A Billion Little Clues (17 page)

So instead, I held on and tried to struggle up to my feet. It took several tries, most of them ending with me falling back onto the couch. Yes, I was still out on the couch in the living room. I must have passed out here.

The television was still on, but it must have even run out of late-night programming. There was just static on the screen, softly shifting snowflakes with a faint buzz of static filling my ears. It wasn't much light, but it was enough to show me the way between end tables, lamps, and ottomans, over to the little writing desk pushed against one wall of our apartments.

I scrabbled across the desk, finding a pen and pad of note paper by touch. I clicked the pen open and began to scribble as fast as I could think. Already, I could feel that all-important thought beginning to squirm free. I had to grab it before that.

Party. Killer. Missing money. A year of no solutions. Frustration growing from Carrie. Reduced budgets. Fraud - at the highest levels. Maybe even blackmail.

And then, murder. And the pinning of the crime on the best fall guy that the killer could find.

I stood, bent over the desk, for several minutes as the pen flew furiously across the paper. I eventually filled up the note's available area, and ripped it off, my pen barely pausing as it jumped to the next sheet.

Finally, thankfully, I had it all down. I could already feel my hand aching from all of my scrawling, and the notes were barely readable by the end of the third page. But that didn't matter. I had captured that elusive thought, had figured it out.

I knew who the real killer was.

And I was going right to the police with this! There would be no more dancing around, no more digging into things on my own. Roman was in jail, and I couldn't even bear to think of what was happening to him right now in the cells amid all those convicts and criminals. I had to save him, to let him out!

The glowing red numerals on the clock on top of the writing desk caught my eye, and I sighed. It was nearly five in the morning. No one would be at the police station - at least, no one willing to listen to my story, much less able to set the billionaire free.

I was going to have to wait, after all.

But now that I was up, I could feel energy buzzing through me, like liquid caffeine in my veins. There was no way I'd be able to fall asleep once again now, wine or no wine. And I didn't even feel drunk at all anymore. I felt ready to go out and tackle the world, to go fight in a boxing match, even ready to go out and exercise. I had to do something with this energy!

My eyes dropped back down to the notes that I'd scribbled out. They were a good start, but that wasn't going to be enough evidence to prove the identity of the real killer. Not on their own.

Fortunately, I knew where to find more evidence. Evidence that was more than just hearsay. Enough to get the police to truly take me seriously.

The keys to my trusty little Chevy were sitting on the writing desk next to my elbow. I glanced down at them. I did have a 24-hour access pass to the building, after all - Keith had often forced me to stay late. Why wait? Why not go get that evidence now?

I was still dressed in my breakup/big Visa bill/other assorted rough news sweatpants, and my shirt wasn't exactly flattering either, but no one would be at the building. It only took a minute or two to make up my mind.

I swiped my keys off of the desk with one hand, gathered up my sheets of notes in the other, and headed for the front door of my apartment.

☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼

It was just after nine in the morning, and I couldn't wait any longer.

I had been awake since just before five in the morning, and I hadn't even had a single cup of coffee. By all sane accounts, I ought to be passing out face-first into the papers at my desk. But that wasn't the case.

Somehow, I could feel myself full of energy, more awake than I remembered feeling in days. This buzz wasn't like caffeine. If anything, I would say that it was a lot like when Roman had first put his arms around me, out on the balcony. There was a thrill of anticipation, of knowing that I was onto something important that would soon have a big impact for both me and for those around me.

And just like that moment with Roman, I desperately wanted it to progress. WIth Roman, that had been when he swept me up and finally brushed his lips against mine for the first time, emptying my thoughts of "Will he do it? Is he actually going to kiss me?" and replacing them with very X-rated thoughts of our naked bodies grinding together. Really the only next progressing step, you have to admit.

And now, I wanted more than anything to go down to the police station. To go marching in, find that cold female detective who had dared to come in and arrest Roman in the middle of my date, and slam my papers down on the desk in front of her. "Look here!" I'd say imperiously, tossing my hair back over one shoulder with a shake of my head. "I have evidence that Roman Wayland is innocent - and I can prove who the real killer is!"

Oh, screw waiting. I was going to do it.

I was nearly out of the building, my purse nearly exploding with all of the papers and evidence that I had crammed inside of it, before that damn common sense finally spoke up. Hold on a moment, it said to me. Look down at yourself. You're a mess. Hair is sticking out in all different directions, you're totally unorganized, and for goodness sake, you're still wearing sweatpants! You are most definitely not ready to go marching into some police station and attempt to prove that one of their detectives is wrong on a murder case.

The voice of common sense had a point. I really ought to go home and change, to clean myself up.

And yet, I couldn't do it.

I just couldn't wait that long. It might only take twenty or thirty minutes (forty if I couldn't decide on my outfit), but I couldn't wait. I didn't know what was wrong with me. For once, something was even more important than making sure that I looked presentable!

So instead, I found myself heading straight to the police station. I had to look up the directions on my phone, as I'm proud to admit that I have never been arrested before. At least, not here, and that's enough for me to tell people. But even though I made a couple of wrong turns, I eventually pulled into the parking lot next to the building.

Up close, the police station was a very forbidding looking sort of place. It was squat and low, built almost entirely out of stone and with bars across the narrow windows. It certainly looked exactly like the kind of place where criminals get locked up. And that just further strengthened my resolve to get Roman out of there.

