Brent’s eyes narrowed as he looked me over. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You always excelled at finding trouble.”
“Excuse me?”
“Honestly, I’m amazed our paths didn’t cross sooner. You always did have a knack for creating chaos.”
“Are you allowed to talk to witnesses this way?”
“Witness?” he said. “What makes you think you’re a witness?” He turned to Officers Gardener and Rakestraw. “Thank you. I’ll handle it from here.”
Both men nodded and left the room, leaving me alone with Wonder-Ex.
Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
“So, you’re a detective now?” I asked. “How is that even possible? Aren’t you an architect?”
He motioned for me to sit with him at the table. I didn’t, so he took a seat instead. He settled himself in the chair and crossed his arms as he eyed me. I couldn’t believe I was alone in a room with this guy. What had I done to deserve this?
“If you remember, I’d started night classes last December. I got promoted pretty quickly after I got a gig with the Houston PD. They’re desperate for help. Guess I got lucky because three detectives retired right after I was promoted to lieutenant. They liked my resume, even if I didn’t have as much experience as the other guys. Really, it was a bit of a fluke that I was able to make detective so fast. Anyway, that’s my story. And you—” he eyed my cloak and boots, “—look like nothing has changed. You know, I never could figure out what it was you did, exactly.”
“I know.” That was just one of the reasons we’d split up. When we’d been dating, he didn’t have a clue about the truth behind Faythander’s existence, and whenever I’d try to explain it, he’d never listen. At least he admitted to it now.
“Would you like to talk about what happened this morning?” he asked.
“To you? No thanks.”
“So you don’t want to cooperate?”
“That’s not what I said. I’d love to cooperate, just not with you.”
He stared at the ceiling, as if asking God to please strike me down before he had to deal with me a moment longer. When he finally made eye contact with me again, I didn’t like the hard edge in his eyes.
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “If you don’t answer my questions, that’s called impeding the investigation. Worse, if you know something and don’t tell me, I could detain you, book you, and—depending on how much you know and how involved you are with the apparent murder—you could serve time. It’s your choice. Either you can sit down and we can have a civil conversation, or you can leave and I’ll have Officer Rakestraw arrest your ass for being an accessory to murder.”
“Murder?” I sputtered.
He nodded. “If I were you, I would take a seat.”
I glanced at the door, then back at the metal chair. Maybe I should let Officer Rakestraw arrest me. How could sitting in a jail cell be worse than this?
Either way, I knew I wouldn’t get the opportunity to search for the killer, so I sat.
Brent removed a touchscreen tablet from his briefcase, then pulled out a slim digital recorder, pushed play, and gave me the rundown on privacy laws and such. He asked me the same things as Officer Rakestraw, and I wasn’t sure why I had to answer the same things twice—to see if I changed my story, maybe?
“What did the body look like when you found it?” he asked.
I gave him the description and didn’t leave anything out. He raised his eyebrows when I mentioned the flowers in the eye sockets.
“I noticed the flowers, too,” he said. “Very strange. Do they have any significance to you?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
He tapped a stylus on the table. “Whoever placed the body in your booth arranged it in a ritualistic manner and may have done so to send you a message.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Can you think of any reasons?”
I ruminated over the last couple of weeks but came up blank. “No. I haven’t really interacted with many people here. I’ve had a few clients, but not many.”
“Can you remember the names of your clients?”
“Sure. Mr. Kaufman; Madame Glitter, the palm reader—she visited once; Mr. Duncan’s wife, Ruth—she was a regular client of mine; Eros the Irresistible—”
“Eros the Irresistible?”
“It’s a stage name. His real name is Jordan Young. He’s an idiot. He mainly comes by to flirt and remind me of how unattainably attractive he is, but I am somehow miraculously immune to his good looks. He’s come by every day since the festival started. Sometimes twice a day.”
“Really? Sounds like he’s got a crush on you.”
“Ha, you’re funny.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I don’t. I’m not sure why he comes by my booth so much, but there is definitely something off about the guy.”
He wrote something on the tablet, then turned to me. “May I give you some advice? Off record?”
“Sure, I guess.”
He turned off the recorder, then threaded his fingers together. “I’ve seen some pretty gruesome, sick stuff since I started working these cases. It’s nothing like architecture. When I worked as an architect, my job was in seeing the beautiful—making things that people would enjoy, finding angles and shapes that worked together. Harmony. But now, every day I see the evil side of human nature, and it’s appalling. I’d have nightmares every night if I thought of it too much.
“Whoever has done this to Mr. Duncan is a sick individual—and it’s my opinion that they’re most likely one of your clients. Olive,” he said quietly, “it’s also very possible that this person is targeting you. Most of your clients have been mentally compromised in one way or another.”
“What
