Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I’ve already said this multiple times, but I’ll say it again: I had nothing to do with the murders of Lucien or Dominic.”
Oliver rubbed his forehead as he stared down at the table. This interview room was different than the last time. It was smaller and had a camera high in a corner pointed down at him. Nothing intense about that at all.
“Let’s go through it again,” Carter said.
Oliver dropped his hands to the table with a louder-than-anticipated slap.
His first impulse was to apologize, but he squashed it.
He’d managed to send a quick text on the ride to the station, letting Dave know.
But he had been repeating himself for over two hours.
Was Dave just sitting out in the lobby? Were they telling him anything?
“I’ve already told you. Have you brought in the other members of Dr. Brennan’s team for questioning?”
“We have talked with them, yes.”
“You’ve talked with them.” Oliver sat back and crossed his arms. “Did you put them in this tiny room and ask them the same questions over and over like you’ve done with me?”
“We’ve talked with them.” Carter’s voice was flat, his eyes like frozen lake ice.
Oliver stared back. He was done with all of this. He’d come in expecting something like the first time, only perhaps running a little longer. But this felt like it was moving toward him being held in jail, and he definitely did not want that.
“I want to speak to a lawyer.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“Not at the moment. I would like to speak to my fiancé. I’m sure he’s waiting out in the lobby.”
“That can be arranged after we go through your story again.”
“It’s not a story. It’s all fact. I did not murder Lucien or Dominic. I did not steal the mummy. I regret ever agreeing to go and watch them open that goddamn coffin.”
“Funny, Dr. Brennan regrets allowing you to be there.”
“How many times did you make her repeat herself?”
“Let’s focus on you.”
Carter picked up one of the case files that had been on the table at his elbow. Oliver had wanted to ask about them, but kept his mouth shut. That might make him look guilty.
“These are photos of the crime scene at Lucien LeClair’s apartment.”
Carter laid out six color photos. Cold sliced into Oliver as he took them in.
Lucien’s body had been…broken. He’d been dressed in a t-shirt and shorts.
Both arms lay at unnatural angles, and one of his legs was bent in a way that made him grimace and his stomach twist. Bloody gouges ran down his arms, almost like claw marks.
Dark bruises circled the pale skin of his throat.
Another photo showed the door to Lucien’s apartment.
The wood around the handle and hinges was splintered.
Whoever had murdered Lucien had been strong and angry.
“Jesus,” Oliver whispered.
The detective didn’t respond. He picked up another file and laid out six more color photographs, arranging them above the previous.
These were of Dominic. He lay wedged in a corner of a bathroom between the toilet and the wall.
Oliver wondered if he’d been trying to hide from whoever had attacked him.
More twisted limbs. Another set of gouges, deep enough to show muscle, but this time across his left cheek.
Dark bruises around his neck indicated he’d been strangled.
Other photos depicted extensive damage to the entry and bathroom doors.
“Dominic Sato tried to hide.”
“I didn’t do this.” Oliver looked up, tears in his eyes as reality sank in. Lucien and Dominic had been alive just days before. He’d spoken with both men, worked with them to open the coffin. And now they were dead. “I swear to you, detective, I did not, could not, do this.”
Carter stared at him, expression still and unreadable. “I hope to God you didn’t.”
A knock at the door broke the intensity of the moment. Oliver drew in a shaky breath. Carter collected the photos and slid them into their respective case files before calling out, “Yeah.”
A woman stepped into the room. She wore a dark pantsuit with a badge clipped to the waistband. “Talk with me a minute.”
Staring at Oliver as he pushed back his chair, Carter said, “Sure.” He picked up the folders and left, closing the door behind him.
Oliver focused on his breathing. The room was claustrophobic and stuffy. The lights buzzed overhead and were suddenly much too bright. His stomach rumbled and a dull pounding had started up behind his eyes.
A short time later, the door opened again. Oliver blinked in surprise.
“Dieter?”
His grandmother’s boyfriend, Dieter Reid, stood in the doorway. He was dressed in his usual white pants, white dress shirt, and black bolo tie with a sparkling Zirconia clasp. His full goatee and mustache were trimmed and matched the thick white hair combed back from his forehead.
“Hello, dear boy. Are you ready to leave?” Dieter’s voice was strong, testament to his years spent as a trial lawyer before he’d retired.
