Chapter 20 #2
I wished they hadn't. I didn't need a serial killer—or alleged serial killer, if I wanted to annoy Brewster—to help me win an argument.
Brewster clasped his hands loosely on the table. “What did Simon tell you about Guy Reardon?”
Alisha's pen stopped.
I stared at Brewster.
Not Colin. Not the building. Not how Simon had breached federal surveillance.
Guy.
Isn’t that interesting? I made a mental note though I wished I had my own recorder or a pen and paper to write stuff down. I was going to have to trust my memory—and Flint’s.
“No comment.” I managed to keep my tone bland and without emphasis.
“Did he discuss Reardon's hospitalization?”
“No comment.”
“His death?” Brewster refused to be detered.
“No comment.”
“The missing medical records?”
“No comment.”
The questions accelerated. Flint’s attention shifted from me to focus on Brewster. I wanted to know what Flint saw, what he heard. But I promised myself we’d discuss this later.
“Did he tell you why those records were missing?”
Alisha attempted to intervene. “Agent—”
“No comment.”
Brewster leaned forward. “Did he identify who removed them?”
“No com—”
“Did he tell you what happened during Reardon's hospitalization?”
“No—“
“Did he mention a second toxicology—” Brewster stopped abruptly, his own rush tripping him up.
Too late. Everything in me went still. Flint's head turned sharply. Detective Ortiz stopped writing.
Alisha didn't move at all, which was impressive.
I studied Brewster as his gaze locked on mine. For a moment, all I saw was a quiet, intense dislike. The emotion so dark it actually made me lean back. It lingered in his eyes for a beat, then another before he shuttered it away and it vanished.
“What second toxicology?” Ortiz asked.
Brewster didn't glance at her. “It's part of the medical inquiry.”
“Since when?” She eyed him.
“It's being assessed.” Brewster refused to engage, if anything, he kept those cool eyes fixed on me.
“By whom?” Ortiz was not being dissuaded at all.
“The task force.”
Ortiz's eyebrows rose. “My detectives aren't aware of it.”
“Federal medical review.”
“Funny,” she said in a humorless voice. “The man died in Chicago.”
“We've already covered jurisdiction.” Brewster waved her off.
“Not to my satisfaction.” She also didn’t retreat. If anything, her hostility increased.
A man standing near the rear wall muttered something about taking this outside.
Nobody moved.
I kept watching Brewster.
He had recovered again. Fast. But not fast enough.
Simon had told me about a second toxicology. And surprise, surprise, Brewster knew about it.
That didn't make him guilty of anything except possessing information he had never shared with me. Or apparently with CPD.
Still, I found it Interesting. Very interesting.
“What second toxicology?” I asked, throwing my hat into the ring.
Everyone’s attention shifted to me, but Brewster gave nothing away. Unfortunately for him, it was already too late. “We're not discussing protected investigative material.”
I smiled. “Convenient.”
His eyes narrowed. “Ms. Phang,” he gritted out my attorney’s name. It was so easy to needle him. It had been more of a challenge before, but it seemed that our FBI profiler had something to hide. Now.
Alisha shrugged. “You opened the door.”
“I'm asking questions,” he corrected.
Undeterred, Alisha merely said, “And so is she.”
“This isn't a press conference.” He transferred his glare to me. I guess making this a spectacle wasn’t working for him as much as he might have hoped.
Perhaps he should have recalled that I didn’t fall for intimidation.
“No,” I agreed. “At a press conference you'd have to pretend you intended to answer.”
Flint breathed out through his nose and I felt the vibration of the chuckle he didn’t release from where his arm rested on the back of my chair.
Alisha kicked me again.
I glanced at her.
“I'm going to start charging extra every time you make me do that,” she murmured.
Good to know, but all I said was, “Noted.”
Ortiz rubbed her forehead. I almost felt sorry for her, but she had skin in this game too. Every single person in this room had an agenda, but the only one Brewster wanted to play with was his own.
For that reason, it seemed, his was the only composure to maintain. Mostly. “Did Simon tell you about a second toxicology order?”
“No comment.”
His mouth flattened. Oh, he was well and truly pissed now, He wanted that answer even more than the rest.
I filed that away.
He didn’t just let the question dangle, he continued his pursuit. “Did he tell you where to find it?”
“No comment.”
His left thumb pressed once against the side of his index finger. I had seen him do that before when calculating whether to push.
He pushed. “Did he tell you who requested it?”
“No comment.”
The thumb stopped. “Who received the results?”
“No comment.”
Another shift. Not the same.
I leaned back.
Brewster had questions, but they weren't equal questions. He definitely cared about some answers more than others.
Once you noticed that, the interview became significantly more entertaining. For me, at least. Probably less so for him.
