isn’t talking. I grab the folder from the desk and move to sit in the seat next to Harrison and square my shoulders.
I know in the pit of my gut Thomas Valetti is one of the people who saved those women. But he also has information I want. Now’s my chance to make everything I’ve worked for up to this moment worth it.
He’s my only lead.
Tommy
“Mr. Valetti,” begins the gorgeous woman who’s all curves and sweetness. She’s looking back at me like we’re on good terms. Like she can talk to me as though I’m an old pal of hers. She’s either fresh blood, or she’s damn good at what she does. This good cop/bad cop routine would be easy enough with detective Harrison being the jackass he is. It’s not the first time I’ve run into him, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Judging by her body language when she walked in here, and the pissed-off looks Harrison keeps throwing her, I’m guessing she’s new. I wouldn’t mind having her try to cuff me. Wish it was her who'd brought me in, not that fuckface from earlier.
“We know you were at the scene of the crime after it occurred based on the fact that your prints were found covering the prints of Lucas Mikhailov, a man found dead on sight.” She reaches into the manila folder and slides a photograph of a doorknob across the table. Her small hand holds it in place. She doesn’t move it, and I find myself eyeing her chipped nail polish. It’s a soft cream color and it makes her appear even more dainty that she already looks. What the hell is this little thing doing trying to play cop? She interrupts my thought as she takes her hand away and asks, “Would you like to explain how that could’ve happened?”
I meet her gaze and love that she’s not intimidated by me. Her eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen. And they’re staring back at me waiting for an answer. I’m real fucking sorry to disappoint her. But even a sweetheart like her can't get me to talk. I’m not saying shit.
I almost apologize--almost call her love, or sweetie. But I keep my mouth shut and remind myself that this is an act. These cops like to set the scene. It’s all lies in here. I give her a simple shake of my head and answer, “I’m just waiting for my lawyer.”
If I’m being honest with myself, this is the most nervous I’ve ever been, but I don’t show it. I don’t give them anything.
They have my prints, even though they’re smudged, and so are the ones beneath mine. They have the tire tracks to the Escalade, which is in my name. They have a witness who says she saw me, although she was drugged up. At least that's the evidence the judge was willing to hand off to Vince. Three pieces of shit evidence. One piece of evidence by itself could be a coincidence. But put three pieces together, and it starts sounding real fucking bad.
“Mr. Valetti. Are you aware that a Miss Georgia Stevens was found dead in the back of the rental car left at the scene of the crime?” the sweet little thing in front of me says, and it takes me a moment to register what she said.
My heart skips a beat, and my blood goes cold. A dead woman. No. We saved those women. But we didn’t check any cars. Fuck! I wanna ask whose car. I wanna know how she died. More importantly, was she alive when we left?
My eyes search hers. She could be lying. She could be fucking with me just to get me to talk. But I see her expression soften with compassion. She can tell I didn’t know. I lean back in my seat and do my best to wipe every emotion off my face. It’s quiet for a moment. It’s been about an hour, so my lawyer should be here soon. I just need to hold on till then, and then I can look up the woman they found dead. Vince never said shit about her. At least not to me, but I've been out of the loop.
“The car was rented to a man we believe to be Abram Petrov. His prints were found in the car, although his body was never found.”
None of this is throwing up red flags to me. His body was sent back