Chapter 12 #2
“Do you have a problem with my client’s sense of fashion, Agent Redding?” Ms. Lockheart asks. “Because if you do, please state it loudly so the recorder can pick up on it.”
Fucking scarf.
Fucking makeup.
Why was it so hard? I even followed a tutorial!
“Of course not,” Redding replies, but his lip curls in distaste. “What’s the bruising from, Liam?”
“Is the bruising related to his statement as a ‘witness’?” Ms. Lockheart asks. “If not, let’s continue on to the actual questions so we can conclude this before lunch.”
Redding looks like he wants to say more, but Stratford shakes his head. “All right. Our actual questions. Mr. Cohen, could you tell us where you were the night of April 17th, around 9:45 p.m.?”
“I have no idea,” I tell him.
Who the fuck remembers where they were at a specific date and time?
“You can check your phone calendar if it’ll refresh your memory,” Stratford says.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t use a calendar.”
Ms. Lockheart nods. “It’s a source of pain for the family. Mr. Cohen is constantly forgetting his appointments.”
I give her an irritated look. I know what she’s doing, and it’s not like it’s even untrue. She could find plenty of people to corroborate that statement, too. But even so. “Rude,” I mutter.
“What’s rude is lying,” Redding states. He strides over to the table and pulls a photo out of a folder.
It’s a picture of me, my head tilted down, dancing in the grunge club. You can’t see my face very well, and my body could be anyone’s. Honestly, there’s no way to be sure it’s even me.
Ms. Lockheart takes the photo and purses her lips. “What’s this? The FBI enjoys the club scene these days?”
“Your client was at Chord Corazon during that time,” Stratford explains. “We have several photos placing him there.”
“This could be anyone,” Ms. Lockheart says. “I can’t even see his face.”
Mr. Stratford nods. “That’s true. It took us a while to track your client down because of that. But somebody suggested your client’s name, and…” He pulls another photo out of the folder.
This one is screenshotted from Maggie’s social media, and it shows me drinking with her at one of our usual clubs.
I’m wearing the same shirt as in the other photo.
“Okay, and?” I prompt. “I go clubbing a lot. Is that—”
Ms. Lockheart squeezes my thigh.
I shut up.
“Is that what?” Redding asks, pulling out another photo that shows me and the dead guy dancing together. It’s blurry, and my face is still mostly out of frame, but somebody could make a case that it’s me.
These two are trying to make a case that it’s me.
“Did you dance with Reid Bertrand the night he died?” Stratford asks. “It’s all right if you did. We just need to know Reid’s movements for the rest of the night.”
“Why do you think this is my client?” Ms. Lockheart asks. “Because of a shirt? I’m sure many people in New Bristol bought the same shirt.”
“The same two-hundred-dollar shirt?” Redding demands.
“Oh my god,” I lament. “You really think I remember everyone I dance with? I don’t exactly exchange names on the dance floor. I don’t even recognize this dude.”
Ms. Lockheart pinches my thigh this time. “There you have it, agents. My client doesn’t remember anything. We’re going to leave now.”
“We aren’t finished yet,” Redding says curtly. “Whether he thinks he remembers anything or not, he was there, and he may have been the last person to get up and personal with the victim.”
“He has nothing more to say to you,” Ms. Lockheart says. “Come on, Liam. We’re leaving.”
She gets up, and I follow her. When we’re at the door, she turns to Stratford and shakes her head. “Required by law to Mirandize him? As a witness? That only works when there’s no lawyer present.”
Huh.
Well, I already know that police can lie; people have been tripped up for less than this, thinking the cops are their friends. I’m not that naive, but I’m glad I waited for Ms. Lockheart to come with me before I’d said or done anything stupid.
I resist the urge to smile widely at the agents and instead follow my lawyer out of the room.
When we’re in the elevator, I open my mouth.
“Shut up,” Ms. Lockheart says before I can get a word out.
I shut my mouth and pout.
It’s not until we’re back in her car that she says, “Christ. Tell me you didn’t actually fuck that man.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Did not fuck him, did not let him fuck me.”
“Well, they think you did,” Ms. Lockheart says. “Which means, for the next week, or months, or however long it takes the agents to find a new suspect, you will need to lie low and not do anything out of the ordinary or suspicious. Stop going to clubs. Become a hermit, if that’s what it takes.”
My eyes snap up to hers. “What? No. Not only would that be boring as fuck, but it would be suspicious if I suddenly stopped going out. I’ll stick to my usual clubs and stay with Maggie, but I can’t just not go.”
She gives me an unimpressed look. “You could. People have changes of hearts all the time. But if this… ugh, this two-bit serial killer strikes again, we don’t want you anywhere near the vicinity.”
“If I stay at home alone, I don’t technically have an alibi,” I point out sharply, too sharply.
Two-bit serial killer, my ass.
Ms. Lockheart rolls her eyes. “Then invite people to your place. Go out to restaurants, pay with your credit card, and make sure everybody can see you being a normal person who doesn’t fuck random men in clubs.
” She sighs loudly. “They don’t have anything, not really.
A few blurry photos? But they must be grasping at straws, if they’re coming at you so hot based on that. ”
It is pretty ridiculous. Cornering me for dancing with him? Come on. That’s nothing.
Now if they knew I’d left with him…
But they don’t. If they did, they’d have had that on the table, too.
“Well, I didn’t kill him, so I don’t have anything to worry about,” I tell her. “And I’m not going to say anything without you there.”
There’s a long pause before Ms. Lockheart says, “Good. But we’re not in the clear. Fucking reading you Miranda rights as a witness. Who are they fooling?”
I blink at her. “That was weird?” I ask. “I thought that was a thing the police do.”
Fucking FBI agents.
“Not for witnesses. Only if they’re arresting you.
But I think they were hoping to trick you into incriminating yourself—which I would then have had reason to dispute, if you hadn’t been Mirandized.
” Ms. Lockheart rests her hands on the steering wheel.
“All right. Back to my office. Let’s go over everything again, and I’ll get my people on finding out what, exactly, the feds think they know. ”
Nothing.
Because if they knew anything, I’d still be in that room… or worse, in a holding cell.
I got lucky.
We’ll see if that luck holds out.