’re not culpable, are you? Consider it retribution for the position Detective Wolfe and I put you in.” His smile turns wry. “Anyway, Cassandra Joubert is dead. A dead person can’t be held culpable, Ms. Dreyer.”
He’s referring to the false ID they found in my backpack. Picking up my bag, he hands it to me.
I take it automatically. “What about the diamonds?”
“Frankly, I don’t give a damn about Mr. Visser’s diamonds. From what Mr. Hart told me, I have much bigger problems on my hands.”
I hug the bag to my chest. “He told you about Detective Wolfe?”
“Yes.” He blows out a sigh. “After Mr. Hart told me, I checked with the SIU what evidence Detective Wolfe submitted after the murder of Nick Kruger. It turns out Detective Wolfe never handed in the security camera feed or photos from the bank robbery. Apparently, those images disappeared into thin air. They were displaced.” He makes inverted commas with his fingers when he says displaced.
“However, since I was appointed to the case, I kept a set of copies Detective Wolfe didn’t know about. I verified what Mr. Hart told me. It turns out you’re right about the cufflinks with the SIU logo. They don’t prove anything per se—I can’t prove Detective Wolfe wore them on that day—but they are indeed incriminating.” He sighs again. “I knew he was up to something, but I assure you, I had no idea what his plans were. I carried no knowledge of his visit to Zimbabwe or his reason for going there.”
“I want to see Ian.”
“Go, Ms. Dreyer or whoever you decide to become. My advice is to find yourself another country of residence. If I were you, I wouldn’t let too many people know you’re alive.”
“Mint saw me. So did Olga.”
“I’ll handle Mr. Visser and his assistant.” He pulls back his shoulders. “Well, then.” He looks as if he may say more, but he turns on his heel and leaves the office without another word.
I come to my senses when he’s in the reception area. Running after him, I say, “I want to see Ian. He can’t do this. I need to talk to him.”
Pausing, he shoots me an irritated look from over his shoulder. “We made a deal.”
A deal? Ian’s freedom for mine. It hits me between the eyes. “No.” I will not be the reason Ian goes to jail. Ian is like me. He needs open space. A jail cell will kill him.
“You don’t get a choice.” He walks back to me. “Take the offer and try to live your life right. You wouldn’t have been on this path if Ian Hart hadn’t kidnapped you on the night of the Sun City heist.” He takes a key from his pocket and dangles it in my face. “I’ll give you a ride to a hotel where you can clean up.”
“What do you get out of the deal? Silence about the fact that you were present when Detective Wolfe blackmailed and threatened me and put a bracelet with a tracker on my wrist?”
He grabs my arm and steers me to the door. “If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut and be grateful to walk free. I agree with Mr. Hart that you were dragged innocently into this. Don’t make me change my mind.” Lowering his voice, he continues. “You’re an unfortunate holiday maker who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, Ms. Dreyer. We’re not laying charges against you.” He lets go of my arm and says with emphasis, “You’re done here. Let’s go.”
Too dumbfounded to protest, I follow him like a sheep from the station and get into the white Toyota when he opens the door. Frozen in shock and petrified about the implications the deal holds for Ian, I sit like a puppet until he drops me off at a hotel.
“Do you need money?” he asks.
I shake my head.
We don’t say goodbye. I get out of the car, hide my hair under my cap, pull a sweater over my dirty T-shirt to hide the blood, and hurry inside. While the receptionist signs me in, I try to process what’s happened. Taking the key without registering the room number, I follow a bellboy to the first floor. He hangs around, explaining how the facilities work. He’s halfway through his demonstration of navigating the television remote when I shove a tip in his hand and ask him to leave.
Finally alone, I lock the door. Leaning on it, I start to tremble. It takes several breaths to calm myself. I’m too hot, suffocating under layers of clothes. Ripping off the cap, I dump it in the trash. I tear out of the clothes, ripping the lace of my bra in the process. I rush to the shower and turn on the water. When it runs warm, I step under the spray and scrub my body. I rub my skin raw and wash my hair twice until the water runs clear instead of pink.
After a last rinse-down, I towel myself dry and pull on the change of clothes in my backpack. Brushing out my hair, I contemplate my options. How do I help Ian? What can I do?