No In Between (5 page)

Five

Chris and I reclaim our seats, and the relief I feel when he reaches for my hand under the table is immense. This interview is daunting enough without worrying that whatever just happened between him and Mark out there will affect us.

“Nice of you both to finally join us,” the detective directly across from me says. I don’t need to see the badge clipped onto his shirt that reads “Grant” to recognize the sarcastic, cigarette-roughened voice of the man I’d spoken to on the phone while in Paris. His wrinkled white shirt, loose black tie¸ and rumpled salt-and-pepper hair have that hard-edged, hard-living look that completes the package.

“I told you not to go there,” David warns. “She was attacked. She deserved a fucking one-week escape from where the shit went down.”

The second detective, a woman with Barbie doll good looks who sits across from Chris, glares at David. “Do you have to talk like that?”

David snorts. “Afraid someone might find out you like it, Detective Miller?”

I suck in a breath at the smart-ass remark. Chris is stone-faced, but the slight quirk to his mouth says he’s amused, and I try to be comforted by his lack of concern.

Detective Miller makes a disgusted sound, crossing her arms over her navy-blue blazer and white silk blouse. “You’re a real asshole, David.”

I blink in disbelief.

“Language, Detective,” David chides her.

The look they give each other seems more like a simmering connection than scathing distaste.

Detective Grant levels me with a stare that brims with accusation. “Running off to another country is not something a victim does when they want to put a potential murderer behind bars, Ms. McMillan.”

Chris’s fingers flex tightly on my leg. “You know,” he begins with that lethal nonchalant sarcasm, “it really is outrageous, the way victims think you actually give a damn about their emotional trauma. We certainly wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced by such things.” He sits up, lacing his fingers on the table. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you get retailers and restaurants to post public service notices? It could read: Attention: victims of violent crimes. You are not really a victim until we say you’re a victim. Do not leave town or you risk punishment.”

David barks out approving laughter and downs his coffee. Grant and Miller stare at Chris like he’s grown an extra head, and Chris’s lips curve with undisguised amusement.

The room falls into a silence that seems to stretch eternally. Just when I think the empty space is intolerable, and I’ll have to fill it with words, David does the most bizarre thing. He starts singing a Christmas song:
“You better watch out. You better not cry.”

Detective Grant snaps, “Enough, David. And stop with all the venti coffees, damn it. Every time you come in here with one of those things, you drive me to the bottle.”

“That’s the idea,” David assures him, and I realize that he has a well-established relationship with both of them. I also start to see him as a calculated loose cannon. He intentionally keeps everyone off balance and out of control, thus
he’s
the one in control.

Not surprisingly, Detective Grant turns his reprimand from David to Chris with a scathing “As for you, Mr. Merit, I was aware you were an artist—”

“An incredibly rich, brilliant artist,” David inserts, and I almost laugh.

Grant continues, “But no one warned me you were a comedian.”

Chris leans back easily. “I was going for smart-ass.”

“So you intended to be a smart-ass to a police officer,” Detective Miller says tartly.

“Exactly,” Chris agrees. “Just like Detective Grant intended to be a smart-ass to the victim he’s supposed to be protecting. Not exactly the image of public service the campaign stickers I’ve seen all over the city are preaching, now, is it?” There’s a subtle threat beneath the words, a promise that he’ll be outspoken about our treatment if it continues, which is made more powerful by David’s reminder of just how deep Chris’s pockets reach.

“You know,” David chimes in. “I guess we do have to sympathize with law enforcement in election years. The public wants to feel they are being well served and all. The pressure to get a conviction any way you can has to be intense.”

Detective Grant leans closer to David and all but growls, “Don’t throw that election crap at me. We aren’t elected officials in this room. We do our job no matter what year it is.”

“Then do it,” David says. “Get to the questions and save the head games for someone else.”

A muscle ticks in Grant’s jaw but he grabs a folder and opens it. “Ms. McMillan, referencing the police report on the night of the incident, you stated you went to Mr. Compton’s home because you and Mr. Merit had a fight. You felt Mr. Compton could give you advice. You were talking to him in his living room when the trouble broke out. Ryan Kilmer, whom you knew from a work project with Mr. Compton, and the defendant, Ava Perez, whom you knew from the coffee shop she owns, exited the back room, both in half-dressed disarray. Ava saw you and went nuts, attacking you. Mark grabbed her to protect you and told you to leave. You exited the house and Ava followed you, first trying to run you down with a car, and then holding a gun on you.”

“Yes,” I manage weakly, cotton gathering in my throat at the grimness of those memories. “That’s all accurate.”

“Did she ever say she’d kill you?” he asks.

“Inside the house when she launched herself at me, she shouted that she’d kill me like she did Rebecca.”

“And why do you think she wanted to kill you, or even Rebecca for that matter?”

“Considering she went nuts over me simply talking to Mark, I can only assume jealousy.”

This earns me a quick and uncomfortable question. “Were you having sex with Mr. Compton?”

“No,” I say firmly, hyperaware of Chris by my side. “I was with Chris then, as I am now.”

Detective Grant’s look is as cynical as they come. “Did you want to?”

My defenses prickle. “No. Not that night, and not ever.”

“Did he want to have sex with
you
?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Detective Miller scoffs. “Please, Ms. McMillan. A woman knows if a man wants to have sex with her.”

“Yes,” Chris supplies. “Mark wanted to have sex with Sara.” Cringing, I squeeze my eyes shut as he adds, “I knew he did. I’m sure Ava knew as well.”

“But you, Ms. McMillan,” Detective Grant says, “didn’t want to have sex with him.”

“Move on,” David orders.

Detective Grant changes the subject. “Do you believe it was her intent to hit and kill you with the car?”

I inhale, those horrible few seconds returning with vicious force. I can almost feel the night air, hear the car engine and my own breathing. “Yes. She wanted to kill me. That tree saved my life. I darted behind it or I wouldn’t be here now.”

“When she failed, she held you at gunpoint?” he presses.

I nod. “That’s right.”

“And she ordered you into the car?”

“Yes.”

“So she had the chance to shoot you, but she didn’t.”

It’s not a question and my anger is sharp and instant. “She intended to kill me.” I lean in closer. “She tried to kill me with the car. And if not for Chris risking his own life to disarm her, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Chris’s fingers slide under my hair to my neck, an act he normally reserves for those intimate moments when he is in control. The effect is jolting, and I realize instantly that’s his intent. As I focus on him my anger levels off, and I inhale a calming breath. Chris’s hand slowly slides from my neck, settling back on my leg.

After a short count of ten, I open my eyes. The two detectives have turned away, heads lowered as they whisper between themselves. They straighten and Detective Miller takes over the conversation.

“I’m sure everyone here is aware that Ms. Perez retracted her confession to the murder of Rebecca Mason. It’s difficult to secure an indictment in a murder charge without a body, and we are going to temporarily drop those charges to build a case. We have until Friday morning to decide if we’re going to proceed with the attempted murder charges.”

Abruptly, David scoots his chair to the head of the table, firmly grabbing both sides and smiling. “
Damn,
I’m good.” He motions to Chris and me. “Aren’t I good? Go ahead. Say it.”

“That’s why I hired you,” Chris assures him.

Detective Miller grimaces. “Please, David. Tell us why you’re gloating. We can’t
wait
to hear.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” David says, looking as pleased as he sounds. “I knew you were going to bluff on the attempted murder charges. It’s all part of your head game to get information they’ll willingly give you anyway. And it’s really as low as it gets, considering the defendant tried to kill Sara.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Detective Miller comments.

My anger returns like a swish of a now-sharpened blade. “She
tried to run me down with a car
. It was smashed into the tree when the police got there. How much more proof do you need?”

“And what about the four witnesses?” David asks. “Should I count them out?” He raises a finger. “One.” Then another finger. “Two. Should I continue the demonstration?”

“We can count,” Detective Miller snaps.

David scoffs. “Apparently not, because you keeping ‘forgetting.’ Let me be clear. Ms. Perez is a danger to my clients and to society. If you and your people aren’t good enough to convince a judge she needs to stay behind bars, protection orders for Chris and Sara must be in place before that woman leaves custody. And she’d better have a leg monitor that’s watched nonstop. You don’t want to
know
how deep I’ll cut if anything happens to one of my clients.”

“It’s not as simple as you make it, Counselor,” Detective Grant says tightly. “There are complicated relationships involved in this case and the ever-changing stories have given me whiplash.”

“We haven’t changed our stories,” David points out. “If Ms. Perez has, that makes her look even more unstable, and unstable is dangerous.”

“We aren’t at liberty to say more at this point,” Detective Miller informs him. “We’d like to continue our questioning and go from there.”

David leans back in his chair and taps his pen on the table a few times before he agrees. “Five minutes. Make the time count.”

Detective Miller immediately turns to me. “Who’s Ella Ferguson?”

“My neighbor and friend, who bought Rebecca’s storage unit. She eloped and left me with the unit.”

“And she’s where now?”

“You know she filed a missing person’s report,” David answers irritably. “Get to the point or we’re done here.”

“Her point,” Detective Grant says tightly, “is clear. We want to know where Ella is.”

They’ve hit a raw nerve, and I say heatedly, “So do I. Where
is
she? I’ve filed a report here, and in France, but no one seems to be looking for her. Just like no one seemed to care about Rebecca, even after I started looking for her.”

“And when
exactly
did you start looking for Ella?” Detective Miller asks, ignoring my inquiries.

“It’s all in the reports,” David says irritably.

“I want to hear it again,” Detective Miller counters.

I jump in, ready to get out of this tiny cage of a room. “Ella handed me the key to the unit the night she eloped, along with the journals. I started reading them and got concerned for Rebecca’s safety. I decided to try to find her. When I was told she was on extended vacation it heightened my concern, so I went to the gallery.”

Detective Grant tilts his head. “And then ended up taking her job.”

“Temporarily. I was off for the summer, and since I have an art degree I thought I’d look for Rebecca and earn extra income.”

“You basically started living her life.” His tone is pure accusation.

I make a disgusted sound, fed up with their lack of action, which they blame on everyone else. “That job, and the connection reading those journals gave me to Rebecca, is what drove me to look for her. I’m the
only
reason anyone was looking for her.” Chris squeezes my hand in silent support. “I couldn’t save her, but I can at least see justice done for her. Ava has to be stopped before she hurts someone else.”

Detective Grant dismisses me, turning his attention on Chris. “Are you a member of Mark Compton’s club, Mr. Merit?”

“Yes,” Chris replies without hesitation, appearing unfazed by the abrupt change of topic.

The detective cuts a look back to me. “Are you, Ms. McMillan?”

“No,” I say, following Chris’s lead of less is more.

“Have you ever been to the club?” he presses me.

“She’s been twice,” Chris replies on my behalf. “Both times with me.”

That earns Chris another of Grant’s accusing questions. “Were you ever at the club when Rebecca was there?”

Chris doesn’t give him so much as a blink of hesitation. “Not that I’m aware of, but I stuck to my private room. I had no interest in the rest of the club.”

Grant studies him for long seconds, then cuts sharply to me. “Did you ever see Rebecca at the club, Ms. McMillan?”

My pulse leaps with the accusation, but David never gives me a chance to defend myself. He gives the table an angry pound and declares, “No games. She never met Rebecca. Refer to the date the storage unit was purchased. She’d already left town.”