Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
MALLORY
By two seventeen Sunday morning, I had acquired an attorney, three cups of terrible coffee—with some antacids to combat the stomach burn—, and an increasingly detailed understanding of how many law-enforcement agencies could claim to be in charge of the same investigation.
Apparently, the answer was all of them.
The Chicago Police Department owned the building. The FBI owned most of the equipment currently cluttering the conference room. Cook County had sent someone from the State's Attorney's Office who spent most of his time standing in the hallway talking quietly into a phone.
Homeland Security had been mentioned twice for reasons no one had bothered explaining to me.
Nobody seemed particularly happy about any of it. Especially the Chicago police. The room we occupied had probably been designed to hold six people comfortably.
There were eleven.
Flint sat to my right, close enough that our elbows occasionally bumped when either of us shifted. He was also positioned between me and everyone else. Flint had said very little since we arrived downtown, which concerned me more than if he'd spent the entire drive swearing.
Across from us sat Brewster. He seemed to have recovered. The furious man from the twelfth floor had disappeared beneath a clean white shirt, rolled sleeves, and a professionally neutral expression. His tie remained missing. His jacket hung over the back of another chair.
If I hadn't seen him before, I might have believed the calm.
A woman I hadn't met before sat beside him. Mid-forties, maybe. Dark hair cut bluntly at her shoulders. CPD badge clipped at her waist.
Detective Lena Ortiz. Major Crimes.
She had introduced herself without shaking my hand and spent most of the last hour looking at Brewster as though the Bureau had personally sent him to fuck with her.
I liked her already.
My attorney sat on my left.
Alisha Phang had arrived forty-eight minutes after I requested counsel, wearing tailored black trousers, a cream blouse, and the expression of a woman who had been awakened in the middle of the night and intended to make that someone else's problem.
She'd taken one look at me then at Flint before she swept her gaze over the collection of federal agents and Chicago detectives.
Then she sighed. It was far from melodramatic. If anything, it transported me back to the days when my grandmother made her disappointment known.
Ms. Phang had been Colin's recommendation years ago, though I'd never needed her services personally. Until tonight.
That ache resonated in places I preferred to keep tucked away for now. I’d mourn in private.
Alisha arranged three legal pads directly in front of her, lined up two pens beside them, and then addressed Flint and me before allowing anyone else to speak.
“For purposes of tonight, I represent both of you.”
Flint nodded.
I did too.
“At present, your interests appear aligned.” Her gaze moved between us. “If I determine that changes, I stop everything and one of you gets separate counsel. You don't get to waive a conflict because you're tired, irritated, fond of each other, or convinced you'll save everyone time.”
My eyebrows lifted. Flint remained suspiciously motionless.
Alisha's gaze settled on me. “Do we understand each other?” Everything in her tone said do not fuck with me. It won’t be worth it.
I really liked her.
“Yes.” I inclined my head.
“Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.” He sounded a little grumpier about it.
“Good.”
I picked up my coffee. “Define aligned.”
Flint closed his eyes. Alisha stared at me.
I sipped.
Eventually, she said, “You're going to be exhausting.”
“You have no idea,” Flint murmured.
I kicked him lightly beneath the table.
Alisha noticed. “Wonderful,” she said. “Children.”
“I resent that,” Flint muttered. “She started it.”
“Save it.”
Yes, I really did like her.
Across the table, Brewster's mouth tightened. He wanted to begin. Alisha knew that. I knew that. Hell, I was pretty sure everyone in the room knew it. So she made him wait.
Another reason I liked her.
Detective Ortiz finally pushed a digital recorder toward the center of the table.
“For the record, continuation of interview with Mallory McBryan regarding the incident at—”
Brewster interrupted. “This isn't a custodial interview.”
Ortiz looked at him. “I didn't say it was.”
“You called it an interview.”
“That's what we're doing.” She possessed intense patience. It reminded me of a mother or maybe a teacher dealing with an irascible child.
“We're conducting a witness debrief.”
“In my room,” Ortize said easily. “In my house.”
Brewster went silent. Ortiz's expression didn't change.
“My recorder,” she added, in case he missed the earlier possessives.
Flint shifted beside me. I could feel his almost-smile without looking. Apparently CPD and the Bureau were getting along beautifully.
Ortiz resumed.
“Ms. McBryan, journalist, has counsel present. Mr. Flint Carter is also present with counsel.”
“News director,” Flint supplied.
Ortiz glanced at him. “I know who you are.”
“Just helping.”