Inside the front doors, a young and inexperienced-looking man in a patrolman's uniform blinked at me. I probably looked like quite a sight, I had to admit. "Er, can I help you?" he stammered as I stomped up to the front desk.

I opened my mouth - and paused. There were a couple of problems here.

For one thing, I didn't actually know the name of the female detective who had arrested Roman. And even though she was the one to arrest the billionaire, she might not be here at the moment. So that might not be the best avenue.

Also, I was fairly certain that I looked terrifying. I could literally feel my hair frizzing and spreading out into a cloud around my head.

So instead, I bit back the imperious demand I had been about to issue to this young man, and instead did my best to smile. "Do you have a bathroom I could use?" I asked sweetly.

I wasn't sure that my smile did me any favors, but the man pointed over to a door on one side of the lobby, and I turned and walked smartly inside.

Inside the bathroom, one glance in the mirror confirmed that the man was probably doing the right thing when he gave me those askance looks. I looked a bit like I ought to be wearing a black pointy hat and long black robe, and possibly carrying a broom around with me. From my smudged mascara to my frizzy hair, I was a total nightmare.

I spent a few minutes attempting to remedy the worst of the many issues with my appearance. Some water and a few strokes of the hairbrush from my purse managed to at least control the worst of my hair, although it still didn't look anywhere near how I wanted it. A bit more water managed to help out the makeup situation on my face, although I had to admit that a police station bathroom was far from the ideal place to be making these changes to my appearance.

You could have just gone home, the little voice of common sense inside my head whispered. And then, you could have done something about the clothes issue as well.

Shut up, I replied testily to that voice. I'm here, and I'm not leaving now. Not when I'm so close.

With my appearance as improved as I could manage to achieve, I went storming back out of the bathroom, once again making a beeline for the front desk. There was an older lady now talking to the police officer, and I noticed that she appeared to have dragged a full shopping cart into the station with her. I paused for a moment, and then decided that I couldn't wait for such mundane things as this.

"Excuse me," I announced, butting in past the lady. She glared at me, which I hotly returned. Didn't she understand that I was here on a matter of life or death, to prove an innocent man free and to bring a murderer to justice? In any case, she would have to hold her query about pigeons attacking her or something for a few minutes longer.

So instead of rising to this lady's bait, I kept my eyes locked on the officer behind the desk. I hoped that he would be intimidated, and not because of pigeon impressions. "I'm here to see Roman Wayland," I demanded. "Where is he?"

The man blinked back at me. "Um, I'm sorry," he began. "But who are you, exactly?"

Who was I? Well, I probably shouldn't say that I was the billionaire's lover. Even inside my head, that didn't feel as though it would go over well. Someone from the press? Also probably not allowed inside the police station, especially since I hadn't been called. I mean, I couldn't just say that I was his newest personal assistant-

Wait, maybe I could! "I'm Mister Wayland's personal assistant!" I replied with as much haughtiness as I could muster. "And I have very important information that will have a huge bearing on his case!"

God, I hoped that last part would turn out to be true.

Even though I wasn't quite sure, inside my head, whether this would work, the young man appeared to take me at face value. He turned and glanced behind him over one shoulder, looking conflicted. "Well, the man is in the interrogation room right now," he began, sounding unsure. "He's being questioned, but if this has as much impact on the case as you say-"

"Oh, it does," I insisted, already pushing past the man's desk. "Interrogation room, you say? I will just, um, bring it to him there."

"Wait!" the young policeman called out, already starting to rise up from his chair, but he was far too slow. I was already past him, moving deeper into the station and cursing the fact that, just like in nightclubs and exercise gyms, there didn't appear to be a single helpful sign with directions anywhere.

Finally, off to one side, I spotted a set of two doors, one of which was labeled "Interrogation." Bingo. I headed for them. Weren't there always two doors - one for the prisoner, the other for the observation room?

I went barging into the door on the left, picked blindly at random. "I have important information!" I cried out as I came in, holding up my purse like a treasured trophy.

And then, inside the room, I froze as I stared around.

Three sets of eyes stared back at me, each with a mix of various emotions.

#

I hadn't been expecting to find Roman in here, perhaps handcuffed to a metal table and looking sick with worry after spending the night in jail. Perhaps there would even be an officer in here, lounging against the wall and keeping his eyes on Roman in case the man made an attempt to escape.

What I wasn't expecting, however, was to find another man sitting beside Roman - Eddie Zinner, Roman's lawyer! The lawyer had a briefcase on the table in front of him, and it appeared as if I had entered in the middle of an argument, cutting him off. He looked slightly peeved at being upstaged in such a way.

And just to put the final cherry on this surprise, the same female detective who had arrested Roman was also sitting at the table, across from the billionaire and the lawyer! She had her own folder of papers and photographs sitting on the table in front of her as well. She didn't look exactly happy to see me, but she didn't look quite as angry as I might have expected, either. Perhaps she was happy that someone had come in and interrupted Zinn.

Considering that the lawyer had his mouth open already when I'd come barging in, he was the first to recover enough to speak. "What are you doing here?" he sputtered, before getting a handle on himself. I literally watched as his eyes rolled over me, spending much less time on my face than on my other areas. I noticed that, despite my tee shirt and sweatpants, he still lingered on my tits and ass. Sleaze.

I did my best to ignore this blatant examination. Instead, I turned my gaze to Roman. He looked cautious, but slightly optimistic. He certainly had the warmest expression of any of the people in the room. "Melinda, I think that we've got this under control," he began, in a much more gentle tone than Zinn had used.