Archer
“This isn’t how I thought it was gonna go.” Shaking his head, Fletch folds his arms and rolls his bottom lip between his fingers while, just a few feet to his left, Officer Clay folds over a small table and stares at the laptop we’ve all been passing around for days.
On the screen, a still image undoes the work all four of us thought we’d achieved, because there’s no way in hell whoever was driving Josey’s car the night she was murdered is a dude.
Frustrated, Fletch stalks to the one-way mirror and studies Tara Prim on the other side. She lays with her chest and face slumped onto the steel table, weeping in the quiet, her face swollen and red from the tears she’s been crying… for days, I suppose.
Since a life was taken.
“She just dropped it all on you?” He turns back to face me. “Regurgitated everything?”
“Like word vomit.” I cling to my phone, my fingers wrapped securely around the device while I wait… wait… wait for the DNA rapid test results we requested.
It would be embarrassing to jump the gun now that we’re so close to the finish line, so I bide my time instead and keep waiting.
“She was worried that being seventeen meant anything she told me would be inadmissible in court. I offered her a lawyer a hundred times, offered her parental support a hundred times more.” I set my hands in my pockets and shrug.
“She was worried she’d chicken out if she didn’t say what she needed to say, which sounded an awful lot like dubious consent and possible coercion to me, so I pulled Fabian in, too.
He’s calling it good. We’re in the clear. ”
“And now?”
“Now, we’re waiting for her parents to arrive.” I cast my eyes across to Drake, his back pressed to the far wall and one foot raised to rest against the stucco. He focuses only on Clay, his mouth shut—good—and his eyes on the kid—also good.
“Where is my daughter?” Geoffrey Prim’s booming voice blasts throughout the bullpen so loud that even Tara hears him. She shoots up in her chair, her back turning ramrod straight and her hand coming up to furiously swipe beneath her nose.
“Guess he’s here.” I wander to the door and crack it open just an inch. “I wasn’t sure if he’d wipe his hands of her since she’s just a girl, or if his need for an unblemished reputation around town would make it impossible to walk away.”
“Looks like we have our answer.” Fletch comes to a stop on my right and peeks through the gap at not just Geoffrey Prim standing at the mouth of the bullpen, his chest puffed wide, his legs spread like he’s about to mount a horse, and his hands perched on his hips.
But Scott came too, father-and-son matching Superman poses, while behind them, less intrusive, Rhonda Prim follows.
“It would look bad for the future-famous star quarterback to have these skeletons in his family’s closet, so they’ve circled the wagons.
They’ll probably call the mayor and demand a public apology from the department, too. ”
“I hope they hold their breath waiting.” I glance back at Drake and lift my chin. Since he’s primary too, and Fabian will get pissy if I lock him out now. “Let’s go.” I clap Fletch’s shoulder and spare a fast glance for Clay. “Watch this, kid. You’re about to see the masters at work.”
“We’ll see,” Fletch snickers. “All I’ve seen the past week are a couple of bickering biddies who don’t quite know how to get their emotions under control.
It’s okay to feel big feelings, Arch.” He mocks me with dancing eyes.
“My five-year-old gets emotional after a long day in the heat, too. She always says sorry if her big feelings spill over and splash on her friends.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I draw the door open and stride into the bullpen, stopping a full twenty-five feet from the interview room we’re keeping Tara in. “Mr. Prim. Mrs. Prim.” I look at the third and dip my chin. “Scott. Thanks for coming down.”
“We understand this is a difficult time,” Drake murmurs.
“A difficult time!?” Geoffrey snarls. “Difficult? You’ve arrested my daughter for a crime she never committed!”
“Sir, we—”
“I’m gonna have your badges for this! Both of you!”
“Tara came to us.” I bring my voice down and pretend I don’t notice Fabian’s beady stare from his office doorway. Gesturing to the far side of the bullpen, I step around and make room for the trio. “Detective Banks and I were hoping you could chat with us for a minute. We have a few questions—”
“Take us to her,” Scott growls.
“We think it would be best if we had a minute with each of you first,” Drake tries. “Separately. Procedure means we—”
“Procedure means I don’t give a fuck,” he bites out. “Procedure means you dipshits are gonna lose your jobs before today is done, and the mayor himself is gonna make a formal apology.”
Oop. Called it.
“My sister’s a dumb bitch. But she didn’t kill anyone. She probably got confused and admitted to things she doesn’t even understand.”