Alisha looked down at her notes. “We're done with this line.”
“No,” Brewster said, snapping out his response far too quickly and with way too much emotion.
Ortiz looked up.
Alisha did too.
Brewster adjusted. “I need clarification on whether the unsub directed Ms. McBryan toward evidence in an active homicide investigation.”
“You've asked,” Alisha informed him in case he forgot.
“She hasn't answered.” No, he wasn’t letting go of this argument.
“That may continue to happen.”
Brewster's gaze shifted toward me. “You understand what he's doing.”
Not a question.
“I understand a lot of things.”
“He's giving you information law enforcement doesn't have.” It really bothered him that I wouldn’t concede the point.
“You just demonstrated that's not true,” I said, gentling my tone as though I needed to remind him.
His jaw tightened. “The fact I know about the toxicology doesn't mean he didn't supply it to you.”
“No.” I could absolutely agree with that sentiment.
“Then we're back where we started.”
“Not quite.” But not that one.
I let the silence hang. He hated that. I could tell.
“Where are we now, then?” he asked.
I glanced around the room.
Alisha.
Flint.
Ortiz.
Two other detectives.
Three federal agents.
Recorder.
Cameras.
All those witnesses.
Then back to Brewster.
“Now,” I explained to him what he’d revealed. “I know you already knew.”
Silence. He didn't ask what. Smart. But that was information too.
Alisha rested one hand on my forearm in warning. I ignored it. Maybe because I was tired. Maybe because Brewster had been pushing me for days. Maybe because once I found a loose thread I had an unhealthy compulsion to tug until the entire sweater came apart.
“That's what this is about, isn't it?”
Brewster's expression didn't change. “What?”
“You're not trying to find out what he told me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No,” I countered even as his gaze hardened. I leaned forward. “You're trying to find out what he knows.”
Flint went completely still beside me. Ortiz looked from Brewster to me. Alisha muttered, “Mallory.”
But Brewster answered. “Those are the same question.”
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “They're really not.”
His mask held. Almost. “You're parsing semantics.”
“Specificity.” The word slipped out.
Brewster's pupils changed, it was a tiny motion but present nonetheless. He recognized it. Not the word, but the source of it.
Simon.
I didn't smile. That would have been cruel. I wasn't trying to hurt him. I was trying to understand why his questions had become so narrow.
“Did he talk about me?”
I almost blew out a long breath, because there. Finally. We had a real question. Not Reardon. Not toxicology. Him—Brewster.
Alisha spoke before I could. “My client will not answer that.”
Brewster didn't look at her. He kept watching me. “Did he?”
I stared back, letting the silence balloon until the pressure threatened to suffocate all of us. “No comment.”
His thumb pressed against his finger again. Once. Hard. Leaving the skin white with the intensity of the pressure. “What did he say?”
“No comment.”
“Did he accuse me of anything?”
“No comment.”
“Did he tell you I concealed evidence?”
“No comment.”
“Did he say I knew why Reardon died?”
The room seemed to contract by several feet. Brewster had just supplied the question. I hadn't. Simon hadn't either. Not exactly.
I let my head tilt. Slowly. “Do you?”
For the first time all night, Brewster lost his rhythm. Only for a fraction of a second.
But I saw it. So did Flint. His hand closed over my thigh beneath the table. Not hard.
It was warm and firm. An order. Stop. I had marked the target, better to let it stew than to turn it into a war.
I didn't look at him while Brewster recovered. Flint wasn’t wrong.
Brewster tried to shift the tone. “I'm asking whether he told you that.”
“And,” I countered. “I'm asking whether you know why Guy died.”
“Ms. McBryan,” one of the federal agents near the wall said, “Agent Brewster isn't the subject of this interview.”
I glanced toward him. “Maybe that's the problem.”
Brewster's eyes flashed. It wasn’t just anger this time, it was something sharper. Flint’s fingers dug into my thigh and I finally looked at him.
He gave the smallest shake of his head.
Enough.
The instinct to push battled with the trust I had in the man whose hand I covered with my own.
Trust won.
I sat back.
Alisha exhaled. “Twenty-minute break.”
Brewster spoke immediately. “We need to continue.”
“No.” Alisha began closing her legal pad. “My client needs food, caffeine that hasn't been used to remove industrial paint, and a bathroom.”
“I don't need—”
She looked at me. I reconsidered. Right. “Yes. All of those.”
“Ten minutes,” Brewster said.
“Twenty.”
“Fifteen.”
Alisha stood. “Twenty.”
Ortiz coughed into her fist. It sounded suspiciously like laughter. None of us commented on that as we left the room.
The hallway outside possessed the ambiance of every civic or government building I'd ever visited.