30. Knox
KNOX
I shouldn’t be surprised, but Jesus Christ, can’t a guy enjoy the morning with his girl?
Anna’s wrapped around my body with no stitch of clothing in sight, and all I want is to stay like this for the rest of the day, but come eight o’clock in the a.m., it’s clear that won’t be happening.
It’s been less than twelve hours since the heist, yet fists pound the apartment’s front door hard enough that we can hear it down the hall with the bedroom door closed.
Darcy must answer because the knocking stops in favor of a deep voice saying something Anna and I can’t decipher.
I grab my phone and pull up the security footage from the living room, seeing Darcy in the foyer and three uniformed officers standing just outside the doorway.
The sight has Anna scrambling out of bed to put some clothes on, and she hurries out of the room as soon as Darcy calls for her.
This isn’t like the last time she answered the door for the police.
There’s obvious tension here, and Darcy knows how to read the room, excusing herself.
As soon as she’s gone, I stroll out of the bedroom with only sweatpants on and make a show of wrapping my arms around her as she addresses the officers.
Yep, the reaction is exactly as expected.
The boys in blue here look shocked but not necessarily surprised to see me. A little birdie, likely by the name of Lillian, informed them that they could probably find the two of us together. The officers assumed, however, that we couldn’t be this brazen (or stupid).
To no one’s surprise, we’re told that the police would very much like to interview us at the station. There are only two reasons they’d be requesting this. Either they believe we’re the witnesses of a crime or persons of interest.
Not hard to guess which one.
Fuck.
Paradise City PD aren’t exactly known for their haste, so I assumed we’d at least have the morning to ourselves.
Since this is regarding a rich person’s problem, however, they’re far more expeditious it seems. Instead of getting to lick whipped cream off my girl’s tits, I’m forced to put on clothes and haul my ass downtown.
Even less surprising, I find two familiar faces already waiting in the station hallway.
Dominic and Jax don’t say anything, but when they see my canary being ushered into a room first, their eyes say it all.
Did I gamble on the right girl?
Pleasantries aren’t wasted on me as I’m escorted into my own room by Detective Nash himself. Apparently, he’s skipping past the “positive confrontation” part of the interrogation, reading my Miranda Rights and reviewing the facts about the case.
They aren’t good. Not for me, anyway. He’s not mentioning anything about hair, fibers, fingerprints, or DNA evidence that could link me to the thefts, but I know enough by now that doesn’t mean shit in the court of public opinion.
Since that very court will also be in the courtroom, my odds aren’t looking great if this goes to trial.
I have a criminal history.
I have a criminal history that involves the current “victim.”
I have a motive for targeting the victim’s business.
My two closest friends and I match the general body descriptions of the three robbers.
One of my friends went to prison for assaulting the very officer who was just attacked during the robbery.
Our alibis don’t contain any concrete video or surveillance proof of our whereabouts for each of the thefts, and let’s not forget the granddaddy of them all:
“The only people corroborating your stories are friends or sexual partners, the latter of whom both happen to be part of the case.”
Partners?
With an S?
I school my expression to not give anything away, but if this were a cartoon, there would be a thought bubble above my head filled with symbols for all the expletives.
Fucking Jax.
I’m being recorded by the camera in the corner and Nash is studying my body language, so I don’t dare to move or even sigh.
This isn’t my first rodeo, and you learn a thing or two about the interview process when you have connections like Nicoli Moretti.
Nash may not be in the mood to establish a rapport, but he asks all the right questions.
Everything’s open-ended; he repeatedly asks me to recount my story in an attempt to trip me up, and he rolls out all the stops, particularly the silent treatment.
When people get nervous in these circumstances, they tend to fill any gaps in the conversation, usually by rambling.
That’s when they slip up, contradicting themselves or mentioning something they shouldn’t.
Unfortunately for the detective, I learned my lesson the hard way four years ago. I talked because I had nothing to hide. I talked because I thought they would do their jobs and see I didn’t do anything wrong. Instead, they twisted my words and reshaped them into their own narrative.
Now I know silence is my best friend.
I keep my story to a minimum, not elaborating on anything and refusing to answer any question that doesn’t fit my narrative.
We go round after round after round like this for several hours, and Nash sees I’m not caving to pressure.
He finally looks at his watch, sighing. “Would you like to take a polygraph exam, Mr. Knox?”
I won’t dignify him with a response.
For the first time since I’ve met him, he actually smiles, immediately raising my hackles.
“That’s fine. I’m sure your new girlfriend will be far more accommodating.” He taps his files on the tabletop with a playful rhythm, looking far too pleased with himself before he stands up. “After all, she requested to do one herself the last time we spoke.”