Once Bloomingdale opens, I get a pair of jeans, some boots, and a brand-new field jacket. Paige insists this new jacket be a step up in quality from what I normally get, and since she’s paying with her credit card, I’m not allowed to decline. Since last night’s fire proved that tweed is naturally fire-resistant, we opt for one made of wool. Admittedly, it fits like a glove and provides me with the perfect warmth. Paige buys herself a knit blazer with an inside pocket so she can stop carrying the Glock in her waistband.
We then walk into a salon for a quick wash and cut—something to trim off the split ends and fire-singed hair. The stylist is horrified, so we provide a generous tip for her troubles. When she has finished, I finally feel like my old self again. It’s time to meet David.
Chapter 32
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THE CENTRAL POLICE STATION is a giant monolith of redbrick in the middle of Downtown Los Angeles. A giant mural depicting the LAPD’s commitment to the community marks the entrance to the station. We walk inside the lion’s den and approach a young desk sergeant who mans the lobby.
“I’m here to see Detective David Resnick,” I tell him.
“Is he expecting you?”
I glance up at the clock. It’s eleven thirty in the morning. “No, but I’m sure he’s looking for me. Just let him know Darcy Caine is here.”
Per the desk sergeant’s recommendation, Paige and I take a seat on the bench. There are about a dozen other people here, some filling out reports, some waiting their turn to be called inside. Some of them seem to just be killing time, although that’s probably not really the case.
A minute after the desk sergeant places a call, David charges into the lobby. Without saying a word, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me in to follow. Then he immediately lets go. “What happened to your shoulder?”
“What?” I ask.
“You were shot,” he says, noticing it’s no longer in a sling.
I exchange a look with Paige. “It got better?”
He ignores my question, grabbing my hand again and leading me into the station. I take Paige’s hand, and we follow him like a chain of monkeys.
“You don’t look surprised to see me,” I say.
“You’re lucky I don’t arrest you,” he mutters.
“On what charge?”
He leads us through the station bullpen. Detectives sit in cubicles, typing out police reports on old PCs, one finger at a time. There are a handful of civilians in here, probably talking about various cases of theft, assault, and worse.
“We could start with lying to me about getting shot.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Gunshots don’t just get better,” he growls. “Then I get here at eight in the morning to see—on every single goddamn news station—that Fiona Flanagan’s house burned to the ground last night.” David marches us to the back of the station. “You’re not answering my calls or my texts. You’re on thin ice, Darcy.”
He drags us to an open door and gestures inside. “Get in.”
“No.” I glare at him with my yellow eyes. “With all due respect, Detective,” I whisper, “I’d feel safer out here with witnesses.”
The surprised look on his face melts into frustration. His hand drops, and he takes a step back as he glances around the bullpen. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “Please?”
I exchange a look with Paige, silently asking her, What’s the worst that could happen? She nods, so I step inside the room.
Paige moves to follow, but David stops her with his arm. “I’d like to speak to Darcy alone.” Again, through gritted teeth, he adds, “Please?”
Now is my turn to nod to Paige. I don’t mind, and besides, I could use someone standing guard. She acquiesces, and David follows me inside and closes the door.
It’s an empty room with three chairs and a cheap table—an interrogation room. Unlike the ones on television, there’s no one-way mirror for the peanut gallery, just a dome camera on the ceiling tucked away in the corner.
I hurry to stand beneath the camera, outside the view of the lens.
David gestures to an empty chair. “Wanna have a seat?”
My feet stay planted. “Someone tried to kill us last night.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure,” I lie, not yet ready to tell him all the unbelievable details. “We were ambushed and escaped before we could see who it was.”
“Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me that you were attacked by some unseen assailant? And that this same person also caused the catastrophic fire at Fiona Flanagan’s mansion, burning it to the ground along with two acres of nearby property?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s your statement? You want me to report—”
“You are the only other person who knows where we were,” I say.
His eyes narrow as he realizes what I’m suggesting. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’ve given me nothing. But I’ve got seven dead bodies at three murder scenes—all of which I can place you at. Then this shit last night. Now you show up after dodging my calls to say you don’t trust me?”
I refuse to be put on the defensive. “It took twenty-four hours for someone to find where I was hiding.”
“Do I need to remind you that I’m the one who’s kept you out of jail for the past week?”
“Why is that?” I ask, taking two steps toward him, forcing him onto his heels. “Why have you been going through all this trouble to keep us as far away from a police station as possible?”
David’s not having it. “Because I didn’t want you in jail.” He takes two steps forward, and I back up until I bump up against the wall. His body moves in until I’m pressed against the wall. I tense up at the sensation of being cornered. Maybe I could push him off or shift out of the way. But I don’t.
