Chapter 48
FORTY-EIGHT
Alani
Heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I follow Linc to the patrol cars.
Lights flashing, the cruisers sit at the front of the house and in full view of the paparazzi and fans crowding the gate.
The female detective has one hand tight around my arm and urges me to one of the cars.
A light coating of dandruff covers the shoulders of her dark shirt.
She smells like cheap perfume, splashed on to cover the underlying stink of sweat.
The self-satisfied expression on her face makes me want to spew.
“As we’re not under arrest, I want to travel with Alani.” Linc plants his feet and stares at the detective. “You have our cooperation. Look at her, she’s terrified. We won’t talk or discuss anything. You have my word.”
“Okay but one word and I’ll pull over and she goes in the other cruiser. Got it?” The detective moves his gaze to me.
I nod frantically. “I understand completely.” I follow Linc inside and the doors lock automatically behind me.
I’m terribly afraid as the smell of alcoholic vomit surrounds me.
Beside me Linc smiles as if trying to project calm but his knee is bouncing.
The radio crackles with unrelated calls: a traffic stop, a mugging and a hit and run.
As we drive toward the gate the noise gets louder.
The paparazzi swarm around the vehicles, and the hee-haw of the sirens blasting to clear them deafens me.
Fans scream Linc’s name, cameras flash and faces press against the windows.
“Linc, did you kill her?” comes from a man holding a microphone. “Who’s the girl?”
As we move away to drive slowly through the crowd, paparazzi run alongside the cruiser.
A news helicopter with a search beam flies overhead.
TV cameras resting on men’s shoulders push toward us trying to get a story.
Everyone is staring at me as if they’re trying to read my guilt.
Linc’s arm suddenly comes around my shoulder pulling me against him, protecting me from the reporters.
I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter. Once away from the crowd the police vehicles speed away but the bobbing lights behind us tell me that the paparazzi are on our heels.
There is no respite from their hunger for a story.
The media are everywhere as we arrive. It’s as if they were told beforehand that we were coming.
TV vans litter the street. I keep my head down, trying to avoid eye contact with the lenses the press points at our faces.
Beside me Linc sits bolt upright and stares straight ahead but every so often I feel a tremor rumble through him.
The moment we stop a cop grabs me and rushes me out of the vehicle and through the doors of the police station.
I blink into the harsh overhead lighting.
It’s cold inside and has a sharp lemony smell.
There are people everywhere but we keep on walking.
I look at the female detective escorting me as we move by uniformed officers sitting at desks.
Some focus on paperwork and others lean back in their chairs watching me. “Where are you taking me?”
“To an interview room and don’t expect Linc Boswell to be in there with you.” Her mouth turns into a snarl. “We have our own special set of questions for him.”
I stagger as she shoves me into a small cold windowless room.
In the center a metal table is bolted to the floor with two chairs, one either side.
Everything is cold and frightening. I rub my arms, too afraid to move.
My mind is in turmoil and I can’t think straight.
What will happen to me? Will I go to prison for a murder I can’t remember committing?
On one wall is a mirror and I stare at my pale complexion and the dark circles under my eyes—I don’t look like me.
I’ve watched TV cop shows and know about two-way mirrors, and wonder who is on the other side observing me—can they recognize a killer when they see one?
The door closes behind me with a click that sounds too loud and suddenly I’m alone.
I’m frozen with fear and just move my head to look around.
High on one wall in the corner is a camera with a flashing red recording light.
What do they expect me to do? What would a guilty person do?
The cops have all types of body language experts to determine if I meet the profile of a killer.
I stare at the door for a long time and then pull out one of the chairs and sit down resting my head in my hands.
This is called “sweating the suspect” and I’m so tired, all I want to do is sleep.
It’s so quiet in here—almost peaceful. I can hear the AC vent rattling, and above the fluorescent light flickers just enough to be annoying, so I close my eyes.
I sit for what seems like forever before two different detectives come into the room.
They both look at me as if trying to decipher what kind of person I am.
One is young, maybe in his thirties. He has the tired look of someone who has been up for many hours and dark stubble covers his chin.
He rolls up his sleeves and takes a seat in front of me.
I can smell his cologne; he wears enough to bathe in.
I rub the end of my nose as a sneeze threatens.
The other detective, an older man, leans against the wall and stares at me from under thick black eyebrows.
Each time he moves, the fluorescent light above reflects on the gold badge at his waist and sends shards of light across the plain wall.
I lift my head and wait for them to speak.
“I’m Detective Watkins. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Allison Dane. You worked with her at the Boswells’, didn’t you? What was your role at the home?”
I stare at him. Linc’s insistence I say nothing slides into my muddled brain. “I’ve been advised to remain silent, as is my right. I will speak to you when my attorney is present.”
“Are you aware of what David Brunel charges by the hour?” The older man leaning against the wall laughs at me.
“We can call a lawyer for you, if you can’t afford one, but you won’t be getting out of this room before tomorrow.
Why don’t you save us all the trouble and answer a few questions so we can all go home to bed? ”
I lift my chin and stare at him. “I would like a drink of water please. I believe you are required to at least keep me hydrated while I’m here?”
“We can do that.” Watkins taps his pen on the table and glances at the mirror. “We can even organize a bathroom break as well, if you talk to us.”
I shake my head. “I’ll wait for Mr. Brunel.”
The door opens and the female detective comes inside with a sour expression. She dumps a bottle of water on the table before me. I flick her a glance and then stare at my hands on the table.
“We need another DNA sample.” She moves toward me. “Open your mouth. Don’t bother complaining, we already have a warrant to do this to you.”
I comply. Everyone leaves the room and the silence is deafening. A few moments later Watkins walks back. I look up at him. “I want my lawyer.”
“I figured you’d like a small piece of information, so maybe you’ll change your mind about answering questions.
A body part was pulled out of the Everglades.
The gators have chewed on it some but it’s been identified as Jenny Stafford—the woman who went missing from the Boswells’ home.
Two women, both dead. Then we discover you were at the scene of another homicide—Susan Bright.
We know you spoke to her before she died.
” He leans on the table and eyeballs me.
“Seems to me the moment you hit town people start dying. Is this why you took the job—to infiltrate the Boswells’ home and get closer to your victims? ”
This news strikes me like an ax but I say nothing.
“Get up.” Watkins takes my arm. “This room is too nice for you.” He takes me out into the hallway and escorts me through the station.
Everyone watches me. Officers stop their conversations as I’m led away.
People whisper under their breath. As we walk past the main desk, people in the foyer have their phones held up.
I straighten and hold my head high. I didn’t murder Jenny or Susan—I know that for sure.
I stare at the noticeboard. It’s covered with flyers and discount food coupons pinned over missing person posters.
I look at everything on the walls to avoid eye contact with anyone.
I stand staring at my hands as he uses a keypad to open a door and then pushes me along a narrow hallway and down a flight of stairs.
Ahead of me is a line of cells. I’m trembling so hard, my legs turn to Jell-O and I stumble.
Watkins’ grip tightens on my arm. He opens a solid door.
All around me voices echo, some pleading, some crying out as if in pain.
It’s like being in a psychiatric hospital.
“You’ll be held here until the results of the second DNA test are returned.” He pushes me inside a room with concrete walls.
The sound of the door closing behind me is like a death knell.
My stomach drops as I look at the cold metal bench, a stainless-steel toilet with no privacy and the harsh fluorescent light.
The stink of sweat lingers alongside the smell of bleach.
I sit down on the cold metal and shiver.
A door slams and a drunk guy yells something unintelligible.
Voices shriek all around me but closer, someone is crying—and I realize it’s me.