Strike Me Down - Mindy Mejia Page 0,69

an eyebrow.

“Regarding?”

“Regarding the hit-and-run near this location a few nights ago.”

“And you just happened to be assigned to the case?”

“I handle a lot of cases in the first precinct.”

Various looks of confusion and understanding were exchanged. The Events Director moved to wrap the meeting, but I stood.

“Stay and finish up here. We’ll find another space for Logan to talk to the officers.”

“That’d be great, Mr. Abbott.” The detective waited for Logan and me to lead the way out. “We have some questions for you, too.”

After we found an empty suite and went through the usual preliminaries, Li got to his point.

“What’s your relationship with the victim of the hit-and-run, Corbett MacDermott?”

“None.” I answered for both of us.

“He’s a partner in an accounting firm that you’re actively working with, correct?”

“How do you know that?” C.J. had been dealing with the police on this, but I doubted even she knew the connection. She would have had no reason to link MacDermott to Parrish unless she’d Googled him, and she would’ve mentioned it in the meeting if she had. Google searches were a time-honored marketing bullet point.

“Is it true?” Detective Li pressed.

“It’s a private matter.”

“Not if it’s relevant to this case.”

Logan hadn’t said a word yet. She’d staked out a chair in the corner of the suite and was watching me talk to the cops like it was mildly interesting reality TV, something you watched at the dentist’s office when you didn’t have control of the remote. I sighed.

“Yes, we hired Parrish Forensics last week to help us with a cash flow issue.”

“And Mr. MacDermott?”

“Was in the room when I met with the partners. I believe I shook his hand, but that was the only time I met him. It’s Nora, Nora Trier from Parrish, who’s been working with us.”

“And you, Ms. Russo?”

Logan gave the detective a cool look, but I cut in. “She wasn’t at that meeting.”

Detective Li wasn’t swayed. “Had you met Mr. MacDermott elsewhere?”

And before I could interject again, Logan answered, as calmly as if she were ordering coffee. “Yes, a few times.”

I blinked and before I could recover, Logan launched into a brief description of meeting Nora’s partner during a promotion at the club last winter, how he seemed to be there more out of friendship than any desire for fitness.

Then she said she saw him again on Tuesday night, the night of the accident.

“We were leaving the stadium at the same time and he congratulated me on the tournament. Introduced himself and mentioned the class he’d attended.”

“Was anyone else with you at the time?”

“No.”

“What about the security guards?” I asked, turning on her.

“I was tired of them.”

Before I could say anything else, Detective Li cut in. “Where was this?”

“Just outside.” She thumbed in the direction of the glass doors. “I was heading back to the condo and we walked in the same direction for a while, until another fan interrupted us.”

“Did Corbett keep walking with you?”

“He wasn’t there after I passed the parking ramp.”

My mom taught me how to recognize when a sale wouldn’t happen while she drove to and from her house calls. Some kids learned manners. I learned how to spot the lie hiding beneath the manners. There are almost zero physical cues to Logan’s lies. She has none of the classic tells. She doesn’t glance up or down, blink too much or too little. She doesn’t curl her lip or add flourishes to her “no’s.” Her hips don’t turn to the side, the body’s tendency to shy its core away from the fiction. Her stories don’t waver in detail or consistency largely because she doesn’t tell stories. Most of her verbal communication has been groomed down to a grab bag of motivational sound bites and veiled threats. When someone shouts at you to punch them like you mean it, you don’t question their honesty.

Back in January, a millennium ago, when Logan gut punched all of us with her announcement about handing off the company, I accused her of wanting Aaden to fill her shoes.

“It’s not fair to the other contenders if you’re walking into this tournament with someone already handpicked as your heir apparent.”

“You’re lecturing me on ethics?”

“Then tell me I’m wrong.”

She turned to me, squaring first her jaw, then her shoulders and on down until her entire frame was a study in right angles. If it were possible, even her pupils would’ve had corners.

“I haven’t picked Aaden Warsame to take over the company.”

The truth was there, cowering beneath the edge. Maybe she even half