“Don't.” She didn’t snap out the word so much as keep it light, but firm. No, she wasn’t in the mood to play. Maybe we should have gotten her some coffee too.
His mouth twitched.
I definitely liked her.
She stated the date and time, then identified everyone around the table.
When she finished, Alisha rested both hands on her legal pad. “My client has already provided a preliminary factual account of her physical movements tonight.”
Brewster leaned forward. “A partial account.”
Alisha looked at him. “Agent Brewster, you'll know when I'm finished because I'll stop speaking.”
Silence.
Then she continued.
“She entered the building voluntarily. She used an access card provided anonymously.
She traveled by elevator to a location she reasonably believed to be the twelfth floor.
She entered an office. She remained there for approximately fifty-three minutes.
She communicated by text through a computer terminal.
She did not see another person in the room.
She did not hear another person's voice. She then left the room and descended one flight, where she was encountered by law enforcement.”
Ortiz made a note.
Alisha continued. “She has surrendered the access card, envelope, written invitation, and clothing she wore at the scene for examination.”
Technically my coat had been confiscated.
That, I wanted back. It was a good coat.
“She has also consented to fingerprinting and collection of trace evidence.”
Brewster's attention stayed fixed on me. I could almost feel the sizzling burn of his irritation.
“She has not,” Alisha continued, “agreed to disclose the substance of privileged newsgathering material or information provided by a confidential source.”
Brewster inhaled. The aggravation flashed into his eyes once more. “An unidentified serial offender isn't a protected source.”
Alisha's expression remained pleasant. That made the response more effective. “Then obtain a court order establishing that.”
“He's the subject of an active homicide investigation.” Oh, Brewster was furious. I leaned back in my chair, almost half-wishing I had popcorn to go with my gut-rotting brew.
“Then you should have no difficulty articulating your legal basis.”
“He contacted her.”
“Yes.” Alisha nodded once.
“He lured her into a building.”
“Also, yes.”
“He manipulated federal surveillance.” Oh, Brewster was not a happy camper.
“Apparently.” Alisha was unmoved by his intensity or theatrics.
“He may have threatened her.”
Alisha looked at me. At the slight arch of her brows, I shook my head once. She nodded then looked at Brewster.
“No threat,” she said.
Brewster stared at me. “How would you characterize the invitation?”
Alisha answered for me. “As stated, an invitation.”
His jaw shifted. “Alone.”
“Asked and answered,” Alisha countered, “That was one of the instructions.”
“At midnight.”
“Established and my client owns a watch.” As if to demonstrate, she indicated the watch on my left wrist.
Flint's knee bumped mine under the table. Whether warning or amusement, I couldn't tell. I was too busy being entertained.
Brewster settled back. “Did he identify himself?”
I didn’t answer immediately, allowing Alisha to give me the nudge. At her nod, I said, “No.”
Brewster’s eyes sharpened.
I hadn't lied. Simon was not identification. It was a name. Maybe it was a name. At the moment, I suspected it was a name only for me and Brewster’s laser-focus on it was more than likely the reason he gave it to me.
Maybe.
Alisha glanced at me but said nothing. We were both waiting for the next question. Brewster didn’t make us wait too long.
“You referred to him as ‘Simon’ at the scene.”
I inclined my head and didn’t allow a scrap of emotion to escape. “I did.”
“Why?” He wanted to know.
“I was tired,” I said with a shrug.
“That's not an explanation.” The crisp snap on the end of each word almost made me smile.
“No,” I told him agreeably “Being tired is a condition.”
Flint covered his mouth. Alisha's shoe connected with my ankle. Not hard. But enough.
I looked at her. She didn't look back.
Fine.
Brewster tried again. “Where did the name Simon come from?”
I folded my arms. “No comment.”
His expression barely changed. The frigid lock of his features betrayed him more than he knew. “Did he give you that name?”
“No comment.”
“Did he ask you to call him Simon?”
“No comment.”
“Is Simon his real name?”
That almost made me laugh. “I have no idea.”
Alisha held up one finger. “That's enough on the name.”
Brewster looked toward her. “The alias is material.”
“Then you have the alias.”
“We need context.”
“You want context.” The correction incited him nearly as much as my answers.
“They're the same thing.”
“No,” I said before I could stop myself.
Every eye at the table moved to me.
I smiled faintly. “They really aren't.”
Brewster's stare cooled. For one uncomfortable instant, Simon's words moved through my head.
Facts.
Narrative.
Specificity.