47. Lilah
47
LILAH
I followed Detective Rodriguez down a long hall. Fluorescent lighting cast everything in a sickly, slightly blue light, the sounds of the police department — ringing phones, conversation, a copy machine at work — emanating from the open doors we passed as we made our way to the back of the building.
I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, trying to quell the nervousness roiling in my stomach, the urge to leave and admit this had been a horrible mistake.
We reached the back of the building and Detective Rodriguez stood back from an open door and gestured me into the room.
It was small and simply furnished, but not like the interrogation rooms I’d seen on TV. This room had carpet and a couple of upholstered chairs opposite a worn wood desk with a yellow legal pad and a pen. There were even a couple of tacky landscapes on the wall, the kind I’d dusted at the Mountaintop Inn.
I relaxed a little. This felt more like a job interview than an interrogation.
“Please,” she said, “have a seat.”
I perched on the edge of a chair opposite the desk and rubbed my hands on my black pants, a necessary part of my ruse since the Bastards thought I was working at Burger Haven.
“What can I do for you today?” she asked.
I called up the words I’d rehearsed on the way to the police station. “I’d like to report something.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “A crime?”
“Yes… maybe.” I sighed. “I’m not sure.”
“The officers at the front do intake,” she said. “I thought this was about?— ”
“It’s about the trafficking thing,” I blurted. “The thing that happened at Aventine, Piers Cantwell…”
Interest flashed in her brown eyes. “Okay.”
I took a deep breath and told her what I’d seen at the Dive: Mr. Suit and his bodyguards, the girl being shoved into the car. I even told her about the chase through the woods.
What I didn’t tell her: Imperium Fratrum and the website with the pink door.
I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell her that part. Maybe I was scared she’d think I was crazy. Maybe I was afraid whatever leads we’d found would dry up if the police got involved.
Or maybe I just wanted to figure it out myself.
She listened intently, making notes on the legal pad while I talked, occasionally asking questions to clarify one of my statements.
“Anyway,” I finally said, coming to the end of my story, “I saw your name on the articles about Aventine and the Piers Cantwell thing. I thought…” I hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I thought maybe this information would help you? And that maybe you’d have information that would help me?”
“Why do you need help?” Her eyes were warm and I was surprised she’d picked up that detail from the things I’d just said.
“Well, I can’t go back to my apartment,” I said. “Not after they — Vic or Mr. Suit or whoever — trashed it. So I’m staying with… friends. But I can’t do that forever.”
Her forehead crinkled with concern. “You could file a restraining order.”
“But he’d be notified then right?” I asked. “My old boss?”
“He’d be served with the papers, yes.”
I thought about it, could see Vic being approached by cops, could see how pissed he’d be. And what about Mr. Suit? I didn’t even know who he was so it wasn’t like the police could serve him.
“No, thanks. I just…” I sighed. “I just really need to figure this out.”
“Does ‘Folegandros’ mean anything to you?” The question came out of left field, and I saw that she was studying my face, looking for a reaction.
“Folegandros?” I shook my head. “Is that a… a person?”
She wrote something on the yellow legal pad. “No. It’s an island in Greece.”
“I’ve never been to Greece.”
She stood. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Our investigation into the activities at Aventine and the Cantwell Resort is ongoing, so I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
I nodded, feeling my shoulders sag. “I understand.”
We shook hands and I followed her back down the long hallway and through the door separating the glass-enclosed workspace from the rest of the lobby.
“Nice to see you,” Brandon called after me.
I didn’t bother to return the greeting. Fucking rapist asshole.
I got into my car and sat there, staring through the windshield, processing the fact that I was at another dead end. It took a couple of minutes to remember Detective Rodriguez’s final question.
I pulled out my phone, opened the web browser, and typed a word into the search bar: Folegandros.
My screen populated with images of stark white buildings against a blue sky and an even bluer sea.
I tried the word out in my mouth, whispering it in the car.
“Folegandros.”
It sounded almost magical, like it held the answers I’d been looking for.