Chapter 12
TWELVE
LIAM
The FBI building is a slab of boring concrete that was probably modeled after some soviet block housing designed to sap the fun out of the very air around it.
I’m willing to give it the benefit of the doubt until I step inside, and I see that it’s just as boring on the inside as outside, with only one piece of art on the wall that was probably purchased at some big box store.
“Remember, don’t say a single word,” Ms. Lockheart says. “They’re going to try to trick you.”
“I’m only a witness,” I point out.
Ms. Lockheart gives me a shriveling stare.
She’s in her fifties, with impeccable makeup and her hair styled in classy waves.
Her suit looks properly expensive too, dark blue and perfectly tailored to her body.
I think her shoes are thousand-dollar designer pumps I saw while out shopping with Maggie.
“You’re only a witness, until somebody gets overeager,” Ms. Lockheart says. “If we provide any information at all, it’s in short, to-the-point sentences.”
We have to go through security and get checked in before we’re allowed farther into the building.
“Back again, Ms. Lockheart?” the clerk asks. He’s a handsome man about my age, which means he’s way too young for my attorney. “What’s it this time? More wire fraud?”
“It was never wire fraud,” Ms. Lockheart responds sweetly.
She takes her leather satchel off the x-ray conveyor belt and waits for me to follow.
Once we’re in the elevator—alone, thankfully, she says, “There’s truly nothing I need to know about, right?
You went to the club, you danced with some people, and that’s it? ”
Does she really think I’d change my story now, in the middle of the FBI building? I’m not that much of an idiot. Even if I was going to tell her I did it, it wouldn’t be here.
I wonder if she could get me off of charges if she did know. We definitely pay her enough.
Nah.
“Yep,” I confirm. “The only stupid thing I did was slum it by going to that club instead of one of my usual haunts.”
“Good. We still want to avoid association with the case, but hopefully we get the matter resolved quickly.” She casts another look at me. “Pull that scarf tighter though. The bruises are showing again.”
“I think one of the agents already saw them,” I tell her, but I obey. I’m not going to give them more ammunition if I can help it.
The elevator opens on our floor, and somebody is there to greet us.
“Ms. Lockheart,” the woman says. Her suit isn’t anywhere near as nice as Ms. Lockheart’s, and her brown hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail. “I was told to bring you both to the waiting room.”
“Thank you, Rachel,” Ms. Lockheart says. “Although if the agents aren’t ready for us, we could always come back at another time.”
“No, no, it’ll just be ten minutes.” Rachel leads us past a bunch of cubicles and to a room with couches and magazines, of all things.
There are two men sitting there already, one of them older with graying hair, and the other one at least twenty years his junior. The older man is handsome, but the other is elegant and easy on the eyes.
Very elegant. Blond hair, blue eyes, and when he laughs, I can imagine all the women and half of the gay men falling to their feet for him. His black, three-piece suit is accessorized with cuff links, a kerchief in his breast pocket, and a silk tie.
The older of the two waves to Ms. Lockheart. “Jenny, hi. The feds pulled you in on some BS as well?”
“And are now making us wait for it,” Ms. Lockheart responds. I notice her smile turning brittle though. “And you’re with Mr. Cresci. I thought you’d switched firms, Theo?”
Mr. Cresci smiles at her. “I followed Theo to his new practice. I think that’s how lawyers do it? Poach their clients for their new business?”
I don’t know anything about how lawyers work, but I know my father would follow Ms. Lockheart wherever she went. She’s been working for the family for too long to let her go and start over with someone else.
“Gotta keep the good ones, I hear,” I say solemnly. “They’re worth their weight in gold or whatever.”
Cresci laughs again. “Or whatever, indeed.” His eyes rake over me. “You don’t strike me as the FBI’s usual target of harassment.”
“Please refrain from speaking to my client,” Ms. Lockheart says immediately. “Don’t say a word to him.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t know anything about Cresci. For all I know, he’s some kind of criminal informant, or he’d jump at the opportunity to screw someone else over. “Okay,” I tell her, but I’m curious about what they could want with someone who seems to be in the same social class as me.
Maybe it’s just a day for the cops to harass rich people for the fun of it.
Rachel from earlier opens the door to the waiting room. “Mr. Cresci, Agent Redding is ready for you now.”