“We explained everything very clearly.” Again, I gesture toward the interview rooms on the opposite side of the bullpen. “We made sure she understood.”
“She’s seventeen!” Geoffrey snarls. “She can’t understand, which means every single thing you think she said will be struck from the record anyway.”
Who are you? Judge fuckin’ Judy?
“The law is clear,” Scott sneers. “I looked into it. You didn’t have the right to question a minor without her parents present. She had a legal right to a lawyer, which you also didn’t give her.”
“Ah, actually…” Drake grits his teeth. “Tara waived her right to counsel.”
“And we explained why that wasn’t a very good idea,” I add. “She was adamant.”
“More proof she’s incapable of giving consent!”
“Please, Mr. Prim.” Drake points toward the back corner of the bullpen. “It would help Tara tremendously if you’d speak with us. We still have time to work on damage control here.”
“Damage control?” he sputters. “There’s no damage to control. Not as far as my family is concerned. There is only damage that the department would like to control. You assholes entrapped a minor into confessing to a crime she never committed.”
“But she said—”
“It doesn’t matter what she said!” he roars. “I literally don’t give a single shit what words came out of her mouth. They don’t exist anymore, because you didn’t get consent, she didn’t have her parents, and you tricked her into speaking without a lawyer.”
“That’s three strikes,” Scott gloats. “You idiots are soooo out of a job.”
“Where is she?” Mrs. Prim stumbles forward, shaking and clutching a wad of tissues in her hand. “Please tell me where she is.”
“If you could just give us twenty minutes?” I try again. “It would be better for everyone if we could ask you questions before we take you to h—”
“SHOW ME TO MY DAUGHTER!” Geoffrey barks. “Take me to her now!”
“For fuck’s sake.” Drake pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. But he gestures toward her interview room and ignores my fiery glare. “This way. I’ll show you—”
“Detective Banks! Procedure says—”
“Procedure says I have a mortgage to pay and a job I’d like to keep. The girl has a right to her parents being present at all times, and not all of us had rich daddies to fund our way through life. Shut the fuck up and let me get on with things.”
“Finally,” Geoffrey sneers. “At least one of you has a backbone.”
“Come on.” Drake leads the Prim trio away, his hand on Rhonda’s back and his head bobbing in response to something Scott says.
His words don’t quite make it all the way to my ears.
Fabian glares, a dozen other detectives warm the back of my neck with their stares, and then Officer Clay bounds out of the observation room a mere second before Drake leads them into Tara’s room.
He and Drake exchange words. A handshake. A nod of their heads. Then they part again and go their separate ways.
“Detective Malone?” Fabian barks out my name and lifts a single, commanding brow. “Don’t you have a job to do?”
You have fresh IDs, money in the bank, and a super yacht you could retire on.
Call Mayet and beg her to retire and don a bikini for the rest of her life.
You have fresh IDs, money in the bank, and a super yacht you could retire on.
“Malone?”
“Yeah.” I exhale a frustrated breath and tip my head back.
But I walk toward Tara’s interview room and kiss that calmness she and I shared when it was just us goodbye.
Now Scott and Geoffrey Prim are here, and they demand to be the biggest ball sacks in any given space.
Shaking my head, I paste on the fakest bullshit expression I can muster, then push through the door and walk face-first into absolute chaos.
These interview rooms are ten feet wide and eight feet deep, and the one-way mirror does nothing to make the space feel larger.
This interview room consists of four grown-ass men, two sobbing women, and a whole lot of fucking noise as Scott berates his sister, Rhonda hugs her daughter, Geoffrey cites case law he pulled off the internet, and Drake massages his temple like the worst part of his day is the mild headache brewing there.
“Why would you admit to a crime you never committed?” Scott paces the limited space, his booming voice creating a fucking echo as it bounces from wall to wall. “Are you seriously that stupid? Do you have any clue what this could do to my scholarship?”
“Before we start.” Drake places a small device on the center of the steel table. “I have to inform you that everything said in this room is being recorded and may be used in court if this case makes it that far.”
“Good!” Geoffrey snarls. “And I assure you, this will make it to court.” He jabs a threatening finger in my direction.
“We’re gonna sue you till you’re living on the streets.
Then we’ll sue the department till they name an entire fucking building after my family.
Then we’ll sue the city for pain and suffering, since we’re already grieving a girl’s death and you fuckwits couldn’t find anything better to do than to drag a minor into your station and trick her into confessing to things she never did. ”