Bogus Charges
ESTELLE
The sterile interrogation room is exactly like I expected it to be: boxy, windowless, cold. They left me sitting here for fifteen minutes, or thirty, or an hour—I don’t know anymore.
My reflection in the two-way mirror looks haggard. I smooth a hand over my hair, catching the flyaways, and sit up straighter, knowing they are probably watching my every move.
Before I reached the police car, Ross had yelled for me to not say a word and wait for my lawyer. So I try not to let my anxiousness override my actions since I don't have to say anything.
The door opens and two men dressed impeccably in dark suits walk in, taking a seat opposite me. They both look to be in their early forties, hair sleeked back and smooth expressions.
“Miss Signon, I’m Agent Kincaid, and this is my partner, Agent Reese. We’re with the FBI.”
I try to keep the shock off my face. This is bad. Really bad.
“I’m not talking without my lawyer present,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
Agent Kincaid nods while his partner remains expressionless.
“That’s okay, Estelle. We’ll do all the talking,” he says, placing a brown file on the table. “You know what’s in here?”
I don’t react.
“The case the police have against you in the murder of Karl Smith. Do you want me to tell you what’s in there?”
I press my lips together.
“Your ex-boyfriend told detectives you pulled a gun on him once. That’s how they found out you lied to them about owning a gun.”
My leg starts to bounce under the table.
Fucking Dylan.
He conveniently left out the part about selling ecstasy to college kids at NYU. When I found out, I ended things and told him never to come back. But, of course, he did.
So I threatened him with the gun.
“Since no one could reach you or has seen you at your apartment in weeks, the detectives got a judge to sign a search warrant for your apartment.”
Oh no.
“They found the gun and tested it to see if the bullet matches the one found in Karl’s head.”
My shoulders slacken, and I breathe in deeply, knowing it’s not going to be a match. They have to let me go now since—
“It was a match,” he says.
I react on pure reflex, hitting the steel table with my open hand. “That’s impossible. I didn’t kill him.”
They look at me intently for a long moment. Am I being set up? My mind is racing with possibilities. Did Elsa find the gun and kill Karl? I don’t believe she has that in her, so this is definitely a set up. Or a cover up.
Or a fuck up.
This can’t be happening.
“Sometimes tests can be faulty. It happens. They are testing it again now, but that first ballistic report was enough to secure a warrant for your arrest,” Agent Reese says, finally speaking.
There’s something about his tone that sets off alarm bells in my mind.
Sometimes tests can be faulty.
My body tenses when it finally dawns on me what’s happening. I’m being set up with bogus charges. They want me here, but they don’t want me.
They want Carlos.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from calling them out on their bullshit.
Agent Reese keeps going. “We know you work for Carlos Fuentes.”
And there it is. Don’t react.
“You know who he is, Estelle. You know what he’s done. The Bureau has been building a case against him for years. Did you know he’s the one behind the cartel violence erupting across LA these last two weeks?”
I don’t answer.
“Forty people are dead, some executed, others burned to death in the warehouses he set on fire. Yesterday his men invaded the home of a man and killed ten people. His twelve-year-old daughter witnessed the whole thing. Can you imagine watching your father die before your eyes?”
You have no idea. “When will my lawyer get here?” I ask, jaw tight with tension.
“Soon,” Agent Reese says. “Must be stuck in traffic.”
I almost say something sarcastic but remember that anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law.
“We need information on Carlos so we can bring him to justice. You can give us that information, Estelle. You can help bring down an evil man and end his reign of terror.”
My hands clench into fists on the table, and they notice. I immediately uncurl my fingers.
“You don’t think he’s evil, Estelle?” Agent Kincaid asks. The speculation is evident in his eyes, and I know it will help no one if they find out how close I am to Carlos.
Don’t let him bait you.
“If you don’t help us, you could be the next one in a body bag—”
The door opens abruptly. The petite Asian woman in a knee-length pencil skirt and satin blouse walks in like she owns the place.
“I’m shutting this down right now,” she says, giving the agents a glare like they’re not grown-ass men. “I believe my client requested that her lawyer be present during the interrogation, so why are you here?”
Agent Kincaid tenses, and they both stand up. “Just having a casual conversation.”
“I’m sure you were. The FBI is classless as usual, I see.” She turns to me. “You are free to go, Estelle.”
My eyes are saucers.
“But—I thought—”
“The new ballistic report shows the bullet from your gun isn’t a match, and any dufus—” she looks pointedly at the agents, who clench their jaws “—would know the tattoo on Karl Smith’s arm shows he was a member of the Vipers,
and their MO when dealing with traitors is to put a bullet in their heads and dump them in literal dumpsters.
“Good luck finding another judge to sign off on your bogus warrant. Judge Anderson isn’t happy with getting played for a fool, and judges talk.”
She looks at me again. “The charges have been dropped. Let’s go, Estelle.”
I don’t need to be told again. I follow her down the long hallway, a million questions bouncing around in my head. I don’t even know her name. She walks with purpose, shoulders squared, her heels clicking loudly on the linoleum floors.
We stop at a counter to retrieve my belongings: the encrypted phone and my personal one. Once both are in my hand, a cold chill runs down my back when I realize my mistake.
I didn’t press the power button three times like Carlos told me to. Even though the phone only unlocks with my fingerprint, I can’t help the panic that sets in my gut.
I messed up.
Detective Harris is waiting at the door that leads to the lobby. Anger bubbles up, and I decide to let her see it on my face.
“Ms. Signon, we do apologize for the mix-up—”
“I’m sure you do,” I grit out.
“These things happen,” she says quickly. “I hope we will be able to reach you if we have any more questions—”
“No, you reach me from now on, detective. Not my client. Is that understood?” Carlos’ lawyer is a firecracker. I decide I like her.
Detective Harris purses her lips. “Of course. Let me escort you out.”
She presses a button, and the door buzzes open. I can’t wait to be out of this suffocating place. To think that I actually wanted a break from a heavily guarded mansion.
What was I thinking?
Detective Harris comes to an abrupt stop in front of us, her sensible shoes squeaking against the sleek floor. I look up and gasp.
Carlos is standing in the middle of the spacious lobby.
No bodyguards.
Just him.
His hair is cut shorter, and his beard is trimmed. He’s wearing his usual suit—dark blue, no tie—with one hand casually in his pocket, looking around with a bored expression.
Unbothered.
We walk to him, keenly aware of the heavy silence that has fallen in the police station lobby. I tear my gaze from him to look around at the thirty or so police officers, all frozen, staring at him.
The mafia king of California.
Standing in the middle of a busy police station in broad daylight like he has zero fucks to give.
If this isn’t a power move, I don’t know what is.
When his eyes meet mine, they darken, and his relaxed features morph into someone...dangerous.
The grim reaper is looking at me.
“Mr. Fuentes, I’m surprised to see you here,” Detective Harris says.
Carlos doesn’t look at her and doesn’t immediately respond. His eyes are fixed only on me.
My body is suddenly hot.
This is the first time I feel it—the dark thrill of being desired by a dangerous man.
“So are these officers,” he says, finally looking at Detective Harris.
Her back stiffens.
His death glare isn’t for the faint of heart, that’s for sure.
“I came for my chef,” he says calmly.
“Is that all she is to you?” Detective Harris asks.
A moment of silence stretches between them, the tension thick in the entire police station lobby.
The corners of his mouth curl upwards into a devastating smile. “I’m hoping she will say yes to being my wife.”
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