“Shut it,” the SWAT member barks in my ear.
I let them lead me into the living room and sit down slowly, smiling at the SWAT team, aware of how completely calm I feel. It is not that I was expecting this precise scenario, but something like this was bound to happen sooner or later.
There is no use crying over spilled blood.
A while later, I hear McCauley shouting at somebody on his cell phone in the hallway.
“We need a search warrant right fucking now! No—not yet. Yes, sir. I understand. Take all the time you need. I’ve got all night.”
“You will be speaking with my lawyers,” I tell him when he swaggers into the living room. “I do not appreciate my staff being harassed.”
He nods angrily at the heavily armed tactical team and they leave, closing the door behind them. McCauley pulls up a chair and spins it around, sitting on it backwards.
“I thought they only did that in your Hollywood movies,” I remark. “The tough cop ones.”
“Shut it, Ivanovich.” He glances at the door apprehensively, making me wonder if this is a setup. But it’s a lot of effort to go through for something that will not bear fruit. “Where’s the girl—Camille? Where’s your fucking housekeeper?”
“You will not get your search warrant,” I say. “We both know that.”
“I said shut it!”
“Should I shut it, or answer your questions, Detective?”
“You’re a real smartass, aren’t you?” He sighs through gritted teeth. “We got a call that there was a hostage here and she—fucking she—needed help right away. Don’t bullshit me.”
My mind leaps to Camille.
Did she make the call? But why would she? It does not make any sense and, I realize, I trust her too much to believe that. So perhaps it was Fyodor, but this is a stupid move, even for him. Whatever else is true about that snake, surely he would not involve the police.
“You better start talking,” McCauley says, but he sounds deflated, a man with few options.
“I will wait for your warrant,” I say. “Or you can apologize now. Whichever works best for you.”
“Now listen here—”
“Sir.” A SWAT member pokes his head around the door. “We’ve got Judge Underwood on the line.”
“Please, Detective, don’t let me keep you.”
He glares like his life depends on it, and then leaps up with a growl and marches to the door. I admire the artwork on the walls: the subtle coloring of the galloping horse, the sunlight in the background blending into the rider’s blonde hair.
A few minutes later Ashley, escorted by two guards, walks into the room.
“Fyodor is outside,” she says. “They can’t keep him out, legally, but I didn’t know if you’d want him here.”
I consider it. Then I shake my head.
“Send him away.”
If this was orchestrated by my second—a prospect I cannot rule out—this might be part of the ploy. I return to studying the artwork, using it to keep myself composed.
Finally, McCauley marches back in, but not with the sour expression I expected. Instead he grabs me by the front of the shirt and tugs forcefully.
“Would you like me to stand?” I ask with a smile.
“We’re taking you to the station.”
“On what charges?” I say, rising to my feet.
“For questioning!” he exclaims. “Get him out of here. I’m tired of looking at his fucking face.”
“I’m disappointed, Detective.” I shake my head mournfully. “That is no way to treat your dinner host.”
22
Camille
When somebody knocks heavily on the door, I find myself rushing to answer it, certain it’s Erik.
Last night, I woke up entangled in my bed covers, convinced that we were holding each other. When I realized it was just a dream, the disappointment hit me like a punch to the gut. I never expected to go all googly-eyed over a man—the word ‘smitten’ has always disgusted me—but this is something else entirely. It’s more like waking up with a dry mouth to discover there’s nothing to drink.
But when I open the door, Ashley is standing there with a casserole dish in hand.
“Hey,” she says, beaming. Her smile drops when she studies my face. “I’m sorry. I should have called ahead first!”
“No, no,” I hurry to say. “Please, come in.”
She hands me the casserole dish as we walk into the living room.
“That is for you and your mother. Is she around? I was hoping to say hello.”
“She’s resting at the moment,” I say, wondering if this is strange. Or maybe this is normal with girlfriends and my lack of normal experience is shining through. “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’ll take a soda if you’ve got one.”
She has an eerie expression on her face when I return to the living room, almost as though she can’t keep up this small-talk façade anymore.
“What is it?” I ask, belly dropping. “It’s Erik, isn’t it? Oh, Jesus, is he …”
“He’s safe!” she says, eyes narrowed. Like she’s a lab tech and I’m under the microscope. She’s analyzing me, I realize. But for what? “He is in police custody, though. They took him to the station last night.”
I’m glad there’s a chair behind me. Otherwise I would plummet like an asteroid. The impact is the same, a crater opening in my chest.
“I’m okay,” I say when Ashley offers me her hand. “I just need a sec.”
I shake it off, nurse-style, reminding myself worse things are bound to happen on the ward.
“On what charges?” I ask.
“For questioning,” she mutters bitterly. “They found a bloody shirt, they claim. These officers are animals. They are trying to charge him for murders he did not commit.” She narrows her eyes like she’s the detective now. She might as well have ‘good cop’ scrawled across her forehead. “Doesn’t that sound crazy?”
I say nothing, feeling like a mouse with a cat’s paw clawing at me. I don’t like feeling like a mouse. In fact, it pisses me off big time.
“Erik thinks somebody set him up,” she goes on. Okay, here it is. She’s dealt her hand. The real truth is coming. “But only a fool