The lawyer gets up first, with Cresci following behind him.
As he passes me, Cresci leans down and whispers, “Nice scarf, but foundation would hide the bruises better.”
I let out an aggravated sigh.
I’d tried, but it had come out augmenting the bruises instead of covering them. A makeup artist, I am not.
“Thanks,” I say sourly. “Go break a leg.”
“Whose leg?” Cresci asks with a small laugh. His lawyer makes an impatient sound, and Cresci follows him out the door. “I was joking, Theo. You know I abhor violence.”
The door shuts behind them, and I’m alone in the room with Ms. Lockheart.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “This is a mob case? Now we really don’t want to say anything.”
“A mob case?” I ask, looking at her with interest. “He’s some kind of mafioso? Huh.”
What the hell would the mafia have to do with a strangulation case? Or is he here for something else entirely?
“Whatever he’s here for, we don’t want any part in it.” Ms. Lockheart taps on her phone. “Don’t ever associate with him, all right? That way leads to audits of your entire social life. Potential wire taps. Maybe even your bank accounts getting combed over.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I tell her, even though that only makes me more intrigued instead of less. “Anyway, does this mean those bastards are going to keep us waiting for longer than ten minutes? I have places to be.”
“At least half an hour,” Ms. Lockheart answers.
“Hmm. I can’t find any news about an open investigation into the Crescis.
Could be the usual money laundering. Or some gang crime.
I really hope it’s not about the Bertrand murder.
” She grimaces. “Now he knows your face. And Theo would be able to figure out who you are.”
That makes Cresci sound so dangerous.
He didn’t look that dangerous to me, though. Nobody who’s truly dangerous wears three-piece suits, right?
Outside of TV shows, I mean. You wouldn’t want to get blood all over something that expensive in real life.
Money laundering is yawn-worthy.
“I doubt he’ll approach me,” I say. “Unless he’s a fan of my socials. Do you think he watches—”
I decide abruptly through my question that this is not the right place to talk about true crime at.
I wonder if the agents have looked at that, too.
I grab one of the magazines and start browsing it to kill time. I’m not going to risk cameras in the room picking up my browsing habits, even if they’re innocuous, by taking my phone out.
I really don’t look up things like dosage for knocking out an adult man.
Not without a VPN, anyway.
And I’d deleted the crime scene photos as soon as I’d caught wind that the Reid guy I’d killed had had connections. That’s not a mistake I’ll make again.
The new phone I’d gotten after shattering the other one into smithereens is pristine and squeaky clean.
The magazine is dead boring though, and three years out of date. I already know all this celebrity gossip.
My brain is about to melt out of my ear when Rachel finally returns.
“Agents Stratford and Redding will see you now,” she says.
Only forty entire minutes later than they told us to be here.
“About time,” Ms. Lockheart says. “Your agents need to get better at scheduling.”
We’re led to a room with a solid wooden table in the middle and semi comfortable looking chairs. That means I’m not actually a suspect, right? If I were a suspect, they’d have put me in one of those uncomfortable questioning rooms they always show on TV.
Stratford is sitting in one chair, while Redding is standing against the wall. They’re both wearing suits so terrible, they should have been put out of their misery five years ago.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ms. Lockheart says as she sits down opposite Stratford.
I take the seat next to her.
There’s a recording device on the table.
“I’m going to be recording this conversation,” Stratford says.
“Acknowledged. Please send copies of the interview to us when it’s done,” Ms. Lockheart responds.
“Thank you for coming in,” Stratford says.
He passes a paper to me. “Although this is only a witness interview, I’m required by law to read you your Miranda rights.
That means you have the right to remain silent.
Everything you say can and will be used against you.
You have the right to an attorney.” He nods over at Ms. Lockheart in acknowledgement.
“If you can’t afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. ”
Ms. Lockheart grips my thigh under the table and squeezes it. “Good thing he has an attorney already, and ample funds to cover the cost.”
“Good thing, yes,” Stratford answers. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell us…” He trails off and frowns. “Is there something wrong with your neck, Mr. Cohen?”
“No,” I reply.
He waits, but Ms. Lockheart had specifically told me not to answer any questions about the bruises.
It’s been over two weeks since the murder, so it’s not like they can insist it has to do with their case.
Redding makes a rude noise. “Then take the fruity—take the scarf off.”