8. Ben #3
I look down at my phone. Sure enough, it’s her.
I knew it would be, and I also know that must mean she’s out of questioning.
I have her number saved under another name in my phone, just to be safe.
Just in case anything happened, although I couldn’t have imagined that “anything” would end up being Sadie’s murder.
At least, I couldn’t have imagined it at the start.
Were those guys total assholes to you? Because that’s what just went down from where I was sitting.
One of the most important lessons my father has taught me is that, nine times out of ten, if you’re polite and pleasant to someone, they will be polite and pleasant back.
That’s never been her strong suit—faking it like that, I mean—so it doesn’t surprise me that her experience with the detectives was a little different from mine.
They were ok. Out now, my dad just pulled up. We’ll talk soon.
Glancing up, I wonder what’s taking him so long to get out of the car, or at the very least open the window and wave me over if he doesn’t want his face to be seen.
But that’s the moment I realize something.
It isn’t my dad’s Range Rover. It belongs to someone else entirely.
And that someone is getting out now, cigarette in her mouth and a cup of coffee in her hand.
She looks better than just about every woman her age in this town, and I’d guess she’s about forty-five or so.
That’s how I know she must not be from around here.
I watch as she tosses the cigarette on the ground by the car and stomps it out impatiently.
I’ve always had a thing for older women. When they’re hot, I mean.
Instinctively, I smooth my wrinkled shirt and try to adjust the way I’m sitting on the bench outside.
Trying to look like… like what? Like I didn’t just get out of four hours of questioning for killing the guy who killed my girlfriend?
Trying to look like the kind of stand-up guy who a woman like that could ask for directions or lean on in case she’s here to handle some difficult business?
Smooth, Carrera. Very smooth.
When she gets to the doors of the police station, she pauses for a moment.
I can tell that she’s giving it some thought, “it” being whatever it is she has to do once she goes in there.
She has light brown hair and an outfit that makes it look like she’s showing up for a business meeting in Washington, DC, not a small town in Ohio.
Maybe she’s in from out of town to identify a body or report some kind of crime across state lines.
Vaguely, I hope to God she isn’t a member of the Vreeland family.
That’s not a level of awkward I can handle right now.
Given that there’s still no sign of my dad in our Range Rover, I bite. I can’t just leave her standing here, dithering about whether or not she should go inside.
“Um, excuse me, ma’am,” I say, standing up. She looks surprised, as if she hadn’t even noticed I was sitting there. “Can I help you? Do you need somebody to come in there with you?”
She sizes me up, and a look of recognition seems to flash over her face, but it’s gone in an instant.
“Actually,” she says, “yes. I would appreciate that.”
“Of course,” I reply, giving her the kindest smile I can muster.
I hold open the door and follow behind her as she walks inside.
I figure I can at least wait until the officer at the reception desk directs her to the place she’s looking for, then go back outside and call my dad to ask him if he’s even going to bother showing up at all or if I should walk home.
To my surprise, the cop at the desk seems to recognize her.
“Well, well, well,” he says, standing up and shaking her hand through the slot in the bulletproof protective glass. “Never thought I’d see you around these parts again.”
“You know how it goes. When duty calls…”
“Oh, I know how it is.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm.
The woman shrugs it off. “Listen, I’m here on official business, which you probably already know. Can you get me a room, please?”
“Of course. Terrible what happened with those kids.”
She nods. “Terrible.”
Then, turning toward me and tilting her perfect face up as though she’s just recalled I’m standing there, she gives me a smile. “Terrible,” she says again. “Isn’t it, Mr. Carrera?”
Fuck.
“I, um, I’m not—” I feel like I’ve been caught with my dick in my hand.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, extending a hand. “Detective Sloane Budd, state police. Nice to meet you, Ben.”
At a loss as to what else to do, I shake the hand she offers.
“I know you were on your way out the door,” she says casually, putting a surprisingly strong hand on my shoulder, “but I’m afraid I have a few more questions for you.”
“Oh,” I say, conscious that I’m already being led back toward the interrogation room I just escaped ten minutes ago. “I already told the guys in there everything I know.”
“I’m sure you did,” Detective Budd replies, giving me a friendly smile. “But I’m not with the local police, and frankly, I don’t give a damn what you told them. I’m here now, and that means you will be explaining yourself to me. Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s clear that Sloane Budd means business. It’s also clear that if I can’t talk my way around this woman, I am absolutely, completely fucked.
Because she wants the truth, and she’s not going to get it from me.
At that moment, my phone pings again.
“Oh,” she says. “Phone back and everything, huh? They must have really rolled out the red carpet for you.”
A uniformed officer unlocks the door of the interrogation room for us, and she guides me inside.
“I’ll just go ahead and take that,” she says, holding out her hand.
“Can I see some identification or something?” I ask, finally finding some balls. “Before I hand it over. I know who you said you are, but I haven’t seen any proof.”
“Oh, of course,” she replies. “Where are my manners?”
She takes out her badge and flashes it in front of my face. “There. Happy?”
“Happy” isn’t exactly how I would describe my current feeling. But if she’s trying to scare the shit out of me, it might be working.
Because talking my way out of questions from our local PD is one thing. But I can already tell that talking my way out of questions from this bitch is going to be a different game entirely.
It’s the kind of game my father might be up for, but the whole problem is that I’m still not Donovan Carrera.