Murder Has a Sweet Tooth - By Miranda Bliss Page 0,6
of him reserved for those who broke the law. It wasn’t pretty. “It’s not my case,” he admitted. “But I heard them talking in the squad room this morning, I heard them mention Alex’s name. I don’t know all the details . . .”
“But?” Jim stared at Tyler, waiting for more.
One side of Tyler’s mouth pulled into up into what was more a grimace than a smile. “From what I hear,” he said, “it sounds pretty cut-and-dried. Alex is going to be arraigned, but until he is, he’s going to have to stay here.”
“In jail?” My stomach soured.
Jim put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. “We can see him?” he asked Tyler, ever the voice of reason, even when it came to something this crazy. “We’re allowed to talk to him?”
Tyler seemed to weigh the wisdom of allowing the visit. He gave in with a curt nod. “I know the lead detective on the case. I’ll talk to him. I’ll get you five minutes. And if anybody asks, it’s because Alex is a foreign national and you have to work out how to get him an attorney.” He looked my way. “Can you do this without creating a scene?”
“Me? Create a scene? You have got to be kidding! Admit it, Tyler, I’m the most reasonable person you’ve ever met. I wouldn’t create a scene. I wouldn’t even know how.” It wasn’t until I heard my voice echoing back at me and saw a couple people passing by look our way that I realized I already had. I gulped down my mortification, stepped back when I realized I was up in Tyler’s face, and nodded, my arms pressed to my sides. “I’ll behave,” I promised. “Once we get this straightened out . . .”
I was hoping for a little bit of encouragement from Tyler, something like yeah, you’re right, we’ll have this straightened out in just a jiffy. When he didn’t say a thing, when he simply pivoted and waved an arm to point us in the proper direction, the acid in my stomach shot into my throat. I clutched Jim’s arm and together we walked toward the jail.
Fifteen minutes later, we were standing in a room that contained nothing but a gray metal table and four matching chairs. We were surrounded by a wire cage. There was a guard outside the door. The ambience made it impossible to relax. I paced from the table to the door and back again.
“Sit down.” When I walked by, Jim caught my hand and tugged me to a stop. “They’re not even going to let Alex walk in if you’re looking so edgy; they think you’re planning some sort of prison break.”
“Do I look like I am?” Heat raced up my neck and shot into my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it.” I glanced toward the guard at the door. “I didn’t mean to look fishy,” I said again, a little louder this time, just so he knew I was sincere. I forced myself to breathe, sat—and popped up again in an instant when I saw Alex being led down the hallway by another guard.
The first guard unlocked and opened the door and Alex stepped inside. I controlled the urge to race over and give him a hug, but only barely, and only because we’d been warned that we were to have no physical contact with what Tyler called “the prisoner.” Instead, through the tears that misted my eyes, I looked over the man who was to be the best man in my wedding in just a few short weeks.
Even in prison pants with an elastic waist and a shapeless shirt the exact color of his fiery hair, Alex looked pale. There were dark smudges under his eyes and they were sunken and hollow. He was relieved to see us; I knew because for just a moment, he allowed an anemic smile to brighten his expression. It was gone again in an instant. As if he remembered where he was—and why—Alex’s broad shoulders slumped.
He swallowed hard and looked from me to Jim. “I d’na know what to say.”
“Just tell us what happened.” Jim patted the table across from where he sat. “Sit down, man, and explain what’s going on.”
Alex did, and once he was seated, I sat down, too. For a couple long, uncomfortable moments, we simply stared at each other, unsure of where to start. But I remembered what Tyler had told us: We had five minutes. I wasn’t willing to waste