true. But then I did. Which meant it was.
I tilted forward, one wrist cuffed ridiculously behind me. His hand was warm on my shoulder. 'Breathe,' he was saying. 'Just one breath. Then another. That's all you have to do right now.'
'I'll find them. I'll fucking find them. You gotta get me out of here.'
'We will. We'll figure this out.'
But I already knew how that evidence would come back: The electronic voice had broadcast the plan. You're a pretty troubled guy. Maybe you'd hurt her, too.
'It was all because of a CD I took from them,' I said. 'A fucking CD cost her life. Why did I think I could . . . ?'
'We can use that to get to them. Do you know what's on it?'
'No, I have no idea.'
'Do you still have it?'
Tears fell, tapping the floor and Verrone's boots. I blinked hard, blinked again, trying to see through the warped veil, trying to determine if what I was seeing was real.
The little cursive logo by Verrone's laces.
Danner.
I stopped breathing.
Through the doorway, DeWitt was still on the phone, his enormous boots, no doubt size eleven and a half, propped up on the desk. My eyes went to the white pebble wedged in the tread of the heel. Then to that Timex on his right wrist. My left-handed intruder, in front of me all this time.
My shock registered almost like panic, and it was all I could do to keep from shouting out. And then I came through it and landed in a nest of cold rage.
I sucked air until my heart stopped hiccupping and the tingling in my face diminished. I did my best to order my thoughts, to reconstruct how everything must have gone down. These men had kidnapped Ariana and dropped a stun grenade in my lap. When they'd found only a replacement CD in my car, they'd hauled me here--wherever here was--to get me to tell them where the real one was or whom I'd given it to. And once they figured out I wouldn't talk because I was worried that might put Ariana at further risk, they'd disposed of her as they'd planned all along. When they stabbed her in the neck, they had me locked in this room. Which made them the only people who could ever alibi me.
Had they plucked a few hairs from my unconscious head and planted them on Ariana's body? Who had punched the blade through her throat? Who had held her down?
Verrone was leaning forward, his cheek close to mine. His hand stayed on my shoulder, rubbing in tight little circles. Concerned friend, fellow widower. 'Do you still have this CD?' he asked again.
It was all I could do not to turn my head and rip a hole in his face with my teeth.
'You said you'd talk to us,' he prodded gently. 'You've got nothing left to lose now anyway. Let's nail these fuckers.'
His dialogue was right out of central casting. As my eyes darted frantically around, I realized that the interrogation room itself seemed like a stage set. It felt legitimate because it looked like every TV and movie police station I'd ever seen. The big two-way mirror, the white lights, the desk crowded with case files--they were running a movie on me. Which meant, with my life on the line, I had to play my role without letting on that I'd figured out I was inside a script.
Verrone tilted closer. 'Now, do you still have that CD?'
I tamped down my rage, worked up the lie. 'Yes,' I said.
'Where is it?'
I looked up at him. I could smell lunch on his breath. I could feel the pulse beating at my temple. I was having trouble keeping fury from my face, but he couldn't know that it was anything more than grief or shock.
I had to get free. Which meant I had to get both of them to leave.
I struggled to come up with dialogue to fit the scenario. 'There's an alley by campus where I work,' I said. 'Where the guys who killed my wife parked a Honda with a duffel of cash in the trunk. You have that location from the investigation report?'
'Yes.'
Another lie--I'd never given the cops the precise location.
'The northern wall is brick,' I said. 'About midway down the alley, ten or so feet from the ground, there's a loose brick. The CD is hidden behind it.'
He rose swiftly. 'I'll get it.'
'It's a long alley. And you have to use a chair or something, which'll slow you down. You might want me to go with you to show you where.'
He hesitated. 'No way the chief'll let us take you out into the field. Especially in light of the news you just received.'
'Okay, but it could take a long time. You'd better find it fast so we can use it to snare the motherfuckers who killed my wife.'
We were close, my gaze unwavering. He bunched his mouth, that almost handlebar mustache bristling as he assessed my face. His eyes were murky brown, as unyielding as flint. Did he know I knew?
He rose. 'Okay,' he said to the two-way mirror, addressing whoever was listening behind it. 'I'll take DeWitt, too, so we can get this done quicker.' He looked over at me. 'Hang in there. A shrink's on the way. If there's anything you need, we'll see to it when we get back.'
He walked out, closed the door. A moment later I heard another door open and close.
I pressed my ear to the wall. Traffic sounds. Distant, but not six stories away. Overhead, the air conditioner cycled room-temperature air, contributing nothing but white noise to keep me from hearing outside sounds.
I'd read once that a broken elephant can be leashed with a string tied to a stake in the ground; it believes it is trapped and never dares to challenge the perception.
I tugged at my handcuff, testing the bar. The bolts securing it to the wall were substantial, impressive. Crouching on the metal bench, I gripped the bar, squatted, and gracelessly managed to get both feet against the wall on either side of my hands. Leaning back, I shoved until the pressure sustained me above the bench in a strained float. My legs ached, the edge of the bench biting into my hamstrings, and then the bar ripped from the wall with a tired thud, and I flew back, landing hard on the floor. The wind left me in a grunt, my breath screeching, my shoulder blades on fire.
No approaching footsteps. No one barging in from the adjoining room.
I slid my handcuff off the curved end of the security bar and stood. The bolts had gone into the plaster and one wooden stud, but there was no metal or concrete beneath the wall as there should have been. Holding the bar, I approached the giant mirror. So much color on my face. A purple mottling across my right cheek. One eyelid blue and blown wide. The edge of my mouth cracked and red. A bruise on the side of my neck. I leaned closer to the mirror, noting the dark dot at the center of that bruise. A needle mark. How long had they kept me drugged?
I recalled how DeWitt and Verrone had made sure to address their colleagues in the observation room there, behind the two-way mirror: Okay, we got him, thanks. You recording? A nice touch, to leave me believing I was being watched.
I swung the security bar at the mirror. The bar bounced back hard, as I'd expected, and glass rained down around me, winking in the light.
Beneath the mirror was not an observation room but solid wall. The clinging shards broke my reflection into fragments.
A string and a stake in the ground. A security bar and a mirror.
The door to the adjoining room was closed but unlocked. Bracing myself, wielding the bar, I stepped out into darkness and fumbled for a light switch. I clicked on the overheads and dropped the bar in disbelief.
I knew this place.
Aside from the desk, the poster, and the clock--the sliver of room visible from the bench to which I'd been chained--the room had been largely emptied.
The last time I was here, from outside peering in, I'd spied DeWitt's desk. Now it had been moved across the floor to put it in view from the interrogation room. The venetian blinds were closed. To the left of the doorway was nothing but a few discarded computer cords, a capsized paper shredder, and a large copier shoved into the