Oliver hesitated. Was he imagining this because he was overheated and hungry? “They’re letting me go?”
“I’ve had a few go-rounds with the higher ups here at the station, and have managed to get you sprung. But you’ll need to keep Detective Carter updated on any changes to your location.”
“All I want to do is go home.” Oliver stood.
“Then by all means, let’s go.”
Dieter turned sideways and waved for Oliver to go ahead. When he stepped into the hall, Oliver saw Detective Carter standing with the woman who had asked to talk with him. Both stared at him.
“I didn’t do any of this,” Oliver said.
Carter grunted. “We’ll see.”
“Come along, Oliver. The less you say the better.”
With a hand on his lower back, Dieter steered him out of the back hallway, through the detective bullpen, and into the lobby. Dave sat in a plastic chair, head in his hands. He leapt to his feet when he saw Oliver, rushing forward to pull him into a tight hug.
“You okay?” Dave asked.
“I’ve had better days.”
Dave gave him a once over. “You look worn out. What did they do to you?”
“Just had me repeat the same thing over and over.” Oliver blinked back sudden tears. “And showed me pictures of the crime scenes.”
“What? Jesus Christ.” Dave pulled him in close again, hands steady and warm against his back. “That fucker.”
“It was terrible. Their arms and legs were so twisted. Who could do something like that?”
“Let’s get you back home.” Dave gave him a squeeze before releasing him.
Dieter guided Oliver to the desk where he signed for his messenger bag and phone. Once he’d received his belongings, Dave led the way outside. The sun was low and shadows long. He’d been in the station the entire day. Oliver breathed in the fresh air with relief, then stopped and stared.
A veritable boat of a car took up two spaces in the parking lot.
It was a tan mid-70s Cadillac Sedan de Ville with a white vinyl roof.
The Cadillac had once belonged to the Widow Monroe, longtime resident of Parson’s Hollow and a notoriously bad driver.
When she’d died, they’d discovered she’d left Cody her behemoth of a gas guzzler.
“Why in the name of God are you driving that beast?” Oliver said.
“Your grandmother’s car is in the shop. Cody was kind enough to give me permission.” Dieter grinned. “With a number of precautions.”
“He didn’t come with you, did he?” Oliver asked.
“No,” Dave replied. “I wouldn’t let him. I knew you’d be low on tolerance.”
“I love you so much.”
“I know. Come on, Dieter will drive us to your car.”
They all fit across the wide front bench seat, Oliver by the window.
He directed Dieter to his usual lot. Panic slowly built in Oliver’s chest as Dieter circled the lot with no luck.
Had his car been impounded? Then he remembered he’d parked on the other side of campus.
Dieter was patient and kind as Oliver gave him the new directions. In a few minutes, they’d found his car.
Dave and Oliver got out and, after many thanks, stood side by side and watched the big car pull out of the lot and head off down the street.
“He’s going to have to fill up that tank before he gets back to Parson’s Hollow,” Oliver said.
Dave laughed and kissed the top of his head. “Let’s get you home.”
They turned toward the car, but Oliver stopped. A piece of paper had been stuck beneath the driver’s side wiper, and it fluttered in the early evening breeze.
“Dammit, did I get a ticket? Fucking cops.” He snatched the paper up and read it. His exhaustion seemed to step aside as his curiosity and reporter’s instincts kicked in, giving him a tiny surge of energy.
“What is it?” Dave asked over the roof of the car.
“It’s a note.” Oliver looked at him. “From Samira.”
“Is she part of Dr. Brennan’s team?”
“She is. If I remember correctly, she specializes in translating hieroglyphics.”
“What’s the note say?”
“It says she needs to talk with me, tonight, and to meet her outside the library.”
“How’d she know which car was yours?” Dave asked.
Oliver shrugged. “No idea.”
Dave rounded the back of the car and held out his hand. “All right, what are we waiting for? Let’s go talk to her.”
Relief swept through Oliver. “You sure?”
“I know you,” Dave said with a smile. “If we don’t go meet up with her, you’re going to be awake all night thinking about it.”
“Not all night…” Oliver said.
“And I’m sure as hell not letting you go alone. So, come on. Let’s find out what she’s got to tell you.